This isn't a proper First Impression piece, because the album leaked in December and I've become very familiar with it since then, but I wanted to address it because it was my most anticipated release of 2011. The Decemberists are one of my favourite bands, but I'm not subject to bias. Most of my favourite artists released poor albums in 2010, so if anything, I met this release with hesitance, even dread.

The King is Dead is unlike the Decemberists. If not for Colin Meloy's nasally vocals, you probably wouldn't know that this was the followup to The Hazards of Love*. The songs are simply constructed Americana, predictably paced, but the melodies deliver on Meloy's reputation. Peter Buck** makes an obvious appearance, but Gillian Welch outshines him on the 7 tracks she contributed harmonies to.

Lyrically, The King is Dead disappoints, describing straightforward rustic scenes without the whimsy and humour of previous work. Storytelling takes a back seat. By now you expect The Decemberists to regale you with stories from bygone eras, but without such a strong delivery, you lose interest.

This album gains credit for being better musically than The Hazards of Love, but falls on the wrong side of the lee compared to their previous high points. It is an album that I enjoy, but couldn't say holds up to the quality of previous work under scruitiny. Nevertheless, I give it a green light as a standalone album; just don't expect it to match Picaresque or the Crane Wife.

While I'm only familiar with maybe two albums of her early work, I often feel alone in thoroughly enjoying the late* PJ Harvey. I frequently return to Stories From the City..., and I thought White Chalk was an interesting departure, but To Bring You My Love failed to draw me in for return listens.

England seems in ways to merge the lo-fi sounds of her earlier albums with the songwriting of the later ones. Harvey retains the upper register vocals from White Chalk, which are not preferable to her assertive voice. Harvey sounds like an elderly woman narrating stories of her youth from her rocking chair on the porch. Perhaps this is what she had intended (having stated that she required a more narrative approach for the songs) but isn't most flattering. Musically, England is positive and quickly placed, each song moving with the drive and rhythm of a freight train on the countryside. The Colour of the Earth ends a little awkwardly, sounding as if there's more to come instead of wrapping things up neatly.

I was not particularly grasped by this. I think she's written better albums, and while I appreciate the positive tone and the rhythm of Let England Shake, I didn't find it particularly memorable. I like to see artists go for changes in their styles, but simply put, PJ Harvey has written better.

If there is one word associated with The National more than any other, it is "grower". This is a term I have disagreed with wholeheartedly, primarily on the basis that the fans who use it are insufferably annoying. By the average National fan's definition of the word, it is flagrantly impossible to enjoy Boxer in full upon the first listen. Whether you have mildly enjoyed it, or suffered a joyous cardiac event in its wake, the ensuing discussion is much the same.

"Boxer is [great/terrible]. I [loved/disliked] it."
"Just wait though, it grows on you."
"Okay, but I already said I [loved/hated] it."
"It's a grower, you'll see."
"For the love of everything sacred, I get it already!"
"Just give it time. You'll see."

...As if Boxer were a seed requiring time and nourishment to germinate into actual enjoyment, and as though National fans have doctorates in botany and only they can comprehend the process.

I have bitterly denied the term "grower" since first discovering the album a year ago, but believe I have finally come to understand what all of this pretentiousness is about. It wasn't until my 2010 year end review that I noticed Boxer had become my most played album of all time. This was genuinely surprising. I had not been conscious of playing it so much, and what was more, it was no older to me than when I first heard it.

There is something about Boxer which is permanent. Comfortable. Routine. It is an album managing to convey feelings of boredom and mediocrity without falling into them. It is both lush and subdued in its instrumentation. Matt Berninger's tired voice and sober lyrics express stagnancy and disenchantment. Boxer is the dark rings around your eyes as you stir in the morning hours. It is the tie you loosen at the end of an eight hour day.

Boxer is a thoughtful album, melancholy and dryly funny, applicable to any emotion or season. This balance has allowed me to enjoy it consistently for longer than any other album. During a turbulent year, Boxer has been a shred of stability. It is an album for all of the compliant, ordinary people. It is the perfect fit.

I still do not believe that Boxer is a "grower" in any sense that can be monitored. You can't count the rings in its bark, or the penciled ticks in the doorway marking its growth. Boxer is unconscious and visceral, a parasite quietly reproducing within your system as you follow your schedule. It is only upon examination that you are made aware of how deeply rooted it has become. It is with this in mind that I must give The National's relentlessly obnoxious fans some due credit. It's not that your enjoyment of Boxer must follow a mathematical incline, but that its personal appeal, subtle and restrained, consumes the listener. Just wait. You'll see.

How I came to know of William Doyle was a lucky accident. It was unlike me to take recommendations of artists with no fan base or discography at all, but a friend insisted that William Doyle's album Born in the USB was the greatest alternative album of our generation. I wasn't sold on that particular story, but couldn't concieve a reason not to give it a shot. I was well rewarded for my interest. The album became a favourite, and William Doyle became a friend. This was two years ago.

In that time, I have witnessed William forge ahead with his career, forming a band and a new sound, gaining both speed and footing in the British music scene. Doyle & The Fourfathers have taken 2010/11 by storm, touring consistently, releasing singles, appearing on 6 Music with (former bassist of The Fall) Marc Riley, and headlining acts such as 6Music Fest. They have been on countless "upcoming" and "bands to watch" lists, and receive regular 6 Music airplay. All of this hype for a little band from Southampton.

Doyle & the Fourfathers are a fourpiece britpop band, combining influences from a range of eras and artists, such as Jarvis Cocker, The Smiths, Ray Davies, and the Walker Brothers. Will has been kind enough to allow me to share their first full length album, Man Made, with MusicBanter.

Man Made is a fine example of britpop, addressing loneliness in realistic ways while still maintaining an air of positivity. Man Made sulks, but doesn't despair. It is humbled, but triumphant, and intersperses energetic romps (Dark Times, Luminous People; Lion's Share) with sullen balladry (I Spent a Lot of Time Alone; Shape & Form). William Doyle's voice takes center stage throughout it all, while the remaining instruments (by Ben Clark, Alex Urch, and Michael Goozee) pick up awards for Best Supporting Cast. Man Made is a great, simple pop album by four dedicated and hard-working young men.

It's not out of platonic duty that I share this album with you, but out of genuine enthusiasm for this band's music, and full support of a budding career. I was a fan before I was ever a friend, and I would be pleased if I could share with you an album that I genuinely approve of by a band that earnestly deserves to be spread.

I wanted to love this album desperately. I'd heard such incredible things about it around Musicbanter, and from valued friends. I'd heard that this was album of the year. I'd heard people wistfully saying that they wished they had written this album themselves. It's hard not to get excited about something so favorably received, but I've found that it's a bandwagon I'm inclined to wave at as it passes by.

I have no doubt as to the obvious vocal talents of James Blake, I merely find the songwriting on his eponymous debut unworthy of the hype he has received for it. I was strongly reminded of an electronic version of Bon Iver's For Emma, Forever Ago, and I am undecided as to whether or not there is a place for another such album with me.

I have nonetheless promised to give James Blake the benefit of the doubt, and allow his album a bit of time to settle into the current of my listening. It seems to be an album that provokes dubious initial responses, and I will be the first to admit that my judgment can be flawed.

Typically, a lot of hype makes me put an album off for ages, but when this one friend tells me something is great, I jump on it, because his recommendations are always quality.

Sometimes I can see myself growing older in the music I listen to. The turning points of my adulthood can be mapped; albums in place of cities as I move from one location to the next. I find myself returning to artists who were incomprehensible to me at sixteen. It's much the same as realizing you've grown up when you prefer the cookie to the icing, or would rather fight over the bottom bunk.

Of Montreal is one such artist I had wrinkled my nose at in the past, as a child would snub leafy greens at dinner. I found Kevin Barnes obnoxious and yelpy, and granted, these qualities remain in his music, but I myself have developed an appreciation for context, and humour in music.

Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer(?) is an album of frenetic pop, chronicling Kevin Barnes' descent into depression following a separation from his wife and a sabbatical to Sweden. The album juxtaposes feel-good psychedelic pop with dark, often dryly funny lyrics about depression and medication.

Musically, Hissing Fauna is a pop triumph, with heavy emphasis on melody, memorable funky basslines, and thickly layered Berlin-era-Bowie harmonies. The album peaks with The Past is a Grotesque Animal, detailing with spastic intensity Barnes' separation madness and subsequent transformation into transgendered alter-ego Georgie Fruit, a character so comical and perturbed it presumably served as a great emotional outlet for Barnes. If only we could all channel our negativity into such deeply troubled characters; the world would be a much more creative and disturbing place.

Hissing Fauna parallels in many ways the last year of my life, and my own (less flamboyant) transformation, which is perhaps why I feel so much respect for it. I too spent the better part of a year plagued by chemical imbalances, proceeded by an unpleasant separation, after which I fled to England to find refuge and recovery, wherein I have discovered my own, less outlandish alter-ego. Hissing Fauna has been a large and relevant part of this process in self-rediscovery.

It would be easy to examine Barnes' synth-riddled songs and goofy observations and chalk Hissing Fauna up to garish drivel as I once did, but I feel it takes a great deal more maturity to laugh and make light of one's own severe depression than it does to simply bury it. Kevin Barnes' display of ironic poise is something we could all learn from.

The longer I sit on this review, the more daunting it becomes. It has nothing to do with doing the album justice, but I find that the longer I consider it, the fewer words I have to say about it. The King of Limbs does not inspire my words. This is very telling of the quality, given that Radiohead is an artist I have admired for years, who have written some of my favourite releases.

The announcement of the King of Limbs went off like the greatest surprise party, where it was the birthday of every Radiohead fan. It was a surprise we all suspected we may receive, like a new car on our sweet sixteenth, but our excitement could not be dispelled. The King of Limbs was the most anticipated release of 2011 across the board. Expectations are this album's downfall, but who can blame them when an artist has an exemplary track record? There is insurmountable pressure when your band's name is synonymous with great things in music.

What I didn't expect from this album was for it to be exactly what one would expect to follow In Rainbows and the dubstep scene. The King of Limbs is a perfectly reasonable progression for Radiohead, and as such, it's sinfully boring. Limbs is rhythmic and fleeting; cobbled together into two distinct portions and seemingly void of substance. I have found it necessary to insert the two post-release singles (Supercollider and The Butcher) into the tracklisting to add balance and weight, to minor improvement.

I am caught, undecided as to whether Limbs would be considered an achievement, or forgettable if anyone else had written it. This isn't to call it terrible, it has its own merits for being casual and beat-driven, but little is memorable, and unlike every other Radiohead release, it can't be said that some of the band's best work is upon it. It is simply too subtle, too common for a band of this caliber.