A mystical brew of funk, gospel and delta rock.

This is an album self-assured in its odd-ball-ness, yet confident enough to step out into territories typically less habitual to it's maker.

Expansive and exploratory, powerful and hymnal.

An engaging album devoid of stagnancy.

Driven by demons and fired by fury, 'Blunderbuss' is a turbulent insight into one man's wrath - but it rocks. Hard.

A surprisingly effective 21st century take on the Seventies singer-songwriter album, with tight band performances from the likes of the Dap-Kings and sympathetic production from the king of the trumpets.

Ways To Forget is a bar-raiser--an album of intelligent synth-pop bubbling with humanity.

His best work since 'Black Holes In The Sand'.

Bursting with promise, OK are more than their name suggests.

Starting with offbeat rhythms and minor key vocals the album is not as accessible as "Has A Good Home" and less adventurous than "He Poos Clouds"--yet there's something that draws you into Heartland.

The album showcases Veirs' warm vocals, deft guitar picking and country-inflected songwriting. It's not all so stripped down as to be dull, however, and songs like the title track are intricately woven tapestries of strings, woodwind and cooing backing vocals.

It's an unabashed pop record that anyone should be proud to play at full volume.

Acolyte may infuriate dance purists with its naive inflections but for more pop orientated people it's a fun, if somewhat formulaic start to the decade.

Tribal chanting and desert parties meet drum machines and electrifying guitar riffs in an album that is consistently inventive, mesmerising and incredibly danceable.

So yes, different to "Made In The Dark" but a more cohesive and more heartfelt effort too. One Life Stand sees Hot Chip let us into their hearts as well as their thoughts.

'The Courage Of Others' is a suitable album for today's perma-frost Britain, what we'll make of it when the Sun comes out I'm not sure.

You can see how some might dismiss 'Dream Get Together' as irrelevant noodling (oh yes, there are solos herein), but if you are unphased by such concepts then you will enjoy this album a lot.

Their alt.folk stylings are ideal for unwinding to at the end of a long day as it calms and soothes the senses.

The Sun seems to have come out over The Album Leaf's glacial landscape with some songs here edging towards a kind of elegant, and very pretty, pop.

It's a fully realised, sprightly rocking album that proves that sometimes musicians are best left alone to do what they do best.

Freed from self-imposed musical constraints, 'Field Music (Measure)' is big, bold and beautiful.

A lot of Seasick Steve's appeal comes from this good bloke aura, a bearded Buddha of the dustbowl, drawing in fans who might otherwise run a mile from his basic, grizzled music but there's no denying the wonderful simplicity yet wholly enveloping of his music.

Meiburg's voice is a wonder throughout, wonderfully fragile on 'Hidden Lakes', tearing it up on 'Corridors'. A wonderful album.

Paired down to their essence, this distilled Efterklang is premium strength stuff.

As always the songs veer wildly from ambient interludes, funky Beta Band-esque workouts to fierce garage rockers. Looking at the material here though, they remain a band to be reckoned with. Their lo-fi, experimental psych rock is as potent as ever with Newcombe a character to be cherished.

The witty words about awkward relationships come straight from Art Brut but 'Fixin' The Charts' is also a response to classic American pop songs, with modern sequels to Motown, Dylan and, er, Kanye. The downside is that the songs are so melodic they make it sound like Argos is doing karaoke.

Best when he's corralling others into out-of-their-comfort-zone creativity, it's the Albarn-sung tracks on the second half of the album where the attention wanders and the album opening Snoop Dogg cameo seems a million miles away. Of course, there's alot here to take in and maybe it just needs a fair few listens to fully digest it - the sign of any album worth its salt.

The endless experimentation can grate but 'Fight Softly' is a bold attempt to further stretch pop music.

The tricky second album phase has been completed and it's an excellent product. The future's bright.

So, whilst 'Animal' endangered no creative boundaries, there's no denying that autoKratz track the footsteps of their predecessors with great panache.

The band's expertly realized fusion of organic and electronic instruments remains, bolstered by their extensive tour diary that's also seen them open for Underworld.

His drawled, out of focus mumblings drawing you in unavoidably to the patchwork sonics, and though the album can be a little overwhelming on first listen, repeated plays reveal an irresistible talent.

With a more complex sonic palette than his debut, Mark The Hard Earth contains a number of absolute gems.

Taking his muse from the voyeuristic photographs of Man Ray, each note drips with sex and death.

Sprawling LA collective Ozomatli return with Fire Away, their fifth full-length to date, and offer another rich dose of positive energy and musical diversity.

Over the course of twelve tracks the dual female vocals transport and transcend into beautiful plateaus of heartbreak and hoedowns with a gritty edge unrivalled by their peers.

At turns utterly beautiful and thoroughly frustrating, there is no doubting the tarnished grandeur on display albeit tempered by some unnecessary navel gazing.

Even if there are occasional flirtations with bland daytime soul sludge, Mr. Strickland Banks is a welcome addition to Ben Drew's beguiling set of alter-egos.

'Long White Dress' and 'Singles Bar', subject matter made clear from the off, are highlights; the former is mellow and wistful, with a delightfully lilting chorus, while the latter radiates the fatigued disenchantment of somebody lacking motivation in the unfulfilled pursuit of love.

Although the album is an exercise in euphoric clubland dreaming, tracks Closer and Everything Is Beautiful remind us there is perhaps a more sincere side to Kylie that is often overlooked.

Kaleide works best when all of its individual fragments twist into vision as one.

Earthy, enigmatic and possessed of a refreshing lightness of touch.

This time, the concept of political awareness reigns supreme, accompanied by some funkadelicious licks from The Roots' guitarist Capt. Kirk.

It has to be said that, considering how Nick Hornby is credited with writing all of the lyrics here, the usual Ben Folds key words are present and there's only so much 'bastard', 'shit' and 'fucking' I can take. Despite this concern, as well as being Folds' most musically accomplished outing since going solo, it does feature the magnificent phrase, "some guy on the net thinks I suck and he should know; he's got his own blog."

A gentle and mellifluous set of songs.

Perhaps surprisingly, Adrian Thaws' Tricky schtick has yet to get old, with the only missteps on this, his ninth, album arriving when he conforms to, rather than resists, convention. Where it's good however, it's superfly.

Swanlights is less straightforward than his other records and more operatic. It's still astonishingly beautiful.

The Hundred In Hands manage to create mesmeric tracks of monolithic noise and danceable beat.

There's enough promise and originality within the current scene to merit considerable credibility.

The Godfather of cool retains his title!

Like a virus-ridden PC vainly trying to upload lovelorn messages over dial-up to its neglectful owner, this side-stepping of the usual Hyperdub format is most welcome. We want more.

Things move from melodic ambience to galloping sci-fi workouts and back again, the highlight being the sublime 'Emerald And Stone'.

The melodies are subtle, avoiding reaching out to over-commerciality in pursuit of reward. That may be the downfall of course, which would be a travesty, as this is an intellectual and brave progression.

So, while Robyn shows that her body can certainly do the talking, when it comes to walking the walk she's prone to stumbling in directions she should avoid.

As a stand-alone album, what Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo and Thomas Bangalter have created won't sate the disco heads screaming for more club material, however as an accomplished score it can only make a legendary film yet more cherished.

Splicing the spirit of ancient Viking alcoholics with some red-hot Jamaican jah, BSP are finally having fun.

This, their second has already topped the charts over in the US. Why? Well, it's exuberant, bratty and crushingly relentless.er been so fun.

This latest offering is a finessed folk-rock record to bring a little taste of long summer evening drives to the glacial January gloom.

Dominated by Satomi Matsuzaki's cute vocals, this is might be a laid-back record, but it's still one that's wonderfully challenging.

This Party succeeds in merely rejuvenating, rather than reinventing, wonderful Wanda.

Their subtle blend of kraut-funk, atmospherics and hushed vocals works, but at points several tracks pass by and you realise you haven't noticed anything.

They've mastered the anthemic choruses; all they need to work on now is the consistency.

For all the PJ Harvey comparisons Calvi will inevitably attract this record is more alternative cabaret than gothic melodrama -- and much better for it.

Yuck is a satisfyingly catchy re-enactment of what would happen if J.Mascis, Kim Gordon and James Iha had formed an early Pavement tribute band.

Quick on the draw, Beans bosses a bite-sized blitz of syllable practice.

The album is a promising sweet-treat.

Still confused but back on form, The Streets' final album (Skinner wants to make a film) sees a return to garage beats and square-eyed observations from a life staring at pixels on screens.

While these musicians have no problem coming together to craft a solid, emotional record, the sound is far from being their own.

Fragile but far from frail.

Delicacies proves that this aging duo still have the fire in the belly of their hard drive.

Beady Eye are at the beginning of their own musical adventure - DG,SS, though hardly full of surprises, is a compelling way to start.

It's a solid and honourable return for a singer who has rarely disappointed.

To the uninitiated, this kind of '70s-inspired thrum-rock might sound a bit AOR, but given time it reveals its nuances, placing Vile somewhere between a rougher-edged M. Ward and a bluesy Ariel Pink.

And my sixteen-year-old-self waits with baited-breath, wracked with the same nervous excitement I had a decade ago except this time, there's anticipation and expectation, justification, even, for an album I've waited almost half my life for.

Over the course of the album, the grandiosity gets wearying, and Jamie Sutherland occasionally sounds like Vic Reeves in full club singer mode. But, at its best, Let Me Come Home is a thing of troubled beauty.

A sobering state of the world address spoken with street eloquence and education, W.A.R. resumes Pharoahe's talismanic dictation above a packed battalion of guests as a failsafe spectacle.

Not so much Teenage Fanclub as 'Loveless'-era MBV meets classic Cure at their poppiest.

There's potential here--let's not entrust the future of rock to them just yet.

Even after several listens there's little here to really strike a chord with the long-standing Foos fan. That's not to say it's poor - it's far from that.

Heartfelt and compelling, with Jones nurturing every last drop of creative sweat, Until Spring is a romantically epic album, lovingly pieced together by a compelling band.

An expansive work that fills no niche.

Scrappy but charming, Times New Viking's fifth album shows their dirty sound scrubs up nicely.

Cat's Eyes is an impressive first outing full of sensuous dreamy atmosphere. Worthy.

While there is nothing here as magically refined as 'Made-Up Love Song #43', and Dangerfield's lyrics sometimes veer into fromage-land, Walk The River represents a must-have for those with pop tastes.

Wistful and plaintive, solemn yet blissful, these are songs from another time - if not another planet - and their mesmerising melodies have the powerful ability to transport you, temporally and spatially, into the band's anachronistic, peaceful, eternal summer.

The net result, a tapestry through dark alleys and along river banks, makes for an entertaining listening journey.

This is labour intensive listening, but hard work reaps rewards. A gnomic, genre-busting album.

A credible effort though, with enough promise to merit an investment of anticipation.

There's no reaching out to new audiences here nor attempts to break ground, just an accessible expression by an artist with the freedom to do just that.

Boxcutter flirts competently with funky house ('Zabriskie Disco'), UKG ('Moon Pupils') and even mid-'80s funk ('TV Troubles'), all showcasing his deft and malleable production styles.

Heartfelt, impassioned and sincere, Mona are reaching for the skies--and taking you with them!

While that constant jollity could become irritating, it manages instead to be endearing.

The heavier, dirtier mood suits these Pirates--the spirit of 1979 burns bright.

The punchy indie exuberance pervading this record is its calling card but beneath the surface there's a whole lot more going on.

Another truckload of ear-boxing drum kicks and chunky basses offer the same unflustered technicality and stewardship as Unbalance.

It's so steeped in New York's musical cliche of disco and glammed-up dance that it struggles to take flight under its own power.

Fans may miss Wolf's habitual genre-hopping and eccentricity, but this is mature and compelling stuff. His best so far.

Utterly lovely.

If you don't like vocal dance music, if you're going off funky or you don't like a bloke playing live behind a faux-Polynesian tribal mask then avoid. Otherwise SBTRKT will delight the droves of bass fanatics that want something a little more sophisticated.

Dedication will raise more questions than provide answers. Exactly the 'out of the palm' manoeuvre Zomby wants you to eat from.

The only shortcoming is that Machinedrum lacks a definitive singular angle, making him amongst the frontrunners of dubstep/juke interpretation, but not quite ahead of the pack.

Far from breaking new ground, Through The Green is still standing on top of the hill revelling in the view, yet when you've got this much groove you don't need to prove much.

The result is a joyous and soulful collection of summery pop songs and urgent sun-drenched ditties that grow with you over time.

Sure, the combination of digital bleepage and raaawk! is nothing new, but few electronic bands have rocked quite so hard as these guys do.

Fans looking for a haphazard exercise in DIY should revisit the band's earlier effort, but will nonetheless be greatly rewarded by this deftly crafted slacker opus.

It's not a difficult or aloof album, but there is a cool precision that feels different to the choppy punkiness of old.

There's nothing here for the existing fan base but enough to entice new arrivals and strong enough to furnish a fresh interest from them.

A quiet, understated triumph.

There's a clearly dynamism between the couple, resulting in a unified performance and all that lets them down is a weakness in some of the songs, where a greater commercial edge might have initiated more interest. Sophisticated Steel City pop.

If you love Kasabian you might think Velociraptor! is a 9/10 album, but for the rest of us it's a salt-seasoned, Spielberg-sponsored 7/10.

Given time, it's enjoyably addictive.

Here they've created a retro cinema soundtrack to an '80s sci-fi romance.

His voice is something of an acquired taste but, this minor caveat aside, The Year Of Hibernation is a genuinely unique debut.

The Connecticut trio boasts former Lauren Hill and Alicia Keys touring band members--guaranteeing The Stepkids is as tight as it is lovingly reverential.

Trans-Love Energies is a master-class of pulsating euphoric electronica from one of the dance fraternity's true pioneers.

Definitely for the faint-hearted.

Carrier isn't necessarily a victory for versatility or enigma variations, more the sound of Sully helping himself to bass culture's wide open buffet.

After the impulsive creativity of Logos, Parallax, by contrast, is a much more refined listen.

Building shifting ambient electronic compositions, there's no easy way into his world and Replica is a brooding testament to patience and investment.

There's still not enough testosterone on display for it to count as one of their very best, but it's not half bad.

The pace is infectious and small helpings will sweeten your day.

The second album from this mysterious French/Finnish indie-folk duo is every bit as eclectic and unexpected as the first.

Consistently surprising, fanciful and varied, each genre flip, from pop, dub and hip-hop to rap is traversed with ease.

Not an unqualified success but worth your consideration.

Virtually every track stands alone fine. But listened to as an album, it's repetitive and numbing.

It's upbeat, unusual and accomplished, an Asian rock 'n' roll space odyssey indeed.

A few moments of confusion and inconsistency, yet remains engulfing, evocative and mood setting.

The three-year hiatus has been worth the largely triumphant return.

A fluorescent, gently psychedelic record with a fat vein of Eighties pop running through it.

While offering more of the same, nevertheless does it with sparkle and verve.

An impressive debut.

While they still don't quite seem to be the finished article, there's plenty of promise.

Most certainly a bedroom record affair and perhaps suffering for this fact but the overall sentiment captured make up for whatever shortcomings may be presented.

It's hard to resist.

Mightily impressive.

A quirky and sincere collection.

Honest, uncompromising, raw and restless, it's a rock album of some distinction.

This sixth album by the band is a well-rounded proficient release.

Listened to while watching Georges Méliès suitably trippy sci-fi spectacle, it makes for a brief, but enchanting, experience.

When they're good, they are glorious and their enthusiasm is infectious, this band thrive when live but perhaps there's a little too much padding filling the, er, void.

Armed with rich, booming backdrops, live analogue beats and rising string flourishes, she works the ever-awkward business of injecting nods to the sensitive and self-referential expertly, her words coming across more contemplative than indulgently pious... A solid return.

Take it as deep dance for when there aren't enough hours in the day.

Always interesting, and with a deft use of traditional instrumentation alongside studio trickery, Fanfarlo have created another nugget of joy.

It's a win for the bedroom door-locking crew.

Far from dumbed down and more importantly, rap with a much-needed happy-go-lucky makeover.

The album does lose momentum towards the end but hey, here we have a relatively new band experimenting with the boundaries of their proposed genre, with generally impressive results.

Dragged down by a excess of melodrama, with some cutting and a dash of pop sensibilities The Jezabels would have a stone cold classic.

It's got piles of ideas, some biting M.I.A.-style hooks, and all the grimy vibrancy of a night out in Soweto.

This is a powerful reminder of the pair's quite brilliant lunacy.

[The album] adds - for the most part - a more expansive dimension to their sound.

First Serve holds no fear for newcomers, consolidates their legacy, and deserves at least one encore.

Overall 'Dross Glop' may please and frustrate in equal measures.

Undeniably beautiful. Aloof, abstract and elegant, it melds ambient expanse with pop form to idyllic, if unassuming effect.

It's about as modern an electronic record as you can get. It's pretty much safe to say that 'Memory' won't be fading for a while.

It's a refreshing diversion from yer average psych-noise fare that'll hopefully be explored further on future offerings.

There isn't much of a sense of flow to the album; the songs stand on their own as the poems were meant to stand on their own.

Marina describes the album as "intricately produced" and that's where the problem lies. Such attention to detail leaves some of the songs feeling pretty sterile and, as a result, it's a frustrating listen.

On their way to maturity, YSP!WSD! lost some of the punkiness that made them exciting, but they still have hooks and groovy synths, so the growth is graceful.

With production by Richard Goettehrer, who has worked with Blondie, the Go-Gos and others, sees the Dum Dum Girls sound achieve an authentic, balanced sound, deliberately lo-fi and tinny yet listenable and intoxicating.

Bleak as you like, but strangely cathartic in many places, it's absolutely the worst album to soundtrack your Christmas lottery win. For the rest of us dour wageslaves, it's perfect.

More Waitrose advert than classic Wrigley's; the Black Keys' raw power's been polished. Some things are meant to stay rough around the edges.

Drawing on a cast of helpers, most notably Madness' Suggs and Mike Barson, the album boasts their usual eclectic mash of styles, all held together under the Audio Bullys flag.

The good tracks on 'Body Talk' are of such a high quality that it definitely makes it worthwhile to check this album out but you are soon left with a feeling that the subsequent releases in this series will cobble together one amazing album and one really bad one.

Wasted Daylight, a sugary, ambient number, offers a particularly sublime performance from Millan, as does He Dreams He's Awake, of Campbell. However, these two are the fairly obvious highlights in an otherwise misfired effort.

For all its forward thinking, the combination of shoe-gaze and synthy electronica leads the record inevitably back to the 1980s, mirroring the haunting sound that M83 have perfected so well.

Whilst each track delivers exactly what is to be expected from an IAK album it is a little disappointing that there seems to have been no development from the previous outing.

It's all very "nice" but only sporadically truly vital.

Sharing the pop soul sensibilities of Squeeze with just a dash of Brendan Benson, there's even a soupçon of harpsichord in there. What's not to like about these small songs with a big heart?

With a sound centred around a tunable percussion instrument called a hang (think mellow steel drum), skittering jazz drums, saxophone and loops, the quartet, who live Monkees-like in a shared house in East London, serve up a fresh vision of jazz, drawing sounds from across the globe.

Love him or hate him, you can't deny that Ronson can certainly put an album together.

Rave horns echo like WW2 sirens being played on a fucked-up ghetto blaster while the cast of House Of 1000 Corpses do their best Gucci Mane impressions--an interesting, if perhaps slightly contrived, oddity.

Good stuff, but their epics, like 'The Quick Mile', are curiously unengaging. When that track is immediately followed up by the captivating Eno-esque minimalism of 'Waves & Radiation', it's clear that their real talent still lies in crafting eerie electronic vistas.

While songs 'Bondage Of Fate', 'If You Want It' and 'Sometimes' present a classic vibe, standalone track 'Pulse' is equally akin to the electronic sound of today. Nice touch.

Who cares if Stoltz listens to the Kinks and Beatles too much when he sings like an angel?

As attempts at storming the mainstream go, this looks like a surefire winner, but musically it feels like a lesser take on Outkast's The Love Below.

His prodigious talent is undoubted, but a second dose of puppy punk feels suggests Baldi is in cruise control.

Things are a little different now but like many of their contemporaries, Cut Copy have had to adapt to the landscape and Zonoscope is a considered attempt at a more kaleidoscopic approach.

The repetitive beats and seemingly endless loops become, on the whole, tired and tedious too soon.

It's alright and will shift units: boundaries will rest easy however.

Nothing here transcends either songwriter's back catalogue, but Jonny is a welcome blast of warmth that shows the fires still burn bright.

The Golden Age ultimately comes across as try-hard penthouse party than wild warehouse rave.

This is cheerful childhood innocence come to life - candy-floss dreams and rainbow rivers.

Patchy with flashes of killer bee sting.

Collapse Into Now suffers somewhat. It's good. But it's no Reckoning. Or Document. Or Automatic For The People. Or...

A fine line between unpredictable flair and china shop bull.

The problem with any soundtrack is that, in isolation, something gets lost and there's no exception here, but it serves as a showcase for a virtuoso performer with the dexterity to excel within any discipline.

Ultimately, the songwriting isn't quite weighty enough to sustain a full album. Worth a check if you're a previous fan.

It feels like a personal journey through the past on his part, and a genuine tribute from those who've contributed.

It wears thin over the course of an album, and an appreciation for Eighties synth-pop is a must, but for a band in their thirty-fourth year, the League are still on good form.

Despite his obvious talents as a pop-soul vocalist, you're left with the impression that Woon is far more interesting when he's wearing his producer hat, but we'll keep a sturdy eye on his every move regardless.

This schizophrenic album will frustrate purists and sate pop kids.

The grooves might be intelligently crafted, with plenty of interesting rhythmical quirks throughout, but the songs themselves hold little water.

If that's not your bag, then this won't convert you, but if intrigue you have; then check it out.

Despite the gloriously odd decision to place Treasures--a piece of music as fragile as the materialistic lifestyles it attacks--first in the tracklisting, there are no real surprises.

Suck It And See is not a disappointment, because we've learned never to expect the Monkeys' next move, but it's not half as fun as we'd like it to be.

Production is loud and punchy and even the quiet bits aren't quiet, which makes all sixteen tracks in one sitting a bit like hard work.

Their commercial star has long since waned, but there is enough here to suggest that Gomez's creative light still flickers on.

It's All Real continues along the same lines: lush production, low-key bleeps and bloops, a hushed, lovelorn 2am ambience.

Often it feels more like an overly conscious art project rather than an album that will sustain repeated listening; it's undeniably, admirably beautiful in parts, but ultimately too consciously cerebral and self satisfied to love.

While end-of relationship heartache churns throughout You & I, there is enough twisted darkness to suggest these sisters are here for the long haul.

Things are prone to occasional lulls with three tracks exceeding ten minutes. However, Johansson is capable of some beautifully stirring music, and when this album soars, it is a treat.

Azari and III are good clean honest fun, but not the future of music.

A mixed bag that's perhaps polluted with Toddla's inevitable fame and fortune.

Music and performer as one, it's hard to know where I Break Horses begin and their walls of sound end. Vocalist and Swedish nephilim Maria Lindén is a calming apparition, yet indeterminate when overpowered by the huge celestial sheets of Fredrik Balck's new wave order.

Malkmus' third (or fourth depending on which folklore you believe) outing with The Jicks, is a disappointing collection of hits and misses--with the latter winning on points.

Everyone loves to reminisce, and we're suckers for well-crafted songs, but we also need to be challenged a little more than this boys.

Sadly there are too many beats and samples that it can be hard to keep up with the ferocious pace, despite the obvious talent and flashes of genius on this record.

Lee ... continues his proclivity for sonic innovation with a plethora of funky grooves and drum lines - with no loops in earshot. AM's psychedelic guitar licks, basslines and vocals underpin an overriding '60s vibe.