The first four tracks of new album The Big To-Do are a solid continuation of the Truckers’ recent winning streak....But just as it seems clear we’ve got another rough-edged diamond on our hands, the album begins to wander at its mid-point.

While this is a confident and at times sharply written debut, there's little to suggest that Dog Is Dead bring anything new to the table.

Those glimpses on Perfect Symmetry of something flashier and sexier make this retreat to familiarity a somewhat saddening step backwards.

For the most part, though, the fuzz has been pulled back enough to reveal an enjoyable but hardly revolutionary set that tends to recall a more ponderous Darklands-era JAMC.

They sound like a pub soul covers band allowed to let rip on a few originals.

Ultimately Strange Mercy sounds like her best record still lies ahead, once she feels a little more at ease with balancing her obviously multiple talents.

For a record that could've gone in one of two directions, it manages the neat trick of going in both.

Whereas the finest music of this ilk goes full pelt with either ideas or loins, sometimes concurrently, Business Casual is, as its title suggests, the ultimate middle ground.

Beside Putrifiers II's guitar-fuelled thrills are a number of moments that find Thee Oh See's catching their winklepinkers on the pavement as they attempt to side step into more experimental, psychedelic territory.

If only there was more drama of this sort here, and a little less schmaltz, to bolster Ring's talent as an arranger and a producer.

What Good Charlotte don't seem to have picked up along the way are any startlingly new ways of delivering their honeyed ramalama pop-punk. Which could prove troublesome for them in the long run, now that the punk bubble has once again popped.

What scuppers Halcyon, though, is the sense that Ellie's still not nailed down her own identity. There's just too much bombast, and the magpie-like-production and big, booming arrangements swaddle rather than swathe her vocals.

If you've heard one track, you've heard them all. But there are a few standouts.

The good news is that one of the most consistently entertaining pop-rock bands of the 1990s is back together. The bad news is that the album they've released to mark their comeback isn't quite a classic.

They didn't want whatever their next album was to be predictable, and while A Thousand Suns might have emerged by accident compared to previous LPs, it's certainly a far from plays-to-perceived-type affair.

Style and gravitas are all very well--if Hurts could also have been consistent with the substance, Happiness would have trounced its 80s counterparts and many of its contemporaries, too.

These all-star gatherings are more fun for the artists than the listener.

What remains is an adequate compilation of nostalgic sounds, largely void of Clark’s unique voice. Greater consistency would have worked wonders.

It's incredibly pretty, but ultimately lacking in memorable moments.

Early trio Fembot, the single Dancing on My Own and Cry When You Get Older are scorchingly catchy, and laced with Robyn's familiar cordial of sparkling hook mixed with unutterable poignancy. The thing is, it's alarming when the first instalment of a trilogy houses so much filler.

Try as he might, Barat can run, to Europe and beyond, but he will always find it hard to hide from his past.

A frustratingly slow-burning listen.

Over-familiarity with Barnes' recent oeuvre aside, the material on False Priest just isn't as strong as the songs that comprise those other records.

Ultimately, Form & Control serves it purpose as a ready-made playlist for your next party, but perhaps the band's oversimplifying of its sound has stripped away some of its mystique in the process.

There's definitely a place for We Are Born in our post-Gaga pop landscape. The album's accessible tunes might not stand up to in-depth analysis, but they stand a good chance of lighting up cheesy club nights everywhere.

The Duke Spirit still sound like The Duke Spirit.

She's an undemonstrative talent, certainly, but there's understated to the point of blending into the background – which is where much of Orangefarben sounds disappointingly at home.

There's nothing tender here; clever it may be, but too clever for its own good.

It's not so certain that Cowley's taste-making always succeeds, despite the overall optimistic vitality of his tunes.

Just Tell Me presents 17 cover versions of differing quality which don't gel as a cohesive listen, but it's not without standout interpretations.

See You on the Moon’s mid-tempo anthems hover with a decorative shimmer that matches their wispy bedsit sentiments.

You could justify that over-emphasis as evidence of a broad-ranging band flexing their options and chafing at their limits. But, in songs and career alike, you could also say The Naked and Famous might benefit from a sense of pacing.

A ramshackle beast largely informed by the tension between the pair's aforementioned psychedelic styles.

There is plenty on Golden Xplosion to suggest that Neset is well-equipped to be massive in the future, provided he can build on the strengths of this album and avoid repeating its worst excesses.

When one hears a musical feast as good and as sultry as this it's impossible not to conclude that, for all their wistfulness, entertaining enough renditions of standards seem half-baked by comparison. Having moved into the position of being a beloved national treasure status, Wyatt remains at his best when he's facing forwards rather than looking back.

While fans of rebooted electro-boogie are probably better off seeking out Dam-Funk's excellent Toeachizown from last year, Shobaleader certainly has its endearingly eccentric moments.

While The Cast of Cheers are shameless rip-off merchants on more than some occasions here, there's evidently ability at work, and a decent ear for a catchy chorus or two.

If Rubin managed to find the core of Groban, it's a sad fact that what remains after the layers have been removed is an incredible vocalist and a one-note songwriter.

This is not music that hangs around in the brain, for reasons that aren't particularly clear.

It is, essentially, a pop record to stick on and sing along to. If that was Kassidy's aim, to have fun and make people dance, they've undoubtedly succeeded. But don't come looking here for anything more profound than that.

There's intelligence, individuality and character in abundance. But all too often it's caked in dollar-store body glitter and choked by feather boas.

Killer Sounds is as assured as third albums should be, and were it a debut album it would be feted as a bright start. However, there is the sense we should be expecting more from Hard-Fi at this point, as the sporadic sparks of brilliance here demonstrate they are capable of it.

Francis is a trick-free troubadour and for all The Remedy's rather monotone approach, there may not be a more personal album in 2012.

The ballads don't quite work--I'm Not Blue and Russell's Ain't You Even Gonna Cry sound detached and forced, more like excerpts from a musical than songs in their own right. On the more upbeat numbers, though, she's terrific.

Night Work is a far livelier and more enjoyable record than Ta-Dah, which was a modest album with much to be modest about. But the nagging sense that Scissor Sisters aren't living up to the promise of their multifaceted, emotionally rich debut is slowly being replaced by the suspicion that they never will.

Free of the orchestral addendums of other live tours, and unshackled from the studio finesse, the band ignites on several occasions, when they grasp the epic strands of their DNA.

With the exception of the always inventive playing of guitarist Wes Borland, here Limp Bizkit sound like a band whose time has passed. Given that this is a group that boorishly exemplified the empty materialism and crass self-centredness that lurked at nu-metal's core, this is surely no bad thing.

It feels rushed, like it needed more time for its many ingredients to blend.

At times Credo sounds like The Human League of today trying to be The Human League of the past, which makes for uncomfortable listening. That said, it's probably still better than it has any right to be, given the time between the group's hits and their missing out on chart positions nowadays.

The better songs here don't quite rescue the disc, but they do suggest that LaMontagne can step outside his comfort zone when he chooses to--it's just a shame how rarely that occurs.

It's a warming blanket of an album, here for you to wrap up in. However, beneath an enchanting surface there's not much to warrant being played over and over again.

This is an intriguing diversion for the veteran filmmaker--not quite good enough to make us want him to give up cinema for keeps, but certainly a new strand to his unique, ineffable vision.

The first half of Trespassing offers a smorgasbord of succulent up-tempo pop. There are a couple of derivative cuts, but the highlights are tasty enough to compensate.... The album's second half is less entertaining.

She sings prettily enough, but lacks the punch that the very best artists in this very crowded market possess.

While the album's polished and pristine, it also feels dated and somewhat lacklustre, any true inspiration placed on hold. This is Elton Ron.

The sequencing seems illogical on first listen, but someone as dab-handed as Ward surely intended this, and the rollercoaster becomes easier to digest with each listen.

Anyone who vividly remembers the fire in the band's collective belly around the time of their scintillating debut will be disappointed with this comparatively uninspired set.

It's spirited enough, neatly sequenced, but perhaps lacks the ingenuity to rework its influences into something that feels new.

There's much substance with the employment of piano, organ, synthesiser, guitar and horn solos, but the actual song structures and vocal performances don't share this same level of achievement.

Metheny’s use of it here delivers a pale, expensive shadow of what a real band can achieve. The project doesn’t feel like it has longevity, and this release is for the hardcore only.

This feels like an album by, for and about himself.

It's fun, but not a lot to show for four years work.

I'm With You is a solid, decent enough 10th album, but it's far from vital.

Despite occasional lapses into overproduced mess, the surprise here is their enthusiasm.

It's not that Gainsbourg is swallowed up by her band, more that she doesn't – or can't – rise to the occasion as a natural singer can... It still charms, though.

If it were only possible to turn down the vocals, The No Testament would be a work of greater spiritual, and indeed secular, interest.

Throughout there is an attention to detail, to little tics and tricks in the mix, that make this a treat for listeners who still wear headphones. But mostly it's music for defunct--or, rather, Defunkt--nightclubs.

You want the mix to jump and pound and excite. But it doesn’t, and the choruses feel hung out to dry. This makes for a frustrating listen, because the talent is there – damn, even the songs are there.

Really, though, this is nothing more than business as usual: some killer, some filler.

It’s a melee of styles and disparate ideas – some inspired, some falling woefully short. If its sheer reach borders on folly, it’s still enjoyable as hell.

That it's the track here [Ice cream] that most closely resembles Battles with Braxton in the fold is evidence enough that this band is missing a vital organ. Sadly, it would appear to be the heart.

The lack of challenge and the absence at so many points of any thrust, melodic or otherwise, doesn't do justice to the ability of the creator, and that's a terrible shame considering the quality of the highlights.

Something for the Rest of Us is every bit as easy on the ear as each of their albums has been since 98's big-league breakthrough, Dizzy Up the Girl.

This is a second album that genuinely builds upon its predecessor. Exile reinforces the feeling in modern pop that no other group sounds quite as hurt as Hurts.

Appreciating this album does admittedly require time and effort, which occasionally isn't repaid... But once you've settled into it, Yeasayer's Fragrant World is a wonderful place to explore.

It's safe, something of a retreat from past endeavours to a sound more suited to commercial returns in the present.

They get full marks for effort but, unfortunately, not for the end results.

There's very little drive in Junk of the Heart, just a messy selection of meandering verses that surely can't be the product of three years' work.

If there is a heaven, and if Tupac, Cobain, Presley et al made it through the gates, chances are they're consoling a wincing, visibly embarrassed Jackson, cursing his inability to bolt the demos drawer in Neverland's vaults just that little bit tighter.

It's a shame the band don't stretch out a little more on some of the songs. Even so, if Cotonou Club isn't quite what it might have been, fans should bear in mind that the reformed Orchestra Baobab didn't really hit their stride until their second "comeback" recording.

As it stands, Green has moved forward--or at least sideways--with each of his three City and Colour albums. But all in all, it's difficult to call Little Hell anything much more than nice.

Dirt City stands little hope of entertaining the masses (again). But its maker has outdone himself, presenting variety with commendable cohesion and experimenting where others might've chased trends for overdue commercial returns.

So the best songs on Hurley are immediately familiar, like an old lover's phone number you can't forget. This is great, but obviously not that great. Everybody should move on after a while.

Several perfectly agreeable songs are unexpectedly hijacked by a cacophonous onslaught of instruments, with Finnish percussionist Samuli Kosminen setting the furious pace.

Inevitably, this turns Here I Am into a bit of a grab-bag in its latter stages, but it's a grab-bag that only Tulisa Contostavlos could claim not to find some pleasure in.

Such dark lyrical tropes have served him well in the past, and even the blokey-but-sensitive shtick of his lovably clunky, WTF rhymes are part of a well-honed musical formula. But credit where it's due--he provides something for everyone.

Nine Types of Light finds the band firmly in the grip of a middle age that doesn't particularly suit them. So to put it in the popular parlance, it's a Dull Record for Times that are Anything But.

At its best Zoo prowls menacingly and intensely, shrouded in sheets of steely guitar and fogs of squall and distortion... [But] this mood-heavy mix doesn't always work.

This Stockton-on-Tees septet's stoic, gritty, blue-collar sound, somewhere between rock, soul and folk, between those old stalwarts "rebel rock" and "dad rock."

A disappointing return from the former Mercury champions.

Velociraptor! is neither the classic Pizzorno insists it is, nor the numbskull stadium rock cynics will presume it is.

Unfortunately, over 10 tracks, the band's musical limitations become ever more obvious, with songs like Hold My Breath and Jam for Jerry rummaging through the same box of retro tricks to lessening effect.

Either way, if you're no fan of the fey and fantastical, you're best off fleeing. Still interested? Well, hard work it may be, but it's not without its rewards.

Two Door Cinema Club show sporadic flashes of greatness and have an overall standard of songwriting which places them among the better new bands in the UK.

As it is, it's simply the next Leona Lewis album.

There's little denying the sincerity of No Color as both tribute and experiment, but the duo's previous work was just a shade more likely to make everyone fall in love with them.

Fewer Pro Tool and more risks, and Dhani might just be onto something.