Such lofty posturing could have easily ended up sounding like the ill-informed scribblings of a sixth-form politics student, but H-p1 is more about mood, feel and texture than lyrical conceit.

A hugely entertaining dance-rock romp.

On Shangri-La YACHT have proven that no matter what the concept is, it always comes down to the music.

Where special guests don't feature, Vieux Farka shows off his own playing on songs that often follow the same formula: starting with a burst of stuttering guitar work before easing into relaxed, rolling riffs and chanting vocals. His father would have approved.

Haley is not attempting anything revolutionary on Galactic Melt, but he demonstrates a sight more depth than a lot of stuff that's been tagged as chillwave.

What can't be denied, however, is that the album easily deserves its place in the hearts of those who admire fellow fuzzy-edged slackers Superchunk, Pavement and Guided by Voices as much as those new to the game, who'll find echoes of the band's sound fizzling through modern-day collegiate grungesters like Milk Music or Gun Outfit.

There's no fault to be found with Skying--truly, every song here hits its mark, and while The Horrors are evidently a band happy to change its spots from record to record (and steal a few licks, too), only the most ungracious of observers could deny that they've now crafted two of the finest British albums of recent years.

While nowhere near as immediate as Johannsson's string-based albums for the 4AD imprint--IBM 1401, A User's Manual and the sublime Fordlandia--The Miners' Hymns is far more complex in its use of dynamics while succeeding totally in its evocation of time, place and message.

Formulaic it may be, but it is a formula Pitbull knows his way around – and though this aesthetic can't hope to match the boundless energy that the combination of his vocal with a Lil Jon production used to bring, there's enough of it here to satisfy once you turn your mind off.

The Computers deliver a wholly satisfying sound that won't go stale any time soon. Mainly because there's so little substance to it, but in this case that's no bad thing whatsoever.

That Panic of Girls gives way from innovation to imitation is regrettable--but in an era in which bands are content to simply wheel out their back catalogue in return for a fat pay check, it's admirable that Blondie are still here and still looking forward, even if only fleetingly.

In the end, it's a matter of taste. If you can handle a lot of wacky in your pop music, there's a lovely album here waiting for you. If not, Corinne Bailey Rae is over there.

Player Piano is a musical jacket potato: satisfying but never amazing.

Whatever the treatment of his songs, Holly's knack of pairing of simplistic, catchy melodies with understated--almost flippant--melancholy always shines through. As such, over 50 years since his death, this is a wonderful testament to his songwriting prowess, longevity and legacy.

Martin is just too instinctively amiable to muster the passionate furies that animate the best of his genre, and too quick to deflate whatever momentum he does gather with a joke.

For all the minor detours, Through Low Light and Trees is consistent in proffering a dreamy, timeless music which could have been recorded at any time in the last 40-odd years. That in itself is a kind of recommendation.

100% Publishing is a clever balancing act that allows the casual listeners in and retains them with riffs and tunes you can't ignore, but makes sure it's insubordinate enough to keep the regulars happy.

It's the comedown after Power's other lot are done with their sensory assault, a perfect after-hours accompaniment for contemplation and restoration.

So wonderfully compelling is it all that it's easy to miss how seriously impassioned Maus can be.

Throughout, there are unexpected melodic twists and turns, and the whole thing feels like a bid for commercial acceptance, if indeed the market for this classy music even exists anymore.

There are moments where Total does come close to a Daft Punk pastiche. But these are few and far between, and there's plenty enough of Sebastian's own character on show to make this one of the most enjoyable dance albums of 2011 so far.

This album is paced like a perfect DJ set--it reads the listener with incredible insight, combining the immediate and familiar with intense passages of warm-up, breaking to allow for moments of blank space and reflection.

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.

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.

Whatever your take on the chillwave phenomenon--that brand of overexposed, Polaroid pop mining childhood memories kick-started (arguably) by Animal Collective's influential album Merriweather Post Pavilion--it's a conversation that's happened, and Equatorial Ultravox does little to further the debate.

It's the contrast between these points--the brilliantly familiar and the boldly flawed--that ensures I Love You, Dude stays on the right side of lazy revivalism.

If there's a case to be made for formulating something serious out of classic pop and old-time hokum, Welch and Rawlings make it as well as anybody. So while just a bit of drums and bass would probably have broadened the record's appeal, we must give thanks for this stubborn duo's independence of mind.

At times The Light of the Sun veers towards self-indulgence, and some of its ideas are not fully followed through. On the whole, however, it is a rather lovely, emotional album that provides a beguiling snapshot of the current life of Jill Scott.

These flashes of stylistic innovation are rare. For the most part, it's all supremely controlled, sweetly inoffensive and velvety smooth.

Outside is a celebration of his recovery--a great album on its own terms, and truly remarkable given how close it presumably came to never being made.

At their most stripped-back, Woods have always been arresting – but here they realize some of their most beautiful work yet.

Ontario's Junior Boys have been charming us with their soulful brand of electro-pop for a good few years now, but they've never sounded as much fun as they do on new album It's All True.

Time will tell, but this opening salvo will certainly leave you pumped up for further Foster kicks.

Beyoncé slips from flirty to fragile to fabulous, and is in terrific voice throughout, reminding us that when she opens up there's no-one else in the game.

If you can be persuaded to root around for long enough you might occasionally bump into the odd moment that made Thee Oh Sees' brilliant Help album of 2009, or 2010's lopsided Warm Slime, so enjoyable – slapdash songwriting, slovenly hooks and prurient flights of fancy.

Black Up is far from a fuzzy, unfocused indie-rap document. Butler's rhymes remain lyrical and tight, musing on desire and motivation, artistic freedom and Afro-American identity, in a way that should appeal to the Talib Kweli fans out there.

These sharply-targeted psychedelic guitar eruptions are well-contained, and always tantalisingly brief.

Despite the echoes of their past on this second long-play set, Digitalism's perfectly timed return is more about fondness than contempt.

The ideal album to soundtrack wistful contemplation on balmy summer days.

One of 2011's most absorbing, affecting and downright brilliant LPs.

There's still only one Stevie Nicks – witchy, mystical and romantic.

Old Dog New Tricks is hardly an overhaul--the likes of Don't Know Why She Love Me but She Do ensures there's plenty here for adherents to the tried and true. But it's clear that this old dog is stretching his legs more than on any previous album.

Mirror Mirror is not obvious instant success. But given time, as with the best records, it reveals a wonderfully stark energy; all sinewy shadowplay, stripped-back space and a compelling sexuality.

While it might not find itself a massive audience, fans of earthy, charismatic Americana might do well to seek it out for themselves.

Go Now and Live is a measured and accomplished collection of songs--songs which work together as an album as well as they do individually.

The band either demonstrates a glorious and steadfast refusal to grow up, or become possessed by yelps that no amount of Auto-Tune could ever fix.

If you are looking for a quick musical fix, Art Department may burn too slowly for you. But if nine-minute deep house edits infected by the spirit of Larry Levan, Virgo and Basic Channel are your bag, then you'll not be straying too far from the gaze of the mistress you call house music.

The major achievement of this record--produced by Slipknot desk-jockey Ross Robinson--is the broadening of Dananananaykroyd's sound, prising it clear of the numerous shouty young bands to have followed their lead.

It's difficult to ignore that a significant amount of The Family Sign emits a passing impression that Slug plucked several emotive subjects from a hat, then challenged himself to use them as a writing framework.

Bedouin Soundclash's fourth album bristles and fizzes with elegantly understated passion and deadpan punky fury, as the group pursue their muse to various ends of the musical Earth.

Those who cheered as protestors smashed the original windows of the beautiful building of the Supreme Court in December 2010 will find much to like here. But just as importantly, those who winced at such a sight will not be put off The King Blues by stern and outre sentiments, so long as they come expressed in music that is as poised and as palatable as this.

The fabric of the songs seems imbued with joy, and it's testament to the quality of the songwriting that you don't feel alienated by what are incredibly personal lyrics. It's an all-inclusive love in, basically, and all the better for it.

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.

Paisley's at the top of his game – but he's capable of better than this.

A collection of mesmeric, epic stillness.

While the reins of pomp have certainly been reined in somewhat, it's hard to shake the suspicion that Suck It and See is further evidence that Arctic Monkeys are still Britain's best guitar band--albeit one that'd be even better if they ever decide to truly lunge into the unknown.

While White Denim have a tendency to enthusiastically overcook things, ultimately it's their sheer audacity--allied to some strong tunes--that makes D hard to resist.

Driven by Simon's uniquely percussive acoustic guitar, and with his world music leanings embedded naturally rather than overtly, this beguiling album shows him to have lost none of his ability for finding universal truths within the guise of introspection. It's a profound statement from a master of his craft.

One brilliant rock song follows another, defiantly leaden in construction but stalwart in performance. Rarely does such simple rock sound so satisfying.

Throughout this is an album of sufficient character, quality, daring and charm to ensure that its creator's unlikely march to the mainstream continues without interruption.

There's more than enough here to satisfy aficionados of offbeat, fiercely inventive pop music.

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.

Opting to produce themselves on this latest studio album happily hasn't dimmed their offbeat charm; it's a tuneful, diverse and often witty addition to their discography.

Kaputt is a genuine classic, unlike anything any other artist will release in 2011.

Despite the genre signifiers there's more than enough personality of their own here for Cults to transcend both their blog hit wonder and the timeworn sound they lovingly homage.

A sixth album of exuberant, glammy pop and driving Southern-fried rock.

As such it is an understated and subtlety magnificent pleasure.

An engaging diversion down a road which might be worth investigating further.

With these perfect nuggets of hormonal pop, Pete & The Pirates may not be courageous or sophisticated but they will make you want to jump around the room --even when you're empathising with Sanders' woes.

Essentially, this is some of the most consistent songwriting to come from Australia since the loss of The Go-Betweens, and some of the most arcane performing available anywhere outside of Arcade Fire.

James Murphy's (of LCD Soundsystem) decision to sign this shape-shifting creature to DFA Records makes perfect sense given her blend of art, electronics and mischievous humour, and while it's an undeniably alien world Rostron inhabits, it's an altogether convincing one.

Honest lyrics backed by off-kilter and unexpected production from Kwes, Micachu and Joe Goddard of Hot Chip give this album this album a rough, unique edge. An impressive statement of a debut, Gob is just as good as the moment we first witnessed the fitness.

Fans of the man whose Brill Building work helped shape the pop landscape of the mid-60s can enjoy this interesting collection: 23 mono tracks from the period where Diamond was only beginning to make his name as an artist in his own right.

As with most things on this record, it's a thoroughly engaging ride.

Crisis Works is accomplished, polished in all the right ways (it sounds good without the grit at the heart of the songs becoming obscured), but perhaps lacks the soul that a musician's primary project might be instilled with.

Spoonfuls of sugar might help Murderbot's version of juke to go down, but Women's Studies still contains more than enough dirt to drive Mary Poppins insane.

Sure, it's a little disjointed, a little indulgent, but when Boxcutter's best beats connect with welcoming synapses, the effect is like mainlining fizzy pop on a summer's day: brilliant, bright, jumpy and jovial.

Please enjoy someone actually putting a bit of effort and imagination back into pop, and keep the sneering and lazy comparisons in check. Not that they can take anything away from what is, simply, a marvellous record.

Alessi's Ark carries its ideas two-by-two, sails well above the current flood of increasingly desperate folk wannabes, and weaves a modest magic that is hard to pinpoint, yet even harder to resist. If Time Travel isn't quite a classic, it does enough to suggest that this 20-year-old has one in her Davy Jones' Locker.

The lack of a cutting edge doesn't itself mean that such songs aren't lacking in charm, and each one of the 12 compositions that makes up Speed of Darkness does feature a tune that the listener can whistle.

As much as it's fascinating to hear Bush the Elder look back at Bush the Younger, is the tinkering worth a full album? Yes, because it's a sign Bush the Artist is still alive (she's working on new songs too) and Director's Cut (a less prosaic title would have been nice) is a gorgeous body of work.

In a career of benchmark highs, he's made yet another; and by doing the unexpected, it shows that whatever the sound of his records, the punk inside Moore still lives.

This is a connoisseur's collection, steering clear of hits that have since veered into kitsch (like Release Me or I Can't Stop Loving You) to favour a handful of classics, some less-known treasures, and the title song--a charmer of Cantrell's own that sits snugly among the marvellous covers.

The jaunty melodies and jagged incisors savaging them into bite-size shapes remain engaging for the full 45 minutes, proving that the loud and voiceless do not have to sound ineloquent.

Friendly Fires have already proved themselves, but this second effort is a mighty step upwards. It is another terrific, clattering celebration of an album that sounds nothing like its peers, but hopefully will be rewarded with sales to dwarf Lady Gaga's.

It ["Getting Rest"], like much of this fine and not at all "difficult" second album, is undeniably impressive, but it leaves you with the ineffable impression that the best of Wes Gonzalez is yet to come.

It's a super-confident debut breadth-wise, but a misfire in terms of depth--it stretches too far and ends up light on substance and personality.

Stelmanis, bassist Dorian Wolf and drummer Maya Postepski have created something that plays as a carefully balanced, organic whole, like an inadvertent concept album. That's more a testament to the skill with which it's been put together than because it lacks standout moments; in fact, half the songs here could be released as singles, as Austra are as melodic as they are melodramatic.

Take a finger to your fast-forward button, however, and without Jones' handful of mediocre performances, Rome breezes past with all the tinkling, indefinable intent of a lost Michel Gondry film score.

All in all, Destroyed feels like both a return to the darkness from which Moby emerged in the first place, and perhaps his most year zero offering to date.

Two or three songs slip into Jack Johnson-ish blandness, but for the most part The Sound of Sunshine makes good on the promise of its undeniably appetising title.

A slightly sinister brand of enigma is a key component of his shtick, but it's hard not to wonder what this leftfield pop talent might come up with if he were asked to produce something a bit more crisp and definite.

Deez exhibits the songwriting panache of a Brendan Benson or Ben Folds, and this album acts as his DIY taster in the same way as the former's One Mississippi and the latter's work with Majosha.

There are around 20,000 records like this released every year by female troubadours. But there's something just very right, and really quite splendid, about Get Well Soon. It could well prove to be a timeless little wonder.

Not surprisingly, this is a more demanding program than that of the trio disc, and although Shipp is not adverse to the occasional rhythmic groove, the solo music is often closer to modern classical than to jazz.

It all adds up to a record for those who want thrills but don't want them dumb.

A rich debut (but brief at seven tracks) that sums up all that is beautiful and base in both music-making and love-making, Native Speaker consumes you like those lost hours spent locked away in a bedroom with a new lover.

This engrossing union of pianist Matthew Shipp and alto saxophonist Darius Jones is an important addition to the aforementioned and fascinates for its emotional and conceptual richness.