The problem with having so many different voices writing and performing is that Record Collection sounds like just that – a lot of different things plonked on a shelf that have their time and place but sound distractingly disparate when grouped together.

By bypassing the commonplace put-downs of peers and proffering a very British take on pop-flavoured rap, is an accomplished and infectious introduction to some rightly rising talents.

It's a sometimes perplexing, often very pretty excursion into the recent past of a pair of gifted musicians, but Archive 2003-2006 expectedly holds little appeal beyond a limited audience.

A set that is rich with a sense of storytelling, sentiment and atmosphere, warm beneath its songs' occasionally chilly edges.

There's not quite an established cohesion from piece to piece--no flawless thread that binds these tracks together as a whole. But this can easily be forgiven, given that it's a debut (a better-realised packaging of the band's obvious potential will surely follow), and that the stylistic detours are always taken with confidence.

Syracuse art-poppers need to let their instincts do the thinking.

Etiolation and enervation were always key to chillwave/glo-fi's appeal, but this is just too pallid, too washed-out.

This is a band that never rests on its laurels, a band that embraces new ideas but also knows how to write killer choruses. The worry was that this record would turn out dull; the reality blows that concern out of the water.

[Singles] I'm His Girl and Friend Crush both appear here, and though they're highlights, they don't eclipse the rest of this generally impressive debut LP.

As it stands, the rich resources Acheson has at his disposal are sadly compromised and the orchestra is indeed hidden rather than exposed.

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.

This first album have produced something so beguiling, it's clearly been time well spent.

What is present is that instant-click connection between artist and audience that only comes with the most naked of performances--Monotony is one such riveting recital, sketchy yet complete--and Beal's commitment to documenting the minutiae alongside the meaningful in comparable detail ensures that even-handedness permeates the entire set.

Lyrically deep and musically adventurous, Michaelson has it all.

It's exciting, not self-indulgent; real, not affected. Far from being removed or pretentious, these are songs that pierce the centre of the hearts that they've sprung from.

Kid Sister is certainly on the right tracks, but Ultraviolet is a sadly patchy affair.

Liquid Love is undoubtedly impressive, well-honed and slickly produced, and it’s shot through with a glowing joie de vivre. But it’s too smoothed and tidied.

The real joy of this record is that, behind the sulking and swearing, the clips of sampled speech and toying yelps, are 12 gloriously penned pieces of unadulterated pop.

Philip Larkin memorably once noted, "What will survive of us is love". Whilst that's undoubtedly true, in Martyn's case there are also these glorious songs to savour and celebrate.

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

Ray is a shining example of creating your own world and inviting the listener in with tunes you can whistle after the first play.

There may be arguments for Rusko's moves here; it's just that they're not very well executed.

Toro y Moi goes longer and harder than before, and the results represent an accentuation of the elements which appealed in his prior work.

Quite who Harlem can hope to appeal to, in the UK at least, when music fans here are evidently besotted with sci-fi nonsense one minute and cleverly articulated kitchen-sink dramas the next is anyone's guess. Best to quit the questioning, though, and get down with the rollicking jams they're kicking out regardless of how many people are listening.

Like Bashkirtseff and Pomeroy before them, Summer Camp's debut marks a sincere, wryly appealing turning point in the art of romanticised retrospection.

There's just too much noise here, and not enough cohesion, for a singular identity to sing clearly.

For the most part this album, while as slickly produced as the classic pop it references, only faintly smoulders without igniting.

Mescaline-soaked narratives woven through hallucinatory images of Americana.

There's plenty of care taken with these covers, the players evidently keen to not tarnish their own memories of the songs in question.

E Volo Love has a strong onomatopoeic power, suggesting mystery, enchantment and romance; all properties this terrific and charming record has in spades and shovels.

Clear Heart Full Eyes [is] a work of understated beauty.

It's a palate-cleanser for sure, and whatever lies next for Everett, you have to hope it's a little more emphatic than what's on offer here.

A consistently engaging and at times exhilarating listen.

A staggeringly beautiful success.

It's dark but not relentlessly brutal. It's even more introspective and dynamic than the pair's collaborations from the first time around.

Perfect Darkness is rather special.

Streamlining has done them good, as has ignoring the need to be as brainy as possible, with classy and effortless-sounding results.

Sometimes you wish they'd let themselves go a little more, but there's much here to adore.

Girl on Fire is a smart album, maintaining the high standards set on The Element of Freedom.

His darkest and most oppressive work to date.

Neighborhoods could easily have been a disaster--that it's not, and actually a very successful endeavour, is worthy of substantial praise.

Though not without merit, the overriding sensation is one of empty melodrama.

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.

This singer knows what suits his voice, an undeniably rich and powerful instrument, and uses it without showing off.

True, it is debatable that we need more mixes with Cockney Thug on in late 2010. But Blow Your Head proves the two tribes can still intermingle, and both are still making winning records

A nebulous set of hyper-stoned musings on bass tethered together in the hard drive of one man's mind.

The component parts of this record prove that indie rock may be 'dying' commercially but still sounds alive and kicking.

Fans of the band, and those with a rustling liking for a certain kind of beard-here-now Americana, will devour this like a bottle of the Bartles & Jaymes wine cooler referenced on the last track.

A very successful collection which commendably fuses a series of contemporary "dance" music structures into an easily accessible whole.

Stick with this 10-tracker, please, as while its first number isn’t the most arresting of curtain-ups, what comes afterwards is entirely captivating.

Lissie does not fully earn her an-artist-apart stripes with Catching a Tiger, but all the signs are here. Give the girl a second and she'll steal your heart; give her another album and she will, quite possibly, become untouchable.

This is electro-pop with palpable emotion possessing its fizzing keys, guided by a vocal performance that underplays the fraught feelings found on the lyric sheet.

Anyone who has enjoyed the Crowes' live show will find it a veritable trove of delights.

It suits him well, and he knows it.

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.

However, as the album progresses, with its mix of violins, guitar, synths and fitful percussion, a paradoxical mood and feel is established – desolate yet comforting, glacial yet warm, remote yet intimate, never more so than on Summer Fog.

Although Glover plays the part of rapper exceptionally, he needs to do a little more to stop "n****s asking whether this dude's for real or not".

Their aim isn’t always true: Armonica ladles effects onto Buttery’s vocal to cover up the paucity of its tune. But elsewhere, things come together quite beautifully.

There's that genuinely disappointing sense of having heard this before, whether it be on 2007's Some Loud Thunder, their debut, or in countless other bands. Yet there's still a spark here that holds interest for a few listens.

Somewhere Else certainly reveals itself slowly, but persist and there's real beauty to be found here.

She keeps the mood fairly moderate amongst Burton's fluid soundtrack, setting the pace with a wry bravado that makes this album a dynamic listen.

If you peer hard enough, there are. Subtly, slow-burningly, Zero 7's wispy, placid emissions reveal charm and interest value; even the occasional surprise.

Wild Go is easily among the frontrunners for album of the year (so far).

The compositions are pretty formulaic and the lyrics aren't overly technical. Still, it works for Mill as a respectable effort that exorcises personal demons and moves him beyond illicit history.

She just needs to dig up some big old songs again, as those here aren't consistently up to the standard fans have rightly come to expect.

Be Brave is not quite the barnstormer that its lead single suggests, but there is enough gumption to see The Strange Boys through any scrutiny of their credentials.

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.

It's the achievement of their fourth studio album that this giddy mix hangs together as an endearing whole.

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.

When this 12-song set does hit its groove it is a punishing and relentless pleasure.

Marley fanatics will surely welcome the appearance of this release, but the fact of the matter is that it pales in comparison to the other live material already available; for a truly representative artefact, stick to Live!, Babylon by Bus, or Live at the Roxy.

Nothing that features on Kaleide will come as a surprise to those familiar with Sky Larkin's debut, though it will please them.

A disappointing sequel despite Cudi's innovative tendencies.

Excessive interludes drag the runtime and make the project feel a bit unfocused--but these missteps don't subtract too much from the overall premise.

As has been noted before, bands such as We Are the Ocean currently exist in a crowded market. Maybe Today, Maybe Tomorrow should give them a firm foothold in it.

No moulds are broken here, but the occasional breeze drummed up by the couple's galloping minds is in many ways cool.

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

Ultimately, the witty lyricism of Wale's early material is too few and far between, as this set leans heavily on misogynistic themes and self-centred musings.

Tremendous stuff.

SMD lovers will have to content themselves with a deep, well-crafted dance manifesto by two talented producers.

If only all bands had the guts and honesty of The Maccabees, maybe they'd get round to making third records as good as this.

It's a knowing retread of what works and what's expected--but boy, that's no problem.

To the Yorn faithful this set will probably seem like a step in the right direction.

On Damnesia, the bare bones and glistening edges are on such clear display that even the most cheerful listener's day will be darkened by Alkaline Trio's gathering storm clouds.

Sadly, much of the rest conforms to a malaise that's afflicted him since 2002's Have You Fed the Fish?: repetitive tracks consisting of one looping half-melody that outstays its welcome by several months.

With the band now considerably more settled, the release of Disconnect from Desire is confirmation that SVIIB's meticulous balance between the spiritual and choral has reached a confident, polished plateau.

It's a huge, focused, and daring leap forwards.

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.

Fluid and at times utterly beautiful, few will grow tired of these songs living in their headphones.

Bootsy sets about waking up a new generation to funk's heritage.

Cohen is clearly making the music he wants in the way he wants, but Milk Maid are releasing it into a world containing countless similar items old and new. [That have been influenced by 90's American lo-fi]. This needn't necessarily matter, but for many might mean the difference between a diverting record and an essential one.

Marr’s guitar work can be fascinating--but it’s forever shadowed by less-appealing vocal work.

The hit-and-miss nature of her words wouldn't be so noticeable if the music was more of a distraction. But the skittering sub-Motown fare accompanying much of this album fails to muster a chorus worth savouring.

Should he ever stretch himself as a musician the results could be fascinating – think The Beach Boys before Pet Sounds, and what they felt capable of afterwards – but right now he's operating in a comfort zone that should guarantee continued commercial success.

Tunes are plentiful, but competing with angularity and dissonance to establish a prevailing mood.

Finally Famous is sporadically fun but adds nothing to the ongoing evolution of hip hop, in the mainstream down.

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.

If you avoid Mysterious Phonk during the impatient daytime hours, you'll find it impressively dark and uncomfortable.