There are many more moments of magic on this triumphant third album. Among them, The Girl is Gone proves Mystery Jets can do melancholy in as confident a manner as they do happiness.

While much here can be summarised as more of the same, when Lennox's natural quality control operates at such an admirable standard, that's precisely why Tomboy is such a chilled-out triumph.

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

For those Manics fans whose bearing on the band is centred by a Britpop firmament, rather than The Holy Bible, this record will prove a joy. It's jolly, but jolly good.

Ben Chasny's solo venture continues to tackle folk as if the 1970s never ended.

It's not an album for those with short attention spans but, in a world of lightweights, Tabor's a colossus and this is one of her finest hours.

In producing a focussed follow-up that completely transcends its litigious backstory, Chairlift have summoned a watertight case for the defence with Something.

This is an album that delivers more and more with every listen, showcasing an artist maturing with grace and poise.

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.

The result is louche and intoxicating.

Lekman has always had a neat turn of phrase, whether barbed, droll or plainly silly. Again, there's [sic] plenty of them here.

The record is certainly denser and more difficult to find an entry point into than either of its predecessors; but this is not remotely to say that their label made the right the decision. After several listens, a handful of stone-cold, diamond-hard gems present themselves from of a scree of electronic beats and stentorian rapping/shouting.

A brief, brilliant record that leaves you panting, Body Talk, Part 2 is the latest evidence that Robyn is probably the best, most versatile pop star currently at work.

Best Coast's music wishes for that innocence – for when a pop song could sum up your whole torment in three perfect minutes, before your heart truly gets broken that first time – and successfully evokes it with Crazy for You's immediate classic-pop hits.

Purity Ring have pulled off the feat of producing one of the year's most arresting debuts – a Grimm Tales for the 2010s, shrouded in the illusory threads of contemporary club music – while sounding like no-one else but themselves.

While some of this album is beautiful and delicate, at other times its vocal and musical honey smothers the intimacy of the lyrics.

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

Bluegrass superstar's new album is a fine addition to her impressive catalogue.

She's shining bright and crying out to be taken on as Britain's new favourite pop star – and if this album is anything to go by, it looks like the stage is set.

Confess is an easy record to listen to and love.

The title-track is a prime example of the album's dominant pace: downbeat and sluggish.

It sounds as if it's the work of human trial and error, rather than a series of computer-coded phrases and melodies, and it's this fragility that really has it standing out as the work of a band hitting its peak.

On We Don't Even Live Here he brings lyrical grit, tightly leashed rage and a general disregard for genre boundaries.

Vanishing Point proves the quartet is still a thrilling proposition, in love with the simplicity of mayhem and volume.

By maintaining a ferocious appetite for streaming across territory few electronic musicians possess even a perception of, Autechre continue to test themselves and listeners alike with stunningly intricate results.

Tennis may have sailed a great distance to bring about the inspiration for Cape Dory, but a similarly epic voyage of composition would have yielded far better results here. As it stands, it's remarkably unremarkable.

Comprising eight tracks and running to just over half-an-hour, it's a crucible of stark arrangements, contemplative moods and subtle hooks; never earth-shattering yet consistently, discreetly affecting.

A refreshing, unusual and diverting first record from two new talents, then, and one to recommend for jaded electro and indie fans who felt the New York scene had gone as far as it could with art-skronk.

This laidback attitude--and the audacious quality of the songs that seem to find him with such ease--is the key to much of his abundant charm, and even working at half-speed he delivers.

Falling Down a Mountain opens with the six-and-a-half-minutes of insistent, monotonal jazz of the title track. Mercifully, this fails to set the scene for what follows, as the album is dominated by the band’s whimsical, playful side, a usually dormant but altogether delightful aspect of their character.

Spectacularly creative pop.

The core elements are so big, like blasts of pure plasmic energy, that it sounds planet-sized.

While some consistency may have been sacrificed in favour of a space-filling selection of tracks, this set still represents a heaving, breathing journey through the introspective and the bombastic, the striving and the exhaustive.

Bell’s vocals are mountain-fresh like Frida and Agnetha’s and the songs they’ve written are walloping feel-good anthems with the sort of cacophonous choruses that would knock Mika and The Feeling into the middle of next week.

Whether or not Never is a record you'll want to revisit that often is a moot point, but its ability to hit like a spring-mounted boxing glove to your peripheral vision is hardly in doubt.

While Endgame is a strong album, and certainly an honourable one, it does lack an ingredient that might be identified as magic.

Admire the riches this national treasure has bestowed upon us.

It’s hard not to by won over, once again, by Moore’s indomitable, eternal teenager energy.

With little pop appeal, Avey Tare's swampy debut is unlikely to grace top 40 radio playlists. But given time, Down There is a rewarding and fascinating listen, its allure in the seductive atmosphere it exudes with every glistening note and slimy drum fill.

The Road From Memphis hasn't got any of the surprise factor of Potato Hole; in fact, it's more like reacquainting yourself with an old friend. But it's a work of such high quality it doesn't really matter it's nothing new.

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.

936 is a delight, a ray of welcomed sunshine as the wintry outside fades into shades of grey.

Throughout, CTE prove that they are an alternative act that's not scared of offending mainstream sensibilities. Time to break their locks.

Ross and Reznor receive A grades for effort, and commendations for their execution of this most-malevolent of soundtracks; but Dragon Tattoo is such an exhausting listen that one might well switch to the music from Arthur Christmas before the fine, Ferry-penned finale comes into view.

Easy-going and mellifluous, songs built on the simplest of patterns.

[A] sober, smart and his finest record since 1999's I See a Darkness.

This utterly unnecessary but partially satisfying "complete" (says the sticker on the sleeve) singles collection manages to fall at the first hurdle by not including their first (and best) 12" from debut album Definitely Maybe, the shameless cocaine elegy Columbia.

The results are every bit as enthrallingly out of step with the group's "mainstream" catalogue as previous SYR releases, but fashioned into something that's perfectly coherent, and really quite a delightful listen.

Far from didactic or preachy, it's a lesson in the pure power of music.

In other words, it's a perfect match.

Those unfamiliar with ancient Greek literature need not be daunted, as knowledge of the book is not necessary to appreciate the moods and melodies of The Sirens.

With six-minute songs in which to stretch out, they continue to weave surprising musical strands into an agreeably amorphous whole.

From his eulogy of Detroit strings and deep beats, to London's ambiguous constant reinvention of bass culture, these are tracks that will hold their own in any city with DJs operating at the forefront of the shifting beat.

Whereas Editors seem to ape the tortured soul of Joy Division, here it's the real deal.

Fool’s Gold stretch Western pop templates out into African shapes; and this debut album belies their name by being a genuine gem.

But it’s not float-away, background material; these songs poke and prod while clasping you close, the embrace warm but never completely comfortable.

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.

Lyrics are route-one effective throughout, as you'd expect from an album called Boys & Girls, but the Shakes are not one-dimensional.

A consistent second album of big choruses from the New Yorkers.

Ores & Minerals, its [A Thousand Heys'] follow-up, is arguably less direct, but more fully realised, and likely more enduring.

Maximum Balloon makes an impressive noise. But it struggles to make one feel anything more than impressed.

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

The tunes, riffs and words might not be as impressive as those from the days of yore, but this is still a very arresting example of sonic art: tense and deranged, savage and serrated.

This is the sound of pigeonhole-free ambition slowly being realised, and it's sounding great.

This delicacy was always the logical progression, and fans growing with Orton will find much to love about Sugaring Season.

Come Down With Me, while never plumbing peculiarly clichéd depths of introspective immersion, does stall its rapid step on occasion to allow both actors and audience a little breather.

Maturity and sonic streamlining hasn't removed the essence of what gave them their cult following.

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.

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.

If there is an overall mood, imagine a slightly sozzled, mischievous Leonard Cohen on the front porch having discovered the joys of country music.

A significant step forwards then, and all just a click away.

Jiaolong is an effortless collection that just won't quit.

When To Dust takes flight, you don't have to squint your ears too far to imagine Alice Russell as a worthy successor to that notional throne [of British soul].

Gregg Allman's history lesson may not match his finest recordings, but it's a diverting blues miscellany from an undoubted master.

The true spirit of Christmas is safe in Tracey Thorn's hands.

An impressive and varied second album, but one underpinned by noticeable troubles.

In the end, Watch the Throne is a very noble attempt at cohesion, but its inconsistency ultimately stalls the project, resulting in an uneven recording that buckles under the weight of its own pressure.

Considering No Name... is compiled from several years of writing between kinetic hard touring, the coherency on display is impressive, as is the volume pumped out by a mere brace of noisy souls.

On much of The Old Magic, he's Richard Hawley unplugged.

While the EP is not a complete overhaul of the band's sound – Falkous' semi-comprehensible mini-stories are alternately spoken and yelled, with frequent backing vocals; the bouncy New Adventures could have slotted comfortably onto either of their first two albums – there's an evident effort by FOTL here to avoid simply returning to what they know.

The Belbury Tales is infused with a deep vein of paranoia, a palpable fear, an attempt to reconcile the imminent unknown (evoking a reimagined or never experienced past).

An hour in the company of Tom Paley and his revue is an hour well spent.

Never ones for stating the obvious, Singing Adams have constructed an album that is as thought-provoking as it is entertaining.

For all of the fine craft on display, there's little obvious emotion. No matter, though, as there's room for everyone, and this makes for ideal driving music and it should sound sensational in a club.

Not everyone is going to want a 12-song cycle about the relationship of an extremely violent fictional farmer (no – come back!), of course, but within Heartland’s grand sweep are some riveting and quite glorious ideas.

Foals were already a mainstream presence; now, they’ve made an album properly reflecting that status.

It's an impressive feat, and a genuine reminder for those bemoaning pop's current state that challenges can still be made as long as you never stop asking questions.

It continues the band's long-running, idiosyncratic and distinctively creative career path.

As it stands, The Union is a blot on neither man's legacy, just a mature bout with flashes of former glory.

21 is simply stunning. After only a handful of plays, it feels like you've always known it.

Though Compass initially seems like the least interesting song on the album, that’s the beauty of the surprises in store.

Think of it as a solid foundation to build something more unique from and it's a triumph; or, better still, don't think at all and let it tickle several sonic taste-buds in a single sitting.

All in all, it’s a refreshingly varied voyage.

While Amok--like The Eraser--is unlikely to arouse the same passions as, for instance, In Rainbows, it’s an often fulfilling and fascinating indulgence.

The four-piece have made a follow up that makes their beginnings busking on the South Bank seem like a myth propagated by publicists. Receiving a nod of approval for their pigeonhole-defying venture really has emboldened them.

Wilson specialises in vintage gear, and Gentle Spirit sounds like the product of such equipment--warm, wistful and golden-hued, coated in creamed harmonies--but also, crucially, alive.

It's still a slice of superior Americana that enhances Richmond Fontaine's standing as one of the genre's premier attractions.

One of Metheny's best releases in recent times.