He's blessed with a gift for clear language, rarely missing his point and delivering his thoughtful lines with flinty disdain.

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

Albarn has done his research but this is no dry slice of worthy academia; the way the spirit of each style interlocks is brilliant, and he continues to pull memorable melodies out of his (Elizabethan) hat.

Sneering like the New York Dolls transplanted to a nighthawk-populated diner after exchanging their shiny skin-tight trousers for leather jackets and Elvis LPs, this is a rock'n'roll record and no mistake....fantastique in anyone's language.

These are sleek soothing balms sombrely and meticulously crafted to usher the listener in.

The men are going to love it. But the women will still love Richard Hawley, too.

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

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

Barchords is an enormously likeable set of songs... ranks as one of the most refreshingly direct and enjoyable albums of the year so far.

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

[A] fine and adventurous release, which finds depth and nuance in the often tryingly two-dimensional world of garage revivalism.

Rumer's debut is an immediately engaging, gently engrossing set. It wears its cracked heart on a neatly stitched sleeve of the most luxurious fabric, strong and elegant despite the hardships that sit of the centre of every song.

Bawdy, smart, big-hearted and mischievous, Mermaid Avenue is simply all about a personality that is rich with life.

While no longer the carefree creatures of their early records, Mystery Jets sound as bracingly hit-and-miss as they've ever done on Radlands, and for that much alone we can be thankful.

Electra Heart manages to balance the ironic and the heartfelt, the quirky and the mainstream, the real and the fake with remarkable aplomb.

[Cyrk] is a rare beast: a genuinely off-kilter pop record that never feels too self-conscious or contrived.

This home-grown loveliness... melts your soul.

Not quite yet the coherent full album that its time in the making hinted at, but nonetheless a welcome addition to record collections.

Produced by ECM proprietor Manfred Eicher, Snakeoil sounds as good as any album from Berne, without conforming to stereotypes of "the ECM sound".

Death Grips achieve the density and intensity of several Bomb Squads, Public Enemy's famous production wing.

Generation Freakshow is more mature, more considered, and less noisy, but it's nonetheless got Feeder stamped all over it.

While slightly more subdued than before, the pint-sized sparkplug proves she can still churn a stimulating groove, and doesn't need cartoonish gimmicks to do so.

It's an album that envelops even as it blurs and drifts, its hooks no less insistent for their subtlety.

California 37's peculiar teenage stance offers as many toe-curling moments as it does pleasant surprises.

Out of the Game is very much a master class in restraint. Rather than straining for the big choruses, here Wainwright intones over smooth backings, horns and the gospel harmonies of Brooklyn soul-stirrers The Dap-Kings.

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.

It'd be easy to breeze through Give Up the Ghost on first listen and take away nothing but the beauty of it all. Yet it sucks you in, and with every listen a new line flickers into the fray.

He still swaggers with the best of them.