The creepy, icy elements of Black Heart's music here underpin the warmer atmospherics of Pinback's electronic indie aesthetic, meeting in the middle to create an album that constantly shifts--or even merges--seasons yet which is, at the same time, entirely cohesive.

It's not particularly clever, but it is expectedly big: if you're a Carey fan with a stocking that needs filling this year, this'll perk you up better than any alternative speech or sherry trifle could.

But subtle though it is, Tarwater's Bernd Jestram--who mixed the album--ensures that the imaginative details sparkle, so while Nes' world may at times sound familiar, it's still very much her own, a comforting and alluring one into which to retreat.

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.

There weren't too many opportunities for Jones to arrange or conduct during the course of this project, which is angled towards the vocal performance, whether sung or rapped. Its instrumental contributions serve mostly as a backdrop to the posturings of its guests.

It's a mark of the album's strength that there aren't many standouts: there aren't any weak tracks either.

It might sound like a cavalcade of cliches on paper, but with punchy couplets and shimmering production, Trey Songz here furthers his reputation an artist head and shoulders above many a lover-man peer.

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.

It's coarse, awkward and at times lacks air; but the stubborn nature of Splazsh's development leaves you parched for more.

It's a colourful grab-bag, but Zimmerman's ear for stock clubland dynamics means that while 4x4=12 barely breaks sweat whomping the listener into submission, it also stops way short of revealing the man behind the mask.

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 come late, but Basic Instinct is one of the best RnB albums of the year.

Pink Friday isn't a classic by any means, then, but when Nicki Minaj is on fire nobody in hip hop – male or female – can extinguish her bright-burning talents.

The strange thing is, for all that it is all over the place, compilations of lost songs and outtakes are not supposed to hang together this well. Or be anywhere near this much fun.

A disappointing sequel despite Cudi's innovative tendencies.

With material of a standard to match his fantastic pipes, here Callaway has crafted his finest Cee-Lo long-player yet.

The Promise is as compelling an advert for the Boss's beautiful, blue-collar soul as you're likely to find outside of the hits; an indispensible portrait of an artist at the top of his game. File this one under American Greats.

Almost 15 years on it remains a stereo regular, and loved like the day it was delivered, awkwardly and self-consciously, into a world that didn't know what to do with it. And, largely, still doesn't. So give it a home, won't you; it could be your album of the year.

The Gift wins at warming the heart in a time of reflection and recession, ringing subtly--via an impressively less-than-mechanical recipe--in the slushiest part of our brains.

If a little dominated by this trio [Champagne Life, One in a Million, Beautiful Monster] the rest of the album also develops the cool soul player theme nicely, with offers of mind sex and a considered approach in slick fusion.

The first genuinely exciting, no-filler, pure pop full-length album since The Fame.

In fact, this record's only flaw is that its scale is so awe-inspiring it tends to paper over any weaker cracks.

Love Me Back is worth so much more than the future classic tag it's been lumped with--it's an instant and self-assured blast of a record, its maker a new star to love

The Beginning is a depressing listen, not because the music's that bad, but because it implies that even the most successful pop producer on the planet can't afford to indulge in anything that might be construed as intelligent or interesting, lest the masses run away screaming in terror.

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.

Although not musically revolutionary, Tron: Legacy suggests the adrenaline rush of a black panther roaming nearby in the darkness, heard but not yet seen.

Though not without its charms, Endlessly is too slight and uneven to impress unconditionally.

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.