Black Is Beautiful is their most immediately accessible album, but its 15 tracks (14 of which are untitled) don't sound much like hits. Like its predecessors, this set works best taken as a whole, when its unstable collage has time to establish what turns out to be a powerful atmosphere.

At least five of these songs [out of twelve] should've remained on the cutting room floor.

Polished and dependable, despite its safety there are some show-stopping pop anthems present.

Four may be 2012's most exciting guitar album.

Although there is much which doesn't automatically burn itself to the cerebral cortex, the standout sections are not found rooted in melody but in the less obvious aspects, like the siren-styled synth motifs of Goons.

If the Wu’s raw, unreconstructed side is your poison, Return Of represents a custom-made catchall, hitting robustly yet classily like a fine malt, only minus usually infuriating distillation times.

Eli's irrepressible personality shines through this varied and very appealing collection of songs, and tunes abound.

Shoegaze drone-noise from Texas, done well but done several times before.

2:54 have delivered a collection of deeply mature and addictive tracks. In avoiding their own hype they have created something almost naively unaffected, and purely affecting.

Ultimately, God is less in the details, here, and Lonesome Dreams' success lies largely in the irrefutably vaulting sweep of the music and the ineffable air of melancholy-dented redemption which it so effectively conjures.

Casual Ladysmith fans are unlikely to be won over by these distinctions, although long-term listeners will be pleased to see the group finding fresh water at the bottom of the well.

It is, frankly, classic Eno. Holland too emerges from it well, though his contributions tend to be less immediate.

It's the dampest campfire hoedown you ever did hear.

Even during its less-memorable moments, this is an album that maintains its atmosphere, and Elson is an engaging narrator (although there's no trace of her Oldham roots to be heard).

The same sort of eccentricity that sees Matt Bellamy pegged as a loveable boffin is well intact, but it's the sheer depth of the sound that drags you in like ultimate gravity. Also intact is their underlying pop instinct.

The fact that the climax comprises the closest thing to a substantial recording on the album is an indictment of a release that one suspects would not have made the stores had the Hendrix estate not wished to offer a bone to new label Sony following the end of their distribution deal with Universal.

The clutch of songs performed by make-believe bands are complemented well by a supporting cast including Blood Red Shoes, The Rolling Stones, T. Rex and The Bluetones.

By and large The Place We Ran From falls well short of the left-of-centre power and eerie intimacy of Lightbody's heroes' music.

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.

Justin Bieber's new album not only finds him becoming an artist for adults on his own terms, but showcasing impressively distinctive tones and translating an innate charisma across many styles.

Eventually, their self-indulgence completely loses the listener. No matter how hard one might try to love this album--and one can try very hard--there's only disappointment at what could have been.

So the best songs on Hurley are immediately familiar, like an old lover's phone number you can't forget. This is great, but obviously not that great. Everybody should move on after a while.

The consistently diverting changes in style across the album are fine--the wonky 80s shoulder-pad pop of The Outsider is nothing like anything else here, for example. But over 13 songs of Sparks-voice and many similar staccato piano riffs listeners may feel bludgeoned by Marina and her slightly overbearing presence.

Ultimately though, this one is a step up, its maker beginning to lean towards representing the sentiments of the men he stands for, developing a voice currently missing in RnB.

Wasted in Jackson ticks lots of stylistic boxes, and while that shouldn't usually cause problems, overall this is an album that doesn't seem to entirely know what it wants to be.

With the constant variation found on the record--and what is probably Friden's most comfortable vocal performance of his career--they sound like a brand-new outfit, and you wouldn't bet against the Swedes gaining a whole new lease of life as a result.

Such is Sitek’s influence on the record that it takes you a little while to get to know the real Miranda. While initial listens find her songs somewhat opaque, they gradually open up to reveal their emotional depths.

Jokes are fairly hard to come by on a record chocked with sleepy, lilting stomp-alongs like these, but fortunately the gaps are filled by warmth, quality and not a little fiddle-playing.