It's incredibly pretty, but ultimately lacking in memorable moments.

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.

Try as he might, Barat can run, to Europe and beyond, but he will always find it hard to hide from his past.

A frustratingly slow-burning listen.

Over-familiarity with Barnes' recent oeuvre aside, the material on False Priest just isn't as strong as the songs that comprise those other records.

Ultimately, Form & Control serves it purpose as a ready-made playlist for your next party, but perhaps the band's oversimplifying of its sound has stripped away some of its mystique in the process.

There's definitely a place for We Are Born in our post-Gaga pop landscape. The album's accessible tunes might not stand up to in-depth analysis, but they stand a good chance of lighting up cheesy club nights everywhere.

The Duke Spirit still sound like The Duke Spirit.

She's an undemonstrative talent, certainly, but there's understated to the point of blending into the background – which is where much of Orangefarben sounds disappointingly at home.

There's nothing tender here; clever it may be, but too clever for its own good.

It's not so certain that Cowley's taste-making always succeeds, despite the overall optimistic vitality of his tunes.

Just Tell Me presents 17 cover versions of differing quality which don't gel as a cohesive listen, but it's not without standout interpretations.

See You on the Moon’s mid-tempo anthems hover with a decorative shimmer that matches their wispy bedsit sentiments.

You could justify that over-emphasis as evidence of a broad-ranging band flexing their options and chafing at their limits. But, in songs and career alike, you could also say The Naked and Famous might benefit from a sense of pacing.

A ramshackle beast largely informed by the tension between the pair's aforementioned psychedelic styles.

There is plenty on Golden Xplosion to suggest that Neset is well-equipped to be massive in the future, provided he can build on the strengths of this album and avoid repeating its worst excesses.

When one hears a musical feast as good and as sultry as this it's impossible not to conclude that, for all their wistfulness, entertaining enough renditions of standards seem half-baked by comparison. Having moved into the position of being a beloved national treasure status, Wyatt remains at his best when he's facing forwards rather than looking back.

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.

While The Cast of Cheers are shameless rip-off merchants on more than some occasions here, there's evidently ability at work, and a decent ear for a catchy chorus or two.

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.

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

It is, essentially, a pop record to stick on and sing along to. If that was Kassidy's aim, to have fun and make people dance, they've undoubtedly succeeded. But don't come looking here for anything more profound than that.

There's intelligence, individuality and character in abundance. But all too often it's caked in dollar-store body glitter and choked by feather boas.

Killer Sounds is as assured as third albums should be, and were it a debut album it would be feted as a bright start. However, there is the sense we should be expecting more from Hard-Fi at this point, as the sporadic sparks of brilliance here demonstrate they are capable of it.

Francis is a trick-free troubadour and for all The Remedy's rather monotone approach, there may not be a more personal album in 2012.

The ballads don't quite work--I'm Not Blue and Russell's Ain't You Even Gonna Cry sound detached and forced, more like excerpts from a musical than songs in their own right. On the more upbeat numbers, though, she's terrific.

Night Work is a far livelier and more enjoyable record than Ta-Dah, which was a modest album with much to be modest about. But the nagging sense that Scissor Sisters aren't living up to the promise of their multifaceted, emotionally rich debut is slowly being replaced by the suspicion that they never will.

Free of the orchestral addendums of other live tours, and unshackled from the studio finesse, the band ignites on several occasions, when they grasp the epic strands of their DNA.