At times Credo sounds like The Human League of today trying to be The Human League of the past, which makes for uncomfortable listening. That said, it's probably still better than it has any right to be, given the time between the group's hits and their missing out on chart positions nowadays.

It's the contrast between these points--the brilliantly familiar and the boldly flawed--that ensures I Love You, Dude stays on the right side of lazy revivalism.

Album proper or not, there's no denying this is greatly entertaining stuff.

Much has been made--often unfairly--of Gray's awkwardness and lack of convention. But after several stabs at clumsy conformity, it finally feels like it's something she's embracing, and that's massively evident here.

Style and gravitas are all very well--if Hurts could also have been consistent with the substance, Happiness would have trounced its 80s counterparts and many of its contemporaries, too.

More quality grime would be nice, but Winner Stays On proves Roll Deep are no longer an underground crew trying to make pop: the charts are there for the taking.

They get full marks for effort but, unfortunately, not for the end results.

A hugely entertaining dance-rock romp.

Strange or otherwise, this is an intriguing but confused curate's egg of an album that will probably delight as many people as it repels.

Remember Who You Are is the sound of a band not so much rediscovering their past as recycling it.

So don’t come to this thinking you’ll get the inside scoop on a celebrity divorce, but as a soundtrack to rampancy in general, it’s hard to beat.

That Panic of Girls gives way from innovation to imitation is regrettable--but in an era in which bands are content to simply wheel out their back catalogue in return for a fat pay check, it's admirable that Blondie are still here and still looking forward, even if only fleetingly.

Nobody's Daughter, despite its lengthy and troubled gestation, is a rich and emotionally searing addition to that canon, effortlessly besting her haphazard solo album.

It may have taken Geldof a while to get here, but as he prepares to collect his bus pass it seems wisdom and reflection have finally overtaken venomous splurge as his choice of artistic cloak. And it's a very good look for him.

Taken as a whole, this release offers enough revelations to suggest the original album is worth revisiting.

Until Now is best experienced with your critical faculties compromised.

Of the nine songs that aren't singles already, four are cut from the same cloth as the hits: each one desperately vying to be the tune you most want to be dancing to when the realisation hits that you're out, the night is young, and everything is brilliant.

This is a far from perfect album, but at its peak it’s highly mature, seasoned music. Exhaustion clearly seems to be beneficial to McRae’s unique sound.

This 17-track set is a worthy document of Soundgarden's glory days. There's certainly nothing here which hints at a group on the road to self-destruction.

Lupe remains a singular hip hop voice, and Lasers is still worth a listen.

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

In order to get that these three people from Bordeaux and a drummer from Berlin are the genuine maverick article, one just has to grab a listen. And be confused. And delighted. And frustrated. And appalled. And strangely aroused. And then listen to track two.

The arrangements are dense and intricate and, together, Chief make an accomplished, purposeful noise--but it's rarely matched by depth of melodic imagination. For a slow-burner, Modern Rituals needs a little more fire.

By the end of these 17 tracks the head is heavy with images of the Smash robots battle-rapping against a crew from whatever planet The Clangers call home.

This is a fine album that warrants serious investigation from any and every rock circle.

The lyrics mingle optimism and deliberate naivety, with even the downer moments coming across as exultantly miserable rather than genuinely forlorn. Rhodes is undoubtedly sincere, but maybe at the expense of potential humour and irony.

If at times the impression left is too breezy (the elephant in the career that is You’re So Vain sounds almost embarrassed to be here), at others it’s extremely potent.

A disappointing return from the former Mercury champions.