Robbins' first foray into music is a misstep compared to his successful acting career.

Released in the summer of 1986, the grammatically challenged Lifes Rich Pageant was their fourth long-player and, with hindsight, a watershed album residing on the cusp between the group's initial chiming-but-oblique garage-rock signature and the stadium-tailored sound of the albums with which they would seduce the world later in the decade.

She sings prettily enough, but lacks the punch that the very best artists in this very crowded market possess.

A startling debut from a young Canadian RnB artist with huge potential.

This band's gradual edging over the precipice of mainstream acceptance has been richly deserved; now, everyone should hear this dragon roar.

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.

The 2011 incarnation of Incubus is a depressingly dull and sterile proposition and, really, we wouldn't wish these bland wet blanket anthems on anyone.

Whatever the case, those years out of the spotlight have served TPF well: every second of Buffalo is wrought and layered with artisan care, and if ever you were looking for a record to banish the winter, this could be it.

Credit to this fine record that, when you actually listen to it, the need for explanation feels like the last thing on your mind.

Etiolation and enervation were always key to chillwave/glo-fi's appeal, but this is just too pallid, too washed-out.

Such lofty posturing could have easily ended up sounding like the ill-informed scribblings of a sixth-form politics student, but H-p1 is more about mood, feel and texture than lyrical conceit.

A hugely entertaining dance-rock romp.

On Shangri-La YACHT have proven that no matter what the concept is, it always comes down to the music.

Where special guests don't feature, Vieux Farka shows off his own playing on songs that often follow the same formula: starting with a burst of stuttering guitar work before easing into relaxed, rolling riffs and chanting vocals. His father would have approved.

Haley is not attempting anything revolutionary on Galactic Melt, but he demonstrates a sight more depth than a lot of stuff that's been tagged as chillwave.

What can't be denied, however, is that the album easily deserves its place in the hearts of those who admire fellow fuzzy-edged slackers Superchunk, Pavement and Guided by Voices as much as those new to the game, who'll find echoes of the band's sound fizzling through modern-day collegiate grungesters like Milk Music or Gun Outfit.

There's no fault to be found with Skying--truly, every song here hits its mark, and while The Horrors are evidently a band happy to change its spots from record to record (and steal a few licks, too), only the most ungracious of observers could deny that they've now crafted two of the finest British albums of recent years.

While nowhere near as immediate as Johannsson's string-based albums for the 4AD imprint--IBM 1401, A User's Manual and the sublime Fordlandia--The Miners' Hymns is far more complex in its use of dynamics while succeeding totally in its evocation of time, place and message.

Formulaic it may be, but it is a formula Pitbull knows his way around – and though this aesthetic can't hope to match the boundless energy that the combination of his vocal with a Lil Jon production used to bring, there's enough of it here to satisfy once you turn your mind off.

The Computers deliver a wholly satisfying sound that won't go stale any time soon. Mainly because there's so little substance to it, but in this case that's no bad thing whatsoever.

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.

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.

Player Piano is a musical jacket potato: satisfying but never amazing.

Whatever the treatment of his songs, Holly's knack of pairing of simplistic, catchy melodies with understated--almost flippant--melancholy always shines through. As such, over 50 years since his death, this is a wonderful testament to his songwriting prowess, longevity and legacy.

Martin is just too instinctively amiable to muster the passionate furies that animate the best of his genre, and too quick to deflate whatever momentum he does gather with a joke.

For all the minor detours, Through Low Light and Trees is consistent in proffering a dreamy, timeless music which could have been recorded at any time in the last 40-odd years. That in itself is a kind of recommendation.

100% Publishing is a clever balancing act that allows the casual listeners in and retains them with riffs and tunes you can't ignore, but makes sure it's insubordinate enough to keep the regulars happy.

It's the comedown after Power's other lot are done with their sensory assault, a perfect after-hours accompaniment for contemplation and restoration.