As much as it's fascinating to hear Bush the Elder look back at Bush the Younger, is the tinkering worth a full album? Yes, because it's a sign Bush the Artist is still alive (she's working on new songs too) and Director's Cut (a less prosaic title would have been nice) is a gorgeous body of work.

In a career of benchmark highs, he's made yet another; and by doing the unexpected, it shows that whatever the sound of his records, the punk inside Moore still lives.

This is a connoisseur's collection, steering clear of hits that have since veered into kitsch (like Release Me or I Can't Stop Loving You) to favour a handful of classics, some less-known treasures, and the title song--a charmer of Cantrell's own that sits snugly among the marvellous covers.

The jaunty melodies and jagged incisors savaging them into bite-size shapes remain engaging for the full 45 minutes, proving that the loud and voiceless do not have to sound ineloquent.

Friendly Fires have already proved themselves, but this second effort is a mighty step upwards. It is another terrific, clattering celebration of an album that sounds nothing like its peers, but hopefully will be rewarded with sales to dwarf Lady Gaga's.

It ["Getting Rest"], like much of this fine and not at all "difficult" second album, is undeniably impressive, but it leaves you with the ineffable impression that the best of Wes Gonzalez is yet to come.

It's a super-confident debut breadth-wise, but a misfire in terms of depth--it stretches too far and ends up light on substance and personality.

Stelmanis, bassist Dorian Wolf and drummer Maya Postepski have created something that plays as a carefully balanced, organic whole, like an inadvertent concept album. That's more a testament to the skill with which it's been put together than because it lacks standout moments; in fact, half the songs here could be released as singles, as Austra are as melodic as they are melodramatic.

Take a finger to your fast-forward button, however, and without Jones' handful of mediocre performances, Rome breezes past with all the tinkling, indefinable intent of a lost Michel Gondry film score.

All in all, Destroyed feels like both a return to the darkness from which Moby emerged in the first place, and perhaps his most year zero offering to date.

Two or three songs slip into Jack Johnson-ish blandness, but for the most part The Sound of Sunshine makes good on the promise of its undeniably appetising title.

A slightly sinister brand of enigma is a key component of his shtick, but it's hard not to wonder what this leftfield pop talent might come up with if he were asked to produce something a bit more crisp and definite.

Deez exhibits the songwriting panache of a Brendan Benson or Ben Folds, and this album acts as his DIY taster in the same way as the former's One Mississippi and the latter's work with Majosha.

There are around 20,000 records like this released every year by female troubadours. But there's something just very right, and really quite splendid, about Get Well Soon. It could well prove to be a timeless little wonder.

Not surprisingly, this is a more demanding program than that of the trio disc, and although Shipp is not adverse to the occasional rhythmic groove, the solo music is often closer to modern classical than to jazz.

It all adds up to a record for those who want thrills but don't want them dumb.

A rich debut (but brief at seven tracks) that sums up all that is beautiful and base in both music-making and love-making, Native Speaker consumes you like those lost hours spent locked away in a bedroom with a new lover.

This engrossing union of pianist Matthew Shipp and alto saxophonist Darius Jones is an important addition to the aforementioned and fascinates for its emotional and conceptual richness.

Sigh No More sees four-piece Mumford and Sons strike out for equally distinctive territory, carving out a mostly winning--if nigglingly naive--debut that deserves an audience to match its impressive convictions.

Colour of the Trap, impressive an achievement as it is, is begging for diminishing returns.

Vintage touches and modern twists combine on an irrepressible soul record.

Tennis may have sailed a great distance to bring about the inspiration for Cape Dory, but a similarly epic voyage of composition would have yielded far better results here. As it stands, it's remarkably unremarkable.

It's easy to revel in Moffat's bleak wordplay and his everyman observations, but behind the black clouds and bitterness there are reminders of love and tempered optimism, encompassed by The Greatest Story Ever Told.

Hull is a fine lyricist, able to make everyday ruminations on relationships utterly riveting. But he's not consistently complemented by music that really matters, a couple of relatively perfunctory arrangements ensuring that Simple Math is no High Violet-matching masterpiece.

They are, right now, the most inspirational, intriguing, effortlessly enrapturing band at work on these shores. And Smother might well prove to be the album of 2011.

There are many arguments for and against Tyler's mouth and mind, but once the language barrier is crossed and ears become numb, the real brilliance of Goblin can be heard.

The Oscar-winner is an understated powerhouse on her second album.

Dive into their magnificent depths and you might find a record to fall in love with several times over.