As with any festive release, the magic of A Christmas Cornucopia is best captured before the actual event itself, as come December 27 it will be as welcome as yet more turkey. But such is its quality that this collection could find itself becoming as much a part of the holiday season as arguments with loved ones, keeping receipts and watching the tree lights blur as you slowly drink yourself merry.

Harnessing those tropes to dexterous finger-picking and chiming Gamelan, along with the often jaw-dropping vocal delivery of Alan Bishop (his bravura performance on The Imam is right up there with his blood-curdling incantatory work on Master Musicians of Bukkake's People of the Drifting Houses) has resulted in Sun City Girls' most accessible and consistent album (a far cry from their puzzling and profligate series of Carnival Folklore Resurrection volumes).

It is Rihanna's vocal--at once commanding, soulful and vulnerable--that anchors the song, and Loud itself, elevating it from a hit-and-miss collection into something oddly arresting.

It's fair to say that for every misstep there's an unexpectedly winning duet, but not enough of Jones' maturity is brought to the fore.

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.

There's nothing radical here, but revolution isn't all it's cracked up to be.

So does the oddly titled Not Music hold any surprises? Yes and no: Stereolab's signature sound is very much present and correct, but this record doesn't sound like the last gasp of a long-lived and generally much-loved band.

Small Craft... isn't an album that's going to change the world forever, but listened to in the right environment it sometimes does just that for a few minutes at a time.

What Good Charlotte don't seem to have picked up along the way are any startlingly new ways of delivering their honeyed ramalama pop-punk. Which could prove troublesome for them in the long run, now that the punk bubble has once again popped.

If this isn't one of the albums of 2010, then it is certainly the album of their career.

Anyone who vividly remembers the fire in the band's collective belly around the time of their scintillating debut will be disappointed with this comparatively uninspired set.

In the US they're pitching this as Diamond's revelatory masterpiece, which is a bit rich considering he's performed covers often before, and his own best songs were as strong as anything here.

As musicians, Wolf People gel together like a charm, and have a distinct advantage over a great many modern hard rockers by having a drummer, one Tom Watt, who beats away with a swinging funkiness, like the finest hairballs of 40 years gone.

While it's no Costello classic, this repays patience.

It's a downbeat record that reclaim's dubstep's original dark energy and experimental imperative.

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

Maybe it shouldn't be altogether surprising that Knoxville is brimming over with bravura displays of improvisational nous. Similarly, it would be hard to find a finer study of the suppression of the ego; each musician's signature sound serving to continually complement, but never saturate, the artistry of the others.

With some judicious – let's have it then – tailoring, this is a sparky and affecting record, moving Swift on at a stately and assured pace.

With little pop appeal, Avey Tare's swampy debut is unlikely to grace top 40 radio playlists. But given time, Down There is a rewarding and fascinating listen, its allure in the seductive atmosphere it exudes with every glistening note and slimy drum fill.

Though The Witmark Demos' contents may occasionally be unkempt, the same cannot be said for its trappings. As with all Dylan Bootleg Series releases, it is beautifully and thoughtfully packaged and annotated.

Nine songs and 47 minutes long, their album debut feels like wandering through desert plains and darkened streets, tumbleweed at your feet and in your brain.

Rock like rock shouldn't be: a rock that your parents wouldn't just love, given a chance, but one that they'd ask you to play again, louder. It ain't right, obviously. But it rocks brilliantly.

Write About Love is a cracking pop album and a fine addition to a great band's already impressive catalogue.

What It Means to Be Left-Handed contains more ideas than most guitar bands muster in their entire careers and will certainly consolidate Pierce's core cult audience.

Ferry can only do jaded and glum nowadays – but when it works, he blissfully drags you under with him.

As it stands, The Union is a blot on neither man's legacy, just a mature bout with flashes of former glory.

It's less Working For than Driving Through a nuclear-free (or otherwise) city, taking in all the myriad sights, as opposed to the unchanging view of the motorway/ autobahn.

Reinventing a genre they're not, but Nedry are certainly evolving trip hop in an enticing fashion.