The result is a joyous and soulful collection of summery pop songs and urgent sun-drenched ditties that grow with you over time.

A mixed bag that's perhaps polluted with Toddla's inevitable fame and fortune.

Sure, the combination of digital bleepage and raaawk! is nothing new, but few electronic bands have rocked quite so hard as these guys do.

For this, Fruit Bats' fifth outing, the Chicagoan took inspiration from a decade-old train ride.

It's classic Americana rock at its best, combining musical echoes of Springsteen and Dylan but crafted with a poet's eye for detail. Dreamy, infectious, and full of hope. A powerful antidote to all those who say the best days of American classic rock are well over.

Most of Welcome Reality is so in your face and predictable it feels like the musical equivalent of a Michael Bay movie: loud, crass, periodically fun, but ultimately forgettable.

Although just seven songs long, the third album from San Francisco psychedelic rockers Wooden Shjips is a remarkably dense, intense affair.

Everything here is gorgeously sung and this woozy, gently uplifting collection of songs is pretty close to perfect.

The songs are trite punk workouts without any real imagination and, whilst there's a reasonable amount of endeavour and vigour, they're unlikely to raise anything other than idle curiosity amongst the curious idle.

Azari and III are good clean honest fun, but not the future of music.

Far from breaking new ground, Through The Green is still standing on top of the hill revelling in the view, yet when you've got this much groove you don't need to prove much.

The only shortcoming is that Machinedrum lacks a definitive singular angle, making him amongst the frontrunners of dubstep/juke interpretation, but not quite ahead of the pack.

What's frustrating is that it's too damn enjoyable and not quite derivative enough to actively hate.

Ritual Union is the rich vindication of Little Dragon's slow burning upturn.

Dedication will raise more questions than provide answers. Exactly the 'out of the palm' manoeuvre Zomby wants you to eat from.

The sound of bliss.

Gone is the Primary Colours influences of Portishead's Geoff Barrow, or the punchy impatience of Strange House, and in that place stands an intellectually collective five-piece, fully immersed in the confidence of their own astonishing abilities.

Things are prone to occasional lulls with three tracks exceeding ten minutes. However, Johansson is capable of some beautifully stirring music, and when this album soars, it is a treat.

The darker, lilting tones of Oreja De Arena work better, but this album still sounds confused. As a result, its overall impact is diminished.

The album is a fine document of why Wiley was, is, and will continue to be such a cornerstone of the grime scene.

While end-of relationship heartache churns throughout You & I, there is enough twisted darkness to suggest these sisters are here for the long haul.

If you don't like vocal dance music, if you're going off funky or you don't like a bloke playing live behind a faux-Polynesian tribal mask then avoid. Otherwise SBTRKT will delight the droves of bass fanatics that want something a little more sophisticated.

While that constant jollity could become irritating, it manages instead to be endearing.

Lolloping along with little desire to vary pace or style, it is ultimately forgettable.

I Love You, Dude feels as blunt and oafish as its name, and weirdly dated in its sonic palette. Sporadically engaging, but sadly nothing more.

He's [Comet Gain's David Feck] in untouchable form here.

The euphoric, floating '60s guitar sheen and carefree swagger which dominates proceedings is utterly uplifting.

Fans may miss Wolf's habitual genre-hopping and eccentricity, but this is mature and compelling stuff. His best so far.

A wonderful, worthy follow-up.

Mirror Mirror is a raw, nocturnal and very northern record, and one that's nailed its bleeding, hedonistic colours high up the musical mast.

There is more maturity this time around, with an easier flow, such that the songs gel better as an amalgam. It's a shame then that the songs themselves lack the commercial edge to capture any sustained attention, giving the album too much anonymity.

It's All Real continues along the same lines: lush production, low-key bleeps and bloops, a hushed, lovelorn 2am ambience.

Utterly lovely.

Their commercial star has long since waned, but there is enough here to suggest that Gomez's creative light still flickers on.

Production is loud and punchy and even the quiet bits aren't quiet, which makes all sixteen tracks in one sitting a bit like hard work.

An audacious, adventurous, unclassifiable fourth album from the newly expanded Austin natives: this is a seriously self-assured sonic experience.

His camp fire ramblings and angry rants soon become tiresome with much of Turner's fourth album feeling like material he has trod before.

It's identikit jangle so packed with perfectly poised personality that I find it hard to take it even vaguely seriously.

It's so steeped in New York's musical cliche of disco and glammed-up dance that it struggles to take flight under its own power.

My Morning Jacket should be celebrated as a band that tirelessly deliver value for money--there's enough in here to keep you listening for months on end, and loving every minute of it.

Suck It And See is not a disappointment, because we've learned never to expect the Monkeys' next move, but it's not half as fun as we'd like it to be.

There's no doubting the commitment in delivery though, with solid musical cohesion and a thrusting triple-guitar assault that has an astounding clarity and is expertly choreographed.

[Gloss Drop] is one of the most startling, visually emotive albums we've heard in years. Vividly audacious.

Despite the gloriously odd decision to place Treasures--a piece of music as fragile as the materialistic lifestyles it attacks--first in the tracklisting, there are no real surprises.

Another truckload of ear-boxing drum kicks and chunky basses offer the same unflustered technicality and stewardship as Unbalance.

The punchy indie exuberance pervading this record is its calling card but beneath the surface there's a whole lot more going on.

The heavier, dirtier mood suits these Pirates--the spirit of 1979 burns bright.

Cloud Control's debut is making an early play for the feel-good record of 2011. There are more hooks in Bliss Control's thirty-nine minutes than in Captain Birdseye's entire fleet.

An enthralling listen from a compelling artist prepared to push the unorthodox.

There's no reaching out to new audiences here nor attempts to break ground, just an accessible expression by an artist with the freedom to do just that.

Heartfelt, impassioned and sincere, Mona are reaching for the skies--and taking you with them!

Boxcutter flirts competently with funky house ('Zabriskie Disco'), UKG ('Moon Pupils') and even mid-'80s funk ('TV Troubles'), all showcasing his deft and malleable production styles.

A grandiose, instrumental finale, they're a reminder of the divinity that Moby was once capable of.

Finely crafted folk is elevated towards greatness by the stunning voice of Alessi Laurent-Marke.

The grooves might be intelligently crafted, with plenty of interesting rhythmical quirks throughout, but the songs themselves hold little water.

A credible effort though, with enough promise to merit an investment of anticipation.

With the cool-o-meter currently set at all things synthy and coldwave-y, Austra look set for big things.

One thing is for certain: they've produced a much more pop orientated album. Clash isn't anti-pop, but we are anticheese.

His use of simile and metaphor is questionable but with an irrepressible energy and guest vocal spots from Kelly Rowland (Invincible) and Ellie Goulding (Wonderman) on top of three top five hits, this Peckham born rapper might just have made the most fun pop album of the year.

With such grand ambitions achieved, great music produced, and a five year journey concluded and justified, Morricone would be proud: Rome was well worth the wait.

This is labour intensive listening, but hard work reaps rewards. A gnomic, genre-busting album.

What we needed to decipher from this album was whether Miles Kane was capable of anything audacious, anything unexpected, complex and constructed. Colour Of The Trap displays this on numerous occasions, unrelenting in its boasts of adventurous and candid variation.

If that's not your bag, then this won't convert you, but if intrigue you have; then check it out.

The net result, a tapestry through dark alleys and along river banks, makes for an entertaining listening journey.

Smother does exactly what it suggests but with a poetic fragility and an exacting panache that enthrals and entices like never before. An essential album.

This schizophrenic album will frustrate purists and sate pop kids.

Wistful and plaintive, solemn yet blissful, these are songs from another time - if not another planet - and their mesmerising melodies have the powerful ability to transport you, temporally and spatially, into the band's anachronistic, peaceful, eternal summer.

Hot Sauce Committee Part Two is probably the third best Beastie Boys album ever made. And that is not a pejorative. Boggle!

While there is nothing here as magically refined as 'Made-Up Love Song #43', and Dangerfield's lyrics sometimes veer into fromage-land, Walk The River represents a must-have for those with pop tastes.

Despite his obvious talents as a pop-soul vocalist, you're left with the impression that Woon is far more interesting when he's wearing his producer hat, but we'll keep a sturdy eye on his every move regardless.

Scrappy but charming, Times New Viking's fifth album shows their dirty sound scrubs up nicely.

Alas, a good third of the album meanders and there's a drab formlessness to his sonic fog. Fascinating but flawed.

All the usual suspects are in place as you would suspect from a band with, let's be honest, not that many hits of the great variety.

Undeniably formulaic but just as captivatingly beautiful, solemn closer Let Me Back In is the track-stopping highlight, painstakingly building to a crescendo before the ghost voices drift out. Glorious.

Made on an iPad during the band's autumn tour of America, this hastily constructed, bleepy sketchbook of a record is a delight.

Cat's Eyes is an impressive first outing full of sensuous dreamy atmosphere. Worthy.

Amid the deferential nods, Mazes exude vigour and vibrancy.

Ultimately, the songwriting isn't quite weighty enough to sustain a full album. Worth a check if you're a previous fan.

An expansive work that fills no niche.

It wears thin over the course of an album, and an appreciation for Eighties synth-pop is a must, but for a band in their thirty-fourth year, the League are still on good form.

Even after several listens there's little here to really strike a chord with the long-standing Foos fan. That's not to say it's poor - it's far from that.

C'mon is such a delight, simultaneously luscious in their orchestration and muted in their delivery. Beautiful.

Heartfelt and compelling, with Jones nurturing every last drop of creative sweat, Until Spring is a romantically epic album, lovingly pieced together by a compelling band.

As lyrically profound as ever, yet with a tinge of detached romantiscm. Pioneers they remain.

It's all pleasant enough, but is clearly trying to be something it isn't, coming off rather shallow and lightweight as a result.

Dirty, loud and intimidatingly sexy, Blood Pressures is the result of a year spent apart - Hince's adventures in sound provide the album's thick production, while Mosshart's stint as Dead Weather frontwoman instils further confidence and swagger in her provocative lyrics.

Simultaneously depressing and uplifting, evil and camp, it's an inspiring, majestic paradox of an album.

Often accused of being too calculating in his constructs, Mind Bokeh emerges as a spectral funk odyssey.

It feels like a personal journey through the past on his part, and a genuine tribute from those who've contributed.

There's potential here--let's not entrust the future of rock to them just yet.

Favouring shamelessly blokey call-and-response hooks and not averse to "woos" and "woah-woah-woahs", these tales of love chased, lost and briefly enjoyed are delivered with an infectious enthusiasm and blessed with production by Edwyn Collins.

A sobering state of the world address spoken with street eloquence and education, W.A.R. resumes Pharoahe's talismanic dictation above a packed battalion of guests as a failsafe spectacle.

Not so much Teenage Fanclub as 'Loveless'-era MBV meets classic Cure at their poppiest.

Gimme Some, sixth album from Swedish indie pop types Peter, Bjorn And John, is absolutely superb; sunshine and a hundred beach parties stuffed into thirty minutes, sprightly and joyous, cool, confident and glossy.

Criminally under exposed.

Pearson's mournful growl, and the brutal honesty in raking over his personal failings, makes for a majestic, in-the-dead-of-the-night confessional.

The problem with any soundtrack is that, in isolation, something gets lost and there's no exception here, but it serves as a showcase for a virtuoso performer with the dexterity to excel within any discipline.

A fine line between unpredictable flair and china shop bull.