This latest offering is meandering chirpy slobber that sounds more boy band than ever.

Swanlights is less straightforward than his other records and more operatic. It's still astonishingly beautiful.

The Union is a mutual display of affection from both sides - Elton and Bernie's nostalgic tales are infused with gospel, rollicking country and rock 'n' roll, while Leon's croaky voice adds southern authenticity.

There's enough promise and originality within the current scene to merit considerable credibility.

The Godfather of cool retains his title!

Half the tracks see the beats surface into formed drums but for the rest the stratification and distortion takes the sound field to new places. Dangerously engaging.

Who cares if Stoltz listens to the Kinks and Beatles too much when he sings like an angel?

Like a virus-ridden PC vainly trying to upload lovelorn messages over dial-up to its neglectful owner, this side-stepping of the usual Hyperdub format is most welcome. We want more.

Somewhat removed from the robust radio friendly pop of their first Hoffer collaboration The Life Pursuit, this latest record inhabits a more delicate sonic framework, reminiscent of early B & S.

Even if there are occasional flirtations with bland daytime soul sludge, Mr. Strickland Banks is a welcome addition to Ben Drew's beguiling set of alter-egos.

Come Around Sundown is the remarkable product of an ambitious supergroup expanding their horizons, and is absolutely worth persevering with.

Lucky Shiner is one of the most innovative and mind-melding albums of the year and one that just keeps on giving.

Perhaps surprisingly, Adrian Thaws' Tricky schtick has yet to get old, with the only missteps on this, his ninth, album arriving when he conforms to, rather than resists, convention. Where it's good however, it's superfly.

The swagger comes in the form of knowing your strengths and for Stern, she's put all of them on display with Marnie Stern.

Love him or hate him, you can't deny that Ronson can certainly put an album together.

The album is a bold step, Spunt and Randall striving to write songs they would be psyched to listen to, and moving in a direction that will fail to disappoint fans of earlier releases 'Nouns' and 'Weirdo Rippers'. Rad.

It has to be said that, considering how Nick Hornby is credited with writing all of the lyrics here, the usual Ben Folds key words are present and there's only so much 'bastard', 'shit' and 'fucking' I can take. Despite this concern, as well as being Folds' most musically accomplished outing since going solo, it does feature the magnificent phrase, "some guy on the net thinks I suck and he should know; he's got his own blog."

A gentle and mellifluous set of songs.

Rave horns echo like WW2 sirens being played on a fucked-up ghetto blaster while the cast of House Of 1000 Corpses do their best Gucci Mane impressions--an interesting, if perhaps slightly contrived, oddity.

While songs 'Bondage Of Fate', 'If You Want It' and 'Sometimes' present a classic vibe, standalone track 'Pulse' is equally akin to the electronic sound of today. Nice touch.

Pitched as the genealogy of DFA records in one album, Shit Robot finally lays down his manifesto as an incisive filter.

There will be plenty of people who opt to be snobby about the fact that this record is so commercial, so polished and so brazen, but those people are all, to a man, idiots. If you can't love these songs, you are incapable of experiencing joy itself.

The Hundred In Hands manage to create mesmeric tracks of monolithic noise and danceable beat.

This time, the concept of political awareness reigns supreme, accompanied by some funkadelicious licks from The Roots' guitarist Capt. Kirk.

Earthy, enigmatic and possessed of a refreshing lightness of touch.

Unfortunately, the album barely reaches the most reasonable of expectations. The strength of their flawless magnum opus, 'Better Than Love', overshadows every other song on the LP.

With a sound centred around a tunable percussion instrument called a hang (think mellow steel drum), skittering jazz drums, saxophone and loops, the quartet, who live Monkees-like in a shared house in East London, serve up a fresh vision of jazz, drawing sounds from across the globe.

Brief though it is, 'Strange Weather, Isn't It?' represents a remarkable sharpening of focus at a time of flux - and possibly crisis - for the band.