All told, it's a rag-tag collection, and one that comes short of the band's high standards even allowing for the commercial backlash.

R.O.O.T.S. is so crushingly flat that it should waft between the cracks unnoticed.

Hooks hit their fleshy mark here and there--'Dead End' is a compulsive, '80s-flavoured high and 'High On The Heels'' clipped acid house proves endearingly gauche--but it's cold comfort on a record that fleshes out a promising template to only diminishing returns.

This album feels like it's tuning into everything, connecting with everything. Welcome to Maii. And welcome to the future.

Karin Dreijer Andersson would probably make for a fascinating interview but her reluctance to talk about her music is a blessing. There's simply no way she'll ever live up to these sounds.

It's an intelligent, beguiling and charming record, from a man who has often seemed to lack all but the first of these qualities, and the first thing he's done since The Libertines' debut to make you feel genuine hope for his future.

It would be unfair to dismiss the record completely, however, as there are definite highlights.

The feeling remains though that their broad emotional strokes will have to concede something to intimacy and solitude to ever really win hearts.

Beware is a 40-odd minute work that ebbs, flows and carries you along perfectly.

MSTRKRFT make a racket that's impressive at first but eventually the echoes of it return to bite them.

The record has some horrific moments, nearly all of them Borrell's.

All I Ever Wanted, which though always singable swings wildly from bruised to bubblegum, sounds like a team of hired hands writing hits to order. Still, the increased chorus count is welcome and will put a smile back on Clive Davis's face.

As is so often the case though all it takes is a fall to flush away fanciful tendencies and with All The Plans they revisit wholesale what it was that made them a draw in the first place (other than sounding a bit like Coldplay).

Unfortunately for the oh-so-cleverly named Mongrel are nothing more than a patronising exercise in telling the poor listener what they already know: that governments can be corrupt, war on the whole is not pleasant and we all have a right to freedom.

They seem afraid to risk a good old-fashioned jungle break-out, the likes of which would be genuinely invigorating.

For the lovers, this patchy album offering moderate advance on its immediate predecessors will probably suffice. But in truth it's an unmitigated failure to reconcile the sound of their past with a cohesive vision of their future.

Big by design, poignant yet relentlessly uplifting, it has the feel of a career crowning glory, or at the very least a second album, not a first attempt.

Detractors will point to a failure to effectively up their game with 200 Million Thousand but the sly sense of craft remains.

While its thoughtfulness prevents it from getting carried away with itself--he's not exactly doing the can-can here--there is a definite sense of optimism and personal brightness radiating from all four corners of this record. It will be a difficult one to top.

The question is whether Years Of Refusal finds Morrissey still opening his musical horizons and legs, or reverting to sour type. Predictably for a man whose solo career often seems to be a sadistic exercise in frustration, the answer lies between the two.

The feeling persists that The Century Of Self marks an important moment for ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead--one in which they began to weave together their diverging paths and one that, after all, should be hailed as a victory.

The Spirit Of Apollo, a record boasting some of the most pioneering musical talent of the last three decades, does not sound "timeless" but nor does it seem an appropriate tonic, voices passing unheralded in a confusion of mediocre, glossy production, guests from the stratosphere reduced to faces in the crowd.

Much of It's Not Me's bummed-out vibes seem rooted in sound artistic sense, but musically a sunken-eyed pallor has replaced the rosy-cheeked flush and, you know what, it all gets a bit...draggy.

As a collection of songs it tentatively experiments with genres and musical devices so as to appear less of the poor man's B-sides of its predecessor; but at the same time daren't stray too far from the blueprint that made the quartet such a loveable bunch of rogues in the first place.

Tonight is a resounding success, and the first essential pop record of 2009.

Ultimately, Working On A Dream feels like Bruce Springsteen taking stock.

Svanangen reverts to a simpler, sadder approach. His initial cheer unexpectedly falls away into an introspective trance. Dear John is no worse for it. Sometimes you have to clear the air. It's liberating, if done right.

Merriweather Post Pavilion's rare combination of great songs and vital invention make this one of the year's most important records, already.

Too often you can hear the self-satisfied smirk on these songs, the little finger held out affectedly at right angles, the raised eyebrow as he plays to his adoring audience.

There could be a better band in there than the production lets them be.

It's a gut punch of a debut, and one that makes you believe Glasvegas are one of those rare, rare bands who might just have that perfect record in them.

Folie A Deux is entertaining in moderate doses, like its predecessor "Infinity On High", where the band gleefully abandoned any last pretence to edginess.

His records are not without merit and the better songs here more than deserve to find sizable audiences. But there's no sign that music is going to ever be anything more than an enjoyable sideline for a man whose greatest art continues to be created in other mediums.

His flow remains arguably one of the greatest out there; it would just be nice for him to have a bit more faith in his own mind, rather than those of our uber-producers.

If Circus had ended at eight songs, it would be a curveball pop classic but sadly--as with recent Beyonce, Alesha Dixon and Pussycat Dolls releases--the album bloats to twice that length.

Despite a preponderance of uptempo songs that puts Freedom in similar territory to Ne-Yo, the record is still very recognisably Akon.

The Circus possesses well crafted pop songs, with faultless production. There are certainly moments when Barlow comes into his own as a songwriter.

Eno and Byrne's twist, however, is the optimism and hope that breathes through every minute of what is not another boundary-demolishing collaboration, but a delicately crafted work that could only have been recorded after dispensing with the rules.

Re-emerging after a mere eight month gestation with their second album (they're referring to it as an extended EP just to be difficult, but whatever), the only natural assumption would be that the whirlwind of inconsistency smashes on unabated. And in some respects it does, but key to this record's fortunes is a sense that first they're running out of ideas and second have chilled their bones to become less rigidly obsessed with quantity and cleverness and proving their self-worth.

For the most part, however, this is a gentle hybrid that, while not reaching the heights of either artists' best work, like Eno and Byrne's recent "Everything That Happens Will Happen Today", succeeds on its own terms, creating a new world without sounding too cloyingly contemporary, or too much like the work of ageing pioneers proving they can hang with modern times.

It might not turn out to be his biggest album, but 808s & Heartbreak could well be his masterpiece.

The fact she's delivered an album which is vivacious and entertaining despite its obvious flaws means this cat probably has at least one more showbiz life left.

Meandering atmospheric intros and outros, with lyrics that often just repeat the same verse ad nauseum, overshadow what could be, at times, shorter, snappier songs.

It's more a rescinded lesson in demographics, with disc one seemingly aimed at airbrushing out the last vestiges of Knowles' credibility in favour of a procession of lame pop ballads in a Shakira or even Shania Twain-ish mould.

For long time observers though, the return of Tony Christie to the arena of mature balladry and lush production values will do plenty to gladden the heart.

Travis have always been Quite Good, sometimes a little more, rarely less. This album heads a perceived slide into insignificance off at the pass and ensures the status quo.

There's every sense that Wild Beasts are happy embracing their own ridiculousness and there's enough cheeky humour here, "chocs away!" shagging scenarios and references to old boys and institutions to suggest that whilst there's serious musical craft at foot, the whole lark's just a jolly good old wheeze and "Limbo, Panto" is all the more fun for it.

For the most part, however, this is an ultra-sugary album which leaves a strangely sour aftertaste - not a flavour the public seems too fond of.

There is an exploration outside of archetypal Girls Aloud territory on their latest offering but it barely steers too far from their recipe for success.

Rushed it may have been, but here Bloc Party seem to accurately reflect post-relationship blues: confused, introspective and stung.

Off With Their Heads is, thankfully, a subtler, cannier beast, even if it does suffer from some of the same problems as its predecessor.

Eagles Of Death Metal have crafted a soundtrack to hedonism, a series of paeans to earthly and earthy pleasures and deliciously illicit behaviour. It's enormous fun all right but it's a long way from being a joke.

Sprawled over 13 tracks, The Cure have attempted a microcosm of their oeuvre in one volume and despite their lofty ambitions, the results are a decidedly mixed bag at best.

Three-part 16-minute closer 'The Lightening Strike,' at the other end of the scale, also sees them finally growing into their stadium skin, evoking Oasis, REM, Muse and, indeed, Coldplay amongst other subtleties and convincing you for once that they genuinely harbour ambition.

Perhaps Funhouse is a victim of its own excess: it may be inevitable that an album of 14 songs with more than a dozen credited writers will end up as hit and miss, as messy as this.

That rare thing in modern music, you feel Deerhunter grow with each second of song that passes, a band who delight in running under their own graceful steam rather than gasping at the airs of others.

"Once Again" remains Legend's best record. But Evolver, in all its modernity and timeliness, may well become his biggest.

The first half of the album as a whole is easy to forget....Cardinology takes a turn for the best around the midway point.

The Fame is a very unusual beast: a sparkling pop album crammed with infectious melodies that you somehow never, ever want to hear again.

In their attempt to induce dreams, though, too much of Alpinisms is a laptop-gazing wash out, neglecting the intensity required for this kind of thing, and "Prince Of Peace" inhabits a disturbing world where Enya might front an electronically-enhanced baggy band.

Alight Of Night is a garage-weaned, art rock, squat-dirty masterpiece.

There is much to enjoy on this consistently rewarding album; brazen, bonkers and really quite brilliant.

Black Ice is far better than anyone could have hoped, played by people who by their age should know better.

Perfect Symmetry is often an exhilarating and unexpected pop record from a band you'd have thought incapable of either, and there's something genuinely life-affirming about that.

It's a workmanlike and often wearisome ambition that proves the record's undoing, which leaves The Secret Machines V2.0 sounding less the stadium-psych messiahs and more like a trio of very naughty boys.

Combined with the slick, predominantly live band set-up here it makes for some dreadfully clunky moments.

If there are moments when the feted snap and snarl of yore amounts to little more than ramming generic blues licks down the audience's throat, they're tempered with moments of discovery like the lysergic 'To Be Where There's Life' and 'Falling Down' which displays an uncharacteristic lightness of touch.

As ever, Wagner's narratives, such as on 'National Talk Like A Pirate Day,' are impressionistic, shifting time and perspectives, like the Norman Raeburn-influenced Dylan of 'Blood On The Tracks.'

Offend Maggie revels in that tease between balls-out western rock and Matsuzaki's playful but resolutely coy vocal patterns.

Overlong and oversexed, Futuristically Speaking... stumbles where you will it to stride; something surprisingly staid and mediocre from extraordinary circumstances.

This Is It... is an incredible leap forward as a result. She was already good. Now she's awesome.

Whether forsaken or not, Fucked Up certainly do a fine job of making the political sound personal--a victory in itself when taken with a sonic ferocity so broad in its range and wide in scope.

Ultimately, it's not that XX Teens throw everything including the kitchen sink at it, but rather that they drink everything under the sink and wait to see what happens. Welcome To Good Island is that kind of experience.

Nevertheless, this is still a hugely satisfying album and one that easily lends itself to total immersion, revealing its charms steadily over time.

He's got an exceptionally stylish and more importantly, sellable album to back it up.

The album's sole significant guest, Nick Cave, emerges on the stalking 'Just Like A King,' but elsewhere there's sadly no real sign of the poetic edge that he or the pick of the earlier troubadours can produce.

These 10 songs evolve unhurriedly and, as with all Mogwai's best moments, like time-lapse photography from the heart of a dark storm.

Only by The Night will undoubtedly sell bucketloads but there's no escaping the fact that creatively, Kings Of Leon have stalled.

TV On The Radio sound wise beyond their years, youthful stars whose mouthpiece contorts itself into funk shapes and whups without sounding like an out-of-depth chancer.

Cold War Kids are perhaps the only band out there ambitious enough to tackle head-on the contradictions and heartaches of America, past and present, and to do so with this passion and intelligence.

Given the fact there are 25 tracks and a platoon of songwriters spread over Doll Domination's various bonus discs, it's not surprising that it occasionally succeeds, and there are hit singles to be found here.

People will tell you Ladyhawke is fresh and exciting. They're wrong. It's horrendous.

What will draw fans old and new to this record, however, is the melancholia of Tindersticks frontman Stuart Staples' vocals, which become especially poignant on the forlorn 'Other Side Of The World.'

Perhaps it's just that the rest of the songs aren't up to scratch, but this album is a simple case of diminishing returns--what appeared carefree and sparkly-eyed to begin with feels more and more calculated as you go on, what first seemed endearing ends up feeling a little irritating.

On the whole Pivot seem hesitant to surrender anything of themselves--they've sacrificed the time taken to craft the whole dextrous thing, of course, but the temptation is to see that as slightly indulgent when there seems little attempt to ensnare the ears of others.

It's Shaffer's writing, rather than Ne-Yo's singing (and the distinction between the personas is one he's made himself), which elevates this collection beyond those of his peers.

Airplay or not, however, he's also sounding seriously dated.

Overall you're left with the aural equivalent of an unexpectedly comfy bed in a cheap hotel--relaxing, welcoming, unexpectedly pleasant, but eminently forgettable.

Death Magnetic at least proves that 40-something millionaires can make a valiant fist of recapturing the fury of youth. Sadly, though, it seems that Metallica will never be 20-years-old again.

It makes for some pleasingly approachable music but that's not what he'll be remembered for.

But for those who imagine a less self-consciously experimental Blur or Can perhaps jamming it out with Parliament, there's much to enjoy on this classy, cerebral but hugely accessible album.

Though he falls short of wholly convincing, the heart is almost always in the right place: a refreshing change from 99 per cent of those more interested in the image, not the message.

his new record is a fine one, Nights Out picking up where 2006 debut "Pip Paine (Pay the £5000 You Owe)" left off; styles reeled in and stripped for parts which are reassembled, re-wired, into something oddly-cohesive.

Not only an opportunity to look back, then, but a joyous reminder that, when at his lowest, Brian Wilson stepped up and did the unthinkable.

It's not vintage and it doesn't finally deliver what the hype of "Psyence Fiction" promised, but given enough time it's an album you could learn to love.

Good or bad, everything here sounds like a lesser version of someone else.

Ultimately, on the strength of The Golden Mile, the longevity of The Peth seems, at best, questionable.

For the first four tracks, The Verve dig deep into their chaotic history to conjure the strange, intoxicating mix of stridency, shimmering beauty, pretension and vulnerability that made them so distinctive back in their pomp. And then the plot is suddenly lost, along with the tunes.