That every track here reinforces that memory of him makes it an unexpectedly fitting tribute.

There are no surprises or unexpected turns and the overall dearth of spontaneity ensures an empty and shallow experience.

For the most part Fields are lazily picking their own way between the disparate pastures of folk, pop, post rock and shoegaze on a deliciously sun-dappled day.

"Send Away The Tigers" is not only the most enjoyable Manics record in years, it's the most consistent.

Even at his laziest, Wolf sounds vastly more intelligent, committed and interesting than his supposed rivals, and "The Magic Position" is full of heart, warmth and beauty.

This "Baby…" is bloated and bursting from its nappies - and that goes for the songs as well as duration.

An elemental tour-de-force, "The Reminder" could be her Eureka record - an album where almost everything turns to gold.

It's a case of too many beats failing to earn their keep.

How does such a rich soup of chromosomes and hired help come together? In a tinkly, whispery trinket that deserves a place on the stereo of every right-thinking beatnik.

Callahan's trademark cold brittle voice - part Lou Reed, part Droopy - remains intact, but musically and lyrically he's a lamb in springtime.

At every turn this record astonishes with its accomplishment.

For the most part "No Need To Be Downhearted" is a gorgeous record - big music full of small touches.

Thee More Shallows' pop fans might yearn for more mellifluous melodies - their hip hop heads for more doctored beats - but in this "Book Of Bad Breaks", they're clearly on the same page.

This is pretty fluffy stuff.

Everything here sounds familiar.

Ultimately, Grinderman is just a way for Cave to release more music.

Heartfelt, honest and compelling, "Cassadaga" is garnished with melodies so lush that Bright Eyes' ascent to the next level of recognition is absolutely assured.

There is a childishness about CocoRosie's sound, but rather than a tame tweeness, it's the dark perversity of a genuinely infantile imagination.

"Jarvis" is a collection of 13 individual songs, rather than an album with cohesive impact.

There's little not to love.

The need for rock'n'roll bands to declare war on clichés has been evident for ages. But who'd have thought a band in tight jeans and sunglasses would wind up leading the charge?

This lumpen, bloated, boring album is as much of a let-down as any of Timbaland's other "solo" works.

For a band that formed little over a year ago, the energy and intent of this record is thrilling and the music rarely fails their undoubtedly grand ambitions.

Tender and loving it might not be, but one of the albums of the year? Definitely.

The melodies feel functional at best, surprisingly charmless affairs that push all the right buttons with little passion or joy, while the lyrics are that depressing rock cliche: woe-is-me deliberations on the pressures of fame.

A supreme return to form.

Veirs here is at the peak of her game, and as refreshing as a lungful of oxygen.

The suspicion that Mika might have major talent under the plagiarism and cynicism is what makes "Life In Cartoon Motion" so remarkably unlovely.

Not sure what you'd file it under, but while that may worry some, for The Bees it's yet another triumph.

[A] strong contender for album of the year.

The problem is, there's simply too much record here.

If not a beginning to end classic album, it's full of potential classic tracks.

One of the most downcast albums of 2007.

Panda Bear has created one of the most unusual and beautifully strange statements of the avant-garde.

Depending on your temperament, this translates to either the Feelgood Band Of 2006 or a horrific saccharine overdose.

The problem is not that The Rakes haven't sought to evolve; it's that they've done so too self-consciously and slipped out of their depth.

There isn't a second's worth of music here that doesn't come mink-swathed in note-perfect retro sound, or a song that isn't worthy of it.

None of the songs on "Yours to Keep" lack a naggingly memorable chorus; none is remotely inaccessible; and none is less than excellently crafted.

Your record collection still only really needs a couple of Chk Chk Chk 12"s and that Out Hud album, but don't pass on the chance to see them live.

It is beautiful, uplifting stuff.

If "Neon Bible" doesn't quite dazzle as "Funeral" did, that's more a measure of the latter album's benchmark brilliance, rather than the inferiority of the former.

Indisputably one of the best projects Gruff Rhys has ever been involved with.

The problem lies in the fact that The Stooges have nothing left to say.

Intense, grown-up and pretty it may be, but this record does nothing to move the whole cathartic/cinematic genre a millimetre further than where it was a decade ago.

There's barely a dull moment on this album.

While "Dressed Up For The Letdown" is a classy, clever record, it is not one you can imagine yourself revisiting that often.

Anyone expecting "Revolver" or "Hunky Dory" will soon find their patience sorely tested, though those hoping for a modest collection of whimsical indie melodies, some Beatlesy orchestral flourishes and some cleverly off-kilter rhythms may find much to enjoy in these brief 11 songs.

The psychic bruising Okereke has sustained playing the East London fame game during the past 12 months has produced self-pitying lyrics that frequently state the bleeding obvious.

For now, it's way more than a stop-gap but sadly not the second coming you might have been hoping for.

An entirely satisfying sophomore effort.

Norah's most personal collection of songs to date.

Is it possible to have too many ideas? Quite possibly. Deerhoof is the sound of imagination overdrive.

While unlikely to ignite the zeitgeist as "Parklife" once did, "The Good, The Bad & The Queen" probably says just as much about Britain 13 years on.

"Wincing The Night Away" shows The Shins as fleet-footed and supremely confident, their slightly off-beat sensibility happily uncompromised by its (newly) gleaming production and overall panoramic bigness.

A great lost album in the making.

Nas's insight, erudition and poetic intensity override all other concerns.

If March's "Fishscale" was his "Highway '61 Revisited" or "Innervisions", "More Fish" is "John Wesley Harding" or "Fulfillingness' First Finale". It may lack something of the lustre, but it's still a gem from a master operating very much at the peak of his powers.

Track after track in an aimless blur of humming amps, pointless mucking about with effects, dreary jams propelled by meandering guitar interplay, and bleak, endless droning.

There is barely a note here that did not require a degree of bravery and chutzpah.

"The Evolution" is good but nowhere near dynamic or forward thinking enough to put Ciara on the A-List and fulfil her boundless ambition.

If they've kept the good stuff back in the hope of better times, the decision was misguided; but if this is the best they can manage, the portents are, in the original sense of the word, ill.

If you didn't like the casual misogyny, glorification of crack dealing and unapologetic thuggery of the debut then stop reading now, because "Hell Hath No Fury" makes it sound like "Meat Is Murder" by The Smiths.

This is far from being a bad album - Jay has never made one of those, nor given the impression he is capable of doing so - but it rarely rises to the levels he has consistently reached.

The most genuinely interesting addition to The Beatles' canon in years, it actually makes you want to dig out the originals and fall in love with the music all over again.

"Orphans" is that rarity of an album: one that will satisfy hardcore fans as well as the uninitiated.

"Tha Blue Carpet Treatment" is quite the mesmerising sonic experience.

"Songs For Christmas" is a(nother) labour of love, gently glowing with hope and humanity and is thus guaranteed to prize cynicism's barnacles from the heart of even the most dedicated Scrooge.

Pretty much a repeat of an earlier 1990 compilation.

In a bid to make a startling epic work, she's concentrated on the form and neglected the content.

"So Divided" sees …Trail Of Dead leaving their footprints in some intriguingly unlikely places. Whether the faithful choose to follow them or not, they deserve respect for that alone.

An album that will satisfy everyone who enjoyed his debut.

"9" picks up where the ubiquitous and two-million selling "O" left off. Hoarse howling to acoustic guitar strumming; folksy plucking to bleeding heart mutterings; Radiohead-a-like moments pull of portentous, look-at-me pauses and full band crescendos.

"The Pick Of Destiny" is likely to be among the finest cock rock albums about magical plectrums released this year.

This is an album rich in feminine delicacy and woodsy magic, but ultimately Campbell will remain far too fey for many.

She undoubtedly has a great record or two in her. This, sadly, isn't one of them.

It's not the best thing he's ever done, but it's up there with it.

Frequently staggering.

"The Black Parade" is a big, fat, obnoxious, difficult, overbaked concept record and it's all the more exciting for it.

Undoubtedly one of the year's strangest releases.

He's spitting distance from a brilliant concept album about love and suburbia, but he keeps pulling back.

It's when Diddy adopts the role he's really good at, the executive producer - bringing together and overseeing the real talent - for the closing stages, that "Press Play" moves from being another chaotic and bloated stab at a rap career to being something approaching a great album.

A short, sharp blast of snotty fun that suggests the party is not over yet.

Greater things may well be in the pipeline for The Kooks, but this is sadly lacking in anything to fall - or indeed remain - in love with.

He's turned his gaze back on himself and created a record that brilliantly summarises and even critiques his own past.

An album considerably richer than "Hot Fuss" and far more worthy of mainstream hugeness.

Not since Springsteen's "Greetings From Ashbury Park, NJ" has an album carved poetry so successfully from the dirty streets of America's greatest cities, or has a lyricist dealt so skilfully with the themes of addiction, failure and snatching redemption a split second before passing out.

The Dears stamp enough of their own personality to make this one of the best and most vital alternative US albums of 2006.

When you don't have the fun of playing spot-the-steal, all you're left with are wishy washy pastiches and a sense of growing fatigue.

Enchanting, celestially lovely and as effective at lifting you out of yourself for forty-five minutes as an early evening cruise in a space shuttle.

A record that surgically removes all trace of sensuality and replaces it with calculated, mechanical, by-numbers bump'n'grind action.

The Lemonheads 2006 may not be breaking any new creative ground, but they couldn't sound in ruder health.

And while at first it feels like an unholy, unhummable mess, the same solid gold charm which powered lead single "I Don't Feel Like Dancin'" to Number One, lurks at the heart of every track, and by listen five it's refocused "Ta-Dah" into a strangely enticing nether world, where it's forever 1974 and a cheap thrill or soaring pop high lurks round every corner.

While passages are lovely, the work as a whole struggles to hold the attention.

There just aren't enough ideas or songs to make up for the overwhelmingly mean perspective.

Contrary to the way he's been perceived, Shadow has never been anything other than passionate about hip hop, and "The Outsider" is his love letter to the genre, revelling in all its myriad excesses.

"Empire" has an almost childlike energy and determination that makes it feel strangely charming.

An album so engaging it is impossible to pick one best track.

Arguably up there with his greatest achievements to date, "The Letting Go" is business as usual for Oldham, but also a brand new start.