The Bachelor has more than a whiff of a histrionic West End musical confined to a primary school assembly hall which means it's 10 out of 10 for effort, but for execution...

She has already made pop interesting just as it was declining into irrelevance; now it's time for her to make it great again.

One battering, no-big impression album.

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

There's no getting away from the fact that the goofy guy who used to play drums for Nirvana just made a classic album.

Rockferry works as a very promising calling card.

However maudlin Noah & The Whale begin, then, there's a wonderful narrative here that sees them move from first-love blues, through resentment to healing and finally to acceptance.

In the long, twisted canon of break-up albums, Everett doesn't only miss the mark, but makes arguably the first serious misstep of his career.

"Amber"'s glow increases with each listen, but existing fans have just cause to feel forsaken.

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.

As an album it’s so random and erratic that it’s neither a brave step forward nor a disastrous wrong turn; just an entertaining detour while they workout where they’re actually going.

This is a strange, disturbing, unsettling, compelling album.

Can she master the bustle and colour of Latin pop as easily as she mastered sweaty electro? Tristemente, no. While never less than agreeable, Mi Plan is rarely more than that.

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.

A likeable fusion though it is, there's none of the innovation of the much groovier The XX, nor are there the soaring peaks and chilly troughs, bonkers FX or even the gauche emotion that propels most dance music.

Obviously nobody would pay attention to her smart lyrics if the music didn't compete, but, largely, it does.

It's one of the most exciting debuts by a young female pop artist in ages. If occasionally it veers a wee bit too much towards the cutesy-kooky.

Imagine "Hello Nasty" if it had entirely consisted of "Three MCs And One DJ" and you're close to understanding exactly how "To The 5 Boroughs" sounds.

[Dalle] may be the New Courtney Love, at times even the Punk PJ Harvey, but she also has a depth of emotion that was last displayed by Kurt Cobain.

There are few absolute duffers here: '3D' makes for a perfectly pleasant 50 minutes of slick and homogenised R&B. It's just that, from such a reputable firm - and at such an emotional and auspicious point in their career - it's impossible not to expect more.

The results are hit-and-miss.

At its best Ego Trippin' is intelligent, sly and full of the easy brilliance which put Snoop on the top of the pile in the first place. At its worst it makes thong-filled DVD "Snoop Dogg's Diary Of A Pimp" look like high art. He truly is his own worst enemy.

Aside from whatever awaits Rilo Kiley if they discover, like Courtney Love before them, that deliberately setting the dial to AOR doesn't guarantee success--is the seam of graceless contrivance. Not just musically--but lyrically.

A curious and confusing follow-up.

Creatively however, it's not moved forward from 'The Man Who' enough to convince those of us who were already getting bored with the setlist at Glastonbury last year.

Strong contender for party album of the year, anyone looking for their next fix of dancefloor heaven will say yes, yes, yes if this rehab is anything to go by.

Ultimately though, the credit for the triumph of Yes is Tennant & Lowe's. While Xenomania bring a confidence and focus, the big choruses and nagging melodies are present throughout.

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

Stuffed full of collaborations, the duo has created a multi layered, analogue driven, polished yet powerful long player.

Bloated over-produced soft rock.

Welcome to the hottest, coolest, best-dressed pop album of the year.

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.

This is dance music for dance music's sake.

Crucially, it seems their ability to write a magisterially moving song such as "NYC" or "Obstacle No 1", both from their debut, seems to have abandoned them. In fairness, sonically speaking, this is their best effort yet.

Jem’s deadpan tones sound like a slightly huskier, sluttier Beth Orton, and while nothing quite matches the beguiling "They"... she strikes the odd thimbleful of gold.

What truly counts here is persona and with E casting himself as dog in heat, eager to reach a scratch that he just can't itch, the end result is yet another facet to a continually engaging and truly unique artist.

Deeper and darker takes longer to charm, which is bad for singles, but should see the album's shelf life extend to long after Mika's novelty has worn off.

Hitting that formula and riding it has drained some of the passion out of this sound.

It might be a little too airbrushed, arch and meticulous for some, but it's brilliant all the same, and, in the tradition of all great second albums, it could prove to be Hard-Fi's defining moment.

Everything suggests they have a great album within them, but this isn't it.

A taut, economic album with emotional songs at its heart. Yep, we’re as surprised as you.

This is a pretty bog-standard Ash collection, nothing more, nothing less.

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

The aching sensitivity of many of these lonely acoustic compositions is balanced against an inventive backdrop of instrumentation.

For every misfire, the band hit their target twice.

What it all adds up to is an effective commercial album, littered with potential singles, taking few risks and adding little to hip hop culture.

YACHT don't aim to solve the puzzle of life; they just want you to know you're welcome to party round their house anytime you like.

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.

The main criticism of bands built on laptops is that they lack soul but while Telepathe's 'processes' may be intrinsically stylized, tracks like these and the thriving, exhilarating 'Devil's Trident' still carry moments of genuine romance, innocence and drama.

Underneath the goop, the recycled riffs wear thin and there is such lack of songwriting that, though they might get heavy, tracks also get dull quickly. But here's the rub: some of it's catchy and ridiculous enough to be enjoyable.

Bloated, culturally inconsequential and decidedly average, the net result is a band getting far too high on an over-inflated sense of self-importance to the deafening chimes of cash registers the world over.

Some of the songs here are forgettable in the extreme.

Few debuts are as intriguingly addictive, physically compelling or effortlessly hip as this.

Underpinned throughout by the kind of melancholic edge discovered on radio friendly ode to smack 'Under The Bridge', and punctuated by a spontaneous, back-to-basics feel, it's an album that sees the Chilis revitalised.

Mainstream, bleeding-heart balladry, tempered by slightly outre arrangements.

Last year's 'Bleeps Tune' proved conclusively that he could do drum & bass better than anyone else around, 'Solaris' proves that he has the nerve and range to go beyond it, continuing to source new sounds and create rewarding albums. The best, you feel however, is yet to come.

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

All in all, this a whimsical, unhurried and enchanting effort.

Sliced in half, Kelis' fourth album would be twice as good. As an EP it would be perfect. But in it's current incarnation, it's one to cherry pick from your favourite download store.

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.

All in all, 'Flowers' is simply too nice to be up there with the Bunnymen's finest work, but a worthy record, if only for the few great tracks you will find within.

It's a cruel world in which a Nelly sells more records than the Blastmaster KRS but what 'Nellyville' makes abundantly clear is that its creator won't be leaving a fraction of his foe's proud mark on hip-hop once the dust settles on the frantic promotion of this record.

OK, so it’s not Norah Jones dinner party territory and there’s enough torturous mayhem to gratify their faithful ‘maggots’ but there’s equally a contrived nature underlying the habitual havoc.

Computers & Blues doesn't match up to The Streets' visionary early promise, and there are a few songs which sound sketchy and half-hearted. But when it works, it's a reminder of what a tender, articulate and original voice Skinner has been in British pop, and how sorely he will be missed.

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.

Underpinning all these is a formidable talent for beats and synths most audible on glacial instrumental '10,000 Horses Can't Be Wrong.' It's this that makes Temporary Pleasure so strong and tightly knit and it's the reason it has enough minor-key disco stomps to keep us dancing all through autumn.

A quirky lo-fi wonder or the best album the '70s never had, "The Garden" feels like a lost gem, discovered in a box in the attic; a forgotten masterpiece full of tantalising sounds, odd voices and tingling ideas.

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

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

Little more than comic book soundbites, wilting in the jagged, feverish shadow of their illustrious forefathers.

A real step forward - a challenging and melodic record.

Next time, she needs to dump the tired wild-girl shtick, unleash her lung-power and the world will fall at her feet. For now, this is just another album of production-line US pop.

It is not the Foo's finest moment, but for all its flaws and flab, this meandering record may just become one we all learn to love.

A return to core principles, which has produced a handful of pretty love songs and a solid overall, Memoirs Of An Imperfect Angel certainly isn't the disaster we were promised, but then nor is it a triumph.

"Howl" burns with just as much commitment and fervour [as the previous two albums]; it simply burns slower.

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

Evidently it's his source material that defines him, and this time it's disappointingly weak.

Had they imploded in some bizarre gardening accident following the release of 'Danger! High Voltage' all would be forgiven. That single still sounds classic and retains the power to get Aunt Peggy off her seat at the wedding reception..... However, the rest appears to be have been cobbled together in a matter of hours.

Like their debut, 'Start Something' is ultimately too long but where it occasionally flags the pace is soon picked up again.

'Demolition' may be a rare example of purely commercial dictates - namely, what was doubtless a label decision to downsize from a threatened four-CD boxed set - improving the art in question.

Even the lesser efforts are superior to typical chart fare.

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

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

[It] firmly places her at the cutting edge of modern pop.

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

So far so daft but what prevents Gerard Way and co from descending into the po-faced seriousness that blighted Green Day and their preposterous "21st Century Breakdown" album is a sense of fun that has eluded the SoCal punks in their latter years.

It would be crazy to suggest that Roots And Echoes is anything less than consistently fine, but from a band whose initial forays promised so much 'fine' doesn't quite cut it.

It’s both an oddly comforting and exhilarating trip.

While the sound is distinctly Crowded House, it’s darker than previous offerings.

Like on James Blake's album, every swoon is accentuated with the help of a computer and at times just sounds like someone crying and using Auto-Tune at the same time.

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

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.

Despite the clichéd lyricism and patchy production in places, "Red Light District" contains enough strength and fun to remain an enjoyable and uplifting ride.

For reasons of quality, as well as the inevitable loss of the shock of the new, 'Fatherf*cker' isn't quite the album its predecessor, 'The Teaches Of Peaches', was.

There's nothing on this record that has any danger of keeping you from your beer. There are two gears: fast and slow, shoutalong and sobalong.

Smoke pulls off the neat trick of seeming weightless and disassociated but never slight, playful, yet neither inconsequential nor silly.

As a result of [Leithauser's] strangulated mewls and caterwauls, "A Hundred Miles Off" is at times very difficult to listen to indeed.

Rowland's big problem is that she has the lungs but not the voice, at least not if we take that to mean something distinctively her own.