When he's left to his own devices, he appears to be on firing form, creating music that sits happily between the frenzied aggro mantras of his darkest days and the beautifully evocative wonder of his debut.

Woomble’s lyrics, while literate, are never quite as clever as his supporters would like to believe.

Song after song, this is hardly an album that boasts of its riches but, in a determinedly low-key fashion, the music asserts itself in honest textures captured in naked performance.

Far from Noah & The Whale lagging behind their popular folk peers, with Last Night On Earth the band are finally punching above their weight to create a sound that's altogether new and wholly theirs.

As with previous LPs, “The Secret Migration” works as a set-piece but, with the strings kept on a tighter leash and the production less fulsome, it’s easier to notice the details.

She might be mouthy, trendy, shallow and opinionated without having all of the facts, but MIA creates terrific pop moments.

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.

Does it offer us an exclusive window into Slash's soul? No. Is it a neat CV and a sneaky way of auditioning the next Velvet Revolver singer? Probably. Like any other mixtape from a friend, listen to it in the car, then stick it in the cupboard under the stairs with the others.

Minor gripes aside, My Way is far better than anyone could have expected from a singer whose reputation is still judged by his musical contribution from 20 years ago.

It's warm, analogue production bolstered by Madlib, ?uestlove and the inevitable J Dilla exhumation that makes it a summer smash in waiting, not least on 'Umm Hmm''s exhortation to let your feelings show.

Cannibalising a musical canvas splattered with decades of paint, little here is truly original and the quality veers throughout, as is inevitable from the recordings of one - albeit artistically ferocious - city.

Out of these two good albums, a great single album is fighting to break out. [combined review of both discs]

A bit of judicious pruning to remove the filler tracks would have resulted in a cohesive, dynamic album that would have easily been their best release to date.

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

"The Others" is no masterpiece, but it offers up a warm, beating heart where its rivals offer cold, cynical eyes.

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

Where her former act just made sneering grunty fight-punk, Spinnerette have proper tunes, proper lyrics and proper choruses. Marriage to two proven master songwriters has probably helped. But whatever, it's a positive move.

A fine collection of songs from an immensely talented, tragically lost soul.

While great songs is something “Waiting For The Sirens’ Call” obviously lacks, it’s still a cracking New Order album - albeit one performed by a group all pushing 50 and mostly written about Bernard Sumner’s yacht.

At 70 minutes, it could've done with a pruning.

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

Sweet, vibrant and sunny songs with just as much invention and passion as 2000's buzz-building early EPs.

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

Hearing him coast is still better than listening to most rappers trying; but the Jay-Z of today sounds like someone for whom making music is an enjoyable hobby, not a burning need.

Although Bombay Bicycle Club can't quite hold a torch to the all-conquering returning Maccabees, they're an armful short of effortless anthems for that, but they prove themselves worthy of operating in their shadow.

The sound that [Price] has created for "Confessions On A Dancefloor" is simultaneously stylish, fun, hip and camp; all things a Madonna record should be.

Danger Mouse hasn't commandeered his charges' muse and forced The Black Keys to change, simply encouraged them to co-operate and collaborate for the first time. Clearly, company becomes them.

Overall, aside from the crummy rock-out of 'What If', 'Aaliyah' is accomplished fluid soul, with nothing too jagged or startling to spoil the polished veneer.

"The Back Room" is, principally, a triumph.

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.

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.

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.

If Lungs fails to make as much impact as those other debuts, it may be because Welch puts a little too much emphasis on singer and not enough on songwriter.

It gradually reveals itself as a lithe and texturally consummate work.

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

'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.

It is certainly Dizzee's least consistent record to date.

Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon is a feel good record for what's left of this 'summer' and even though it's packed with second hand magic and joy, such charms probably won't wear past the depths of winter, unless you truly are a hippy at heart.

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.

Weird enough but familiar enough to spook the status quo without blowing it out of the water, they will, hopefully, continue to make music for a very long time.

Beats-wise, 'La Bella Mafia' is easily the strongest thing she's done, and it seems like Kim has raised her rapping game to match the strength of the music.

So, a grown-up EODM album, hardly serious, but certainly more complete than the half-cooked sketches that used to pass for their songs.

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

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.

Neither a triumph nor a calamity, EUPHORIC HEARTBREAK delivers just enough to make you believe Glasvegas may still have that perfect album in them some day.

Mosshart still sounds like PJ Harvey’s brattish American sister, Hince still retains the ability to craft tunes from nothing and blurred sepia images of the two of them abound. But somehow, despite all the achingly hip self-mythology, The Kills are still capable of mustering up convincingly great rock'n'roll.

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

It's their confident leaning on heritage-metal in particular that sets Bullet For My Valentine apart from local contemporaries Funeral For A Friend and Lost Prophets, but it's also that strength that holds them back.

After coming out fighting last time round off the back of a messy, violent break-up with ex-boyfriend Chris Brown, it's nice to hear Rihanna getting back to something approaching normality on Loud.

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.

It's still very much a Mariah album--and a very slick and stylish one--with all the sweetness and swagger that entails.

It's surely a compliment to suggest that someone as abundantly gifted as she is can do better than this enjoyable, occasionally brilliant but disappointingly generic record.

As much as Nelly likes to portray himself as everybody’s favourite fun-filled club star, “Suit” suggests that writing thoughtful, intelligent and enduring R&B is where his heart really lies.

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.

Lighter, brighter and yes, more colourful than its predecessor.

"The Looks" throws up more sure-fire dance starters than anything [we've] heard in a while.

It's certainly not Joy Division, but there's a bittersweet, melancholy and intelligent edge here that's worth investigating.

"Making Dens" is an immensely graceful, charming record that does a flawless job of capturing the air of good-natured abandon that defines the Jets' live shows.

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

While Lasers isn't the equal of its superb predecessors, there's still much here to admire; even though the fact that there isn't quite as much to love is no real surprise.

There's simply not enough killer songs here to snare you in the same way that, say, The Rakes did on their debut.

On closer inspection, it's clear Cyrus is hell-bent on stepping out of that pop princess territory--but only just.

Dos offers proof that, while less may indeed be more, Wooden Shjips give you more of less.

There's little not to love.

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.

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

While not much of a departure from the honed formula of 'White Ladder', much of 'A New Day At Midnight' opts to pare down that winning mix of gentle dance beats and piano even further, leaving Gray's gorgeous gutsy vocal to do more of the talking on his melancholy tales of love and loss.

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.

Recent devotees may be left wondering why there's nothing for them to sing-along to.

As a celebration of the b-side, this is such a charming set, despite its inconsistency.

Undoubtedly one of the year's strangest releases.

Little Death may well resemble stolen kisses behind the bike shed rather than an evening of prolonged love making with the object of your desire, but that is still preferable to a night in with just a box of Kleenex for company.

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

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

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.

A dignified and engaging record.

We've been waiting over two years for a follow-up, and in that context, "Get Behind Me Satan" is disappointing.

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

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

Their best album yet.

"Damaged" is as nuanced, temperate and contemplative as its predecessor.

Not content with making a diverse, punchy record brimming with those trademark riffs, Homme has written lyrics that make you think.

'Riot Act' may be neither 'the-best-album-since' nor 'a-brilliant-return-to-form', but neither is it more-of-the-same-but-less-so.

Souljaboytellem.com is hardly a revelation. Its strength though is its simplicity.

Yet another endearingly eccentric document: one that will largely support his growing reputation as a talented, contrary, and mischievously erratic artiste.

While the die-hard These New Puritan fan might be annoyed that six of these tracks have been released before, there's enough to make it abundantly clear here is a band with a brilliant sense of invention.

Bon Jovi are at their best when delivering the country-tinged ballads.

Sir Paul is largely on top form.

And so it goes for a tidy ten tracks, all topped by a voice of gently boiling caramel--a style that channels the best aural qualities of Terence Trent D'Arby and Ray LaMontagne while side-stepping their cloying overearnestness.

Amazingly, perhaps, this is a cogent, compact and really quite good record, one that mixes upbeat, perhaps slightly clinical R&B with uber-ballads and occasional snatches of what appears to be an attempt at intimacy.

A great straight-down-the-line rock 'n' roll album.

[His] most satisfying collection of material since 1993's "Wild Wood".

They lack, for example, the ribald ugliness of Suicide, another big influence--but they deserve acclaim for sculpting the work of so many doomy forebears into something that, in their field, has rare pop purpose.

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.

It is a rarity: a proper album, from a proper pop star.

Despite some great tunes, his high-pitched, duck-on-helium vocals start wearing thin, becoming the detraction, rather than the attraction, of this album. Had it been 15 minutes shorter, The Lady Killer could have been this year's top pop album.

Broken hearts litter pop music of course, but the way this 24-year-old almost welcomes desolation into her life is nothing if not fascinating.

Like a new friend who turns out to be a bit of a bore when you let them dominate the conversation, repeat listenings reveal an album bravely attempting to be a monumental statement on the state of life and love but falls short.