Just knowing Shakira is still in the world and capable of making albums as inspired and assured as "Fijacion Oral Vol 1" is like finding out ABBA are reforming or that the real Michael Jackson was kidnapped and replaced with an evil imposter shortly after making "Thriller".

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

Disappointingly, there's little here to startle the natives.

An intelligent step forward from a unique and prolific troubadour.

As musically competent and beautifully-produced as this record undeniably is, strip the vocals and you'd be hard-pushed to identify it as being an Oasis album or enjoy it accordingly.

"Everything Ecstatic" pulses with imagination and subtle talent, choosing to follow a sweet technicolour road rather than take a harder, and far well trodden path.

Ultimately fails to capture or update the magickal mysticism of the music it seeks to draw from.

Utterly unique and frequently wonderful.

Lazily accomplished without ever truly igniting, a classy update on a slightly dated hip-hop sound.

If anything, this 25-song double set sees Belle & Sebastian at their finest.

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.

Even if "Hypnotize" is simply more of the same, with SOAD operating at such astonishing creative and emotional heights, it'll still leave every other metal band on the planet scrabbling in the dust.

Unfortunately "Tourist" is derivative in only a one-dimensional sense: its imagination stopping where Wayne Coyne’s begins.

It is only when he tries to really rock-out that goldilocks falters a little.

Free from the trappings of hype this is simply a great album. Rock 'n' roll: just like they used to make.

"Make Believe" is classic Weezer, further refining the template of unthreatening heavy metal riffs... welded to smart lyrics, largely of satirical nature, and infectious melody.

Naïve, twee, lacking imagination and pointlessly derivative on one hand but - with summer on the horizon and given a forgiving mood – this is also sunny, carefree and great background music to waft over your BBQ.

With this majestic and multifarious new album, he has surely struck sonic gold once again.

The quintessential much-loved cult band, they’ve yet to make an album their fans didn’t adore, but the good news is that “Oceans Apart” is one of their finest.

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.

A 93 minute-long nervous breakdown that offers few concessions to the needs of the listener to be entertained.

A curiously unsatisfying odds'n'sods album.

It’s Manuva’s startling honesty which first impresses.

For the most part, "In Case We Die" tries so hard to be fun it is almost no fun at all.

Charmingly forgettable.

They’ve returned to the clamorous, powerchord-packed rock of their debut, with the inevitable result that it sounds fixed firmly by the formaldehyde of fashion in mid-90s post-grunge.

A confident and accomplished debut, and a pleasant, agreeable diversion.

Febrile, idiosyncratic, epic yet fun: "Open Season" may not raise eyebrows but it has – thank God - raised the hitherto pitifully low bar for British guitar rock.

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

One battering, no-big impression album.

The quality is unmistakable and confirmation enough that she deserves to be remembered as more than just Biggie’s widow.

"Guero" proves that the old, post-modern magic still works.

A darkly, slathering record of frustration and disillusionment, “Language. Sex. Violence. Other?" may, in time, even come to be seen as one of the true masterpieces of the noughties guitar revival.

If you’ve heard one song by The Bravery you’ve pretty much heard them all. The keyboard settings may change, as do the guitar FX pedals, but there’s a formula at work here and how much you get out of this record depends entirely on how interesting you find that formula.

“Arular”, as well as being a particularly great and brave album, could well be this year’s Portishead or Massive Attack.

What he doesn’t have, but desperately needs, is a little of bit of grit.

Many of the tracks (including "Positive Tension" and "This Modern Love") are so choppy and discontinuous as to give you the same nauseous feeling you get when you hear a Mars Volta record.

A very dull record.

For the most part, "Lullabies To Paralyze" keeps up the high musical standard set by its predecessors.

There’s just nothing new here, merely a rehashing of old ideas both musically and lyrically.

And if the production is not as sumptuous as a Furry’s album – although it’s by no means lo-fi – thematically it’s business as usual.

With “Human After All” the pair are running both on the spot and out of ideas. In making an album comprised of nothing but their stylistic tics – the over-used Vocoder/pitch bender, the monstrously compressed acid squelches, the crunchy, rock guitar motifs – Daft Punk are like a celebrity chef who serves up nothing but his signature dish. Soon, you’ll stop eating in his restaurant.

They develop, mutate, and swell in confidence until you’re faced with the last thing you expected - finally, a worthy successor to Blur.

Prepare to be beguiled.

“Meltdown” is a sturdy, well-written and (perpetually adolescent lyrics aside) mature addition to Ash’s enduring and near-essential canon – ample reward for ten years’ loyal support.

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.

It's too much risk-free computation and not enough wild emotion.

A stunningly bad record.

Whilst “Some Cities” has less radio-friendly singles than “The Last Broadcast”, it is perhaps a more cohesive piece of work.

An incredibly accomplished record, a true testament to the band’s imagination, intellectual curiosity and outrageous musical talent.... Unfortunately, “Frances The Mute” is also awful.

Focused, slick and likable as “Rebirth” undeniably is in places, the fact that the Limited Edition comes with a sample of Ms Lopez’s new “Miami Glow” fragrance, confirms, that it’s still just another shameless exercise in brand extension.

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

What remains... is a jerky, cocksure indie group striving to be accepted as a proper grown-up Southern Rock band, without the guts, depth or tunes to carry it off.

It is one thing to not take yourself to seriously but it is quite another to go to the other extreme. For all his knowing winks, Green walks the fine line between decadency and distaste.

Built on a repetitious platform of bass, drums and guitar, what starts off as a genuinely thrilling journey tends to conclude in a cul-de-sac.

If relationships were straightforward they’d be no need for albums like this. Thank god they aren’t.

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

Feeder are in danger of being a schizophrenic band, unrecognisable from their once “trademark” sound and prone to style swings on a whim.

It's not original or slyly crafted enough - a couple of songs could definitely have benefited from a quick edit from Damon - to feel truly classic, but it has a charm and a vibrancy that's impossible to resist.

A frequently astonishing album that combines bruising rock and limp-wristed flourish in almost equal measure.

The record that Bright Eyes fans have been praying for - carefully played, quietly honest, dripping with glorious poetry and painful insight, truly the work of utter genius.

Overall the duo have given us a much braver and stronger album than their last, but as far as anything truly revolutionary goes it’s merely a step in the right direction.

A work so consistently stirring, stately, and pop-aware it makes most recent guitar-based art-rock albums look tawdry.

Despite the wide range of musical styles used here, each one is absorbed into that unique Jellies sound, smoothed and polished almost beyond recognition into a sumptuous, unthreatening ambient groove with echoes of The Orb, Groove Armada and Zero 7.

Will’s work has seldom had a stronger sonic setting.

Importantly, while The Stands’ obvious musical loves cannot be faulted, it’s their own inimitable style that makes them more than just another retro outfit.

The overriding impression is that “The Documentary” could be the biggest fanboy album of all time... and that The Game, as much as he thinks he’s a player, is being played by others far more powerful than himself.

Ethical incontinence notwithstanding, Xzibit is an undeniably charismatic vocalist, with a gift for pure, jolting, testosterone-packed aggression that leads to some rather magnificent moments.

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

Like Pitt and Clooney’s sharp suits and nonchalant one-liners, it’s a deft balance of style and humour. And not since Quincy Jones’s score for 'The Italian Job' has it been executed with such precision.

Older rap fans will probably feel the album's subtler pulsings more, but anyone will be able to appreciate the raw talent required to keep such an epic and sprawling project buoyant, without resorting to boring braggadocio and bawdy bling.

Mostly this is U2 trying too hard, caring too much, being too insufferably genuine without having anything to be particularly genuine about.

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

It’s the way “With The Lights Out” fleshes out the plot that makes it so compelling.

The thing is, charisma and human warmth – or at least a plausible facsimile of them – are vital to the success of a ballad. And the bald fact is that Beyoncé and her handmaidens are utterly incapable of faking sentimentality.

What niggles is that many of the songs aren’t whole enough or, if we’re honest (and it’s hard because he’s just so darn loveable and charming), good enough for an album. Even superior compositions like “Art Teacher” suffer under this record’s careless construction.

[A] slick, silly and thoroughly entertaining album.

You’d believe this was a “Weird Al” Jankovic record had you tuned in halfway through.

At 68 minutes, "White People" outstays its welcome and the skits are lame at best... but there's still much to like here.

An often mediocre record, with a few peaks and an awful lot of troughs.

A fragrant bouquet of melody, light, love and naughtiness wrapped in an unfamiliar joie de vivre.

Compared to 'Psyence Fiction''s ruthlessly cut glass exterior, this is a rounded, more human record, considerably less calculated and therefore far more approachable.

It’s not Razorlight’s reflected experience that’s the problem, though, nor their clichéd rock‘n’roll romanticism - it’s the bewildering narrowness of their sonic vision.

It's just not ambitious enough, lacking the impact to draw new fans in while just about satisfying those already captivated by the band’s admirable class.

It’s not that "Welcome To The North" is a bad listen, but when you get to track six and you still seem to be stuck on track one, you get the feeling there must be more to ‘the music’ than this.

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

Underpinning the entire record is a delightful pop sensibility that holds this rag-bag of ideas together.

Awesomely anodyne, breathtakingly boring and crushingly clichéd, â??Astronautâ? singularly fails to take flight.

Troublingly short on tunes.

Crucially, if you stick with a formula, the least you can do is improve it. Unfortunately "Chuck" doesn’t and there’s nothing that’s even remotely equal to "Fat Lip" or "All Messed Up".

The paucity of innovative ideas, reliance on old recipes and directionless experimenting make for a fairly tasteless repaste.

Repeated plays just refuse to reveal hidden depths. There aren‘t any. “Around The Sun” is just a really poor album, probably the first one that this band has ever put out.

Reliably odd, then, but unexpectedly moving, too: the best Tom Waits album, all told, since 1992’s “Bone Machine”.

On paper it can seem a dark, depressing combination. But what Hope Of The States bring and what, in theory, they offer up for the lost and desperate to cling onto is... well, hope.

“Mind Body & Soul” goes a long way to answering many of the questions her debut left hanging in the air, and most of them with a resounding ‘Yes’.

Overall, it’s a suppler record than its older brother, largely avoiding the skittish tempos of "Turn On..." tracks like "Roland" in favour of elegant curves and harmonies... though the road-honed likes of "Slow Hands" and "Not Even Jail" still hit bruisingly hard.

This is a brilliant record, just as it's always been.

This is music that sounds like it was plotted by sad psychics graduates in lab coats. It's clean, melancholic and sterile (in a totally non-derogatory sense) - full of gently undulating rhythms and melodic pulses.