It's genuinely sad to note that "Everything's The Rush" sounds a little too much like hard work.

He may not possess the eloquence or understated flair of a (Neil) Hannon or a (Richard) Hawley, a fact highlighted as the cheesy horn arrangement of 'Run With The Boys' sends things all a bit too Phil Collins, but most songs here play host to a charming menagerie of ideas and perhaps prove that the band dynamic he's lusted after to this point was the one thing holding him back.

There are a batch of mighty tunes here, and a sound that, while hardly de rigour, melds some of rock's freshest, brightest lights to their own street-wise, archetypal city swagger and 'Mockney' wit.

Amid such hi-octane dancefloor tracks such as this, current single 'Ready For The Floor' is, in context, pedestrian--its uncomfortable resemblance to Russ Abbot's 'Atmosphere' becoming more apparent with every listen.

A return to quieter, more familiar Eels territory.

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.

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

In a time where we could have fairly expected another state-of-the-world sermon, Dylan's thankfully stopped the overdone end-is-nigh bell-ringing that's characterised his late-period, allowing the ghosts of romances past and present to permeate Together Through Life.

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 being five tracks too long--specifically the five tracks which have him falling back to his syrupy ways of old Graffiti is hands down the highest point of Chris Brown's career.

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.

Lopez' voice frequently sounds a trifle thin accompanied by the sort of sounds that we're better used to hearing behind a Creative Source or Gwen McRae vocal but the honeyed backing massages any real concerns from your mind.

Eventually you’re left longing for a dash of spontaneity or that the band would break into something adventurous.

Imagine an album programmed by a focus group of John Peel fanatics.

This time it's the cover of '(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction' that grabs the headlines. The surprisingly credible version limbers into life with Britney chatting away to her pals on the phone.

"Fundamental" is the sound of the Pet Shop Boys reborn, and mindful of the important role they fill in the pop family.

Lopping off about twenty minutes would have improved things no end, but mostly it needs focus - focus that would probably have come with time.

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

Its eclecticism does make for disjointed listening though, which almost distracts from their songwriting skills. But ultimately it's all so assuredly done that The Zutons make it almost impossible to not be swept along for the ride.

Establishes him not only as a master of the fast and fluid flow, but an insightful, frequently humorous - if somewhat socio- politically naïve - lyricist.

For some, the absence of human warmth may prove the album's ultimate flaw. Still, until there are humans out there making music like this robot, we'll settle for it.

"Puzzles Like You" may not stay the distance but there's certainly enough here to gain Mojave 3 the wider audience they deserve.

For the most part, it sounds like the most joyous exploration of death and madness since, perhaps, "They're Coming To Take Me Away Ha-Haaa!"

It shows that respecting your roots needn't result in stagnant, bookishly reverent music, and that learning your history can be a fine way of looking forward.

Finally, it seems the venerable Iggy has realised that his own brand of nasty, brutish, reductive rock'n'roll is superior to practically any nasty, brutish, reductive rock'n'roll that has tried to supersede it.

Any decent covers album should reveal its songs, not dress them up - but by Marshall's standards, Jukebox is an overly polite and frustratingly removed listening experience.

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.

Their dark yet energetic, garage pop - all needling, pivot-on-a-penny riffs, eruptive noise and high tensile dynamics - borrows from Buzzcocks, Pixies and Nirvana/Foo Fighters but, for all its tautness and intensity, there's little on Nine Black Alps' debut LP likely to change the world.