Happily so, as well, as any adherence to the backstory would ruin what's simply the best dumbass party album of the summer.

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.

With this eclectic, eccentric approach comes a lack of cohesion and quality control.

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.

Steele's self-conscious attempts to create a legend for himself only distract from what is actually a very good album.

So carefully paced is this record, weighed and measured for the correct balance of what's put in and what's taken away, that it never offers emotional triggers which bypass cerebral process.

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

The feeling persists that The Century Of Self marks an important moment for ...And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of Dead--one in which they began to weave together their diverging paths and one that, after all, should be hailed as a victory.

It's just not quite as great as some of us dared to hope.

Where the likes of [Gwen] Stefani and co manage to tie eclectic albums together with the strength of their personality, Fergie never actually comes close to showing what she really sounds like, leaving "The Dutchess" as an exceptionally random R&B mixtape.

Where she was once a gutsy folk-pop mature-student, tailor-made for the modern-day Radio 2, she now has the power and arrangements to begin approximating the diva she tried to sell us when collecting Brit Awards for her debut album mid-decade, punching the air for women in pop and attempting to align herself with Kate Bush.

While never as life-changing as these memories clearly were, Hurricane succeeds in its sheer force of conviction.

Indulgent though it may be, it's easily his best. And despite an unfeasibly craggy production job, the rambling arrangements and recurrent references to nature and the elemental give it the feel of a dusty, long lost prog-folk curio.

The monster-mash hokum can occasionally grate and Brown lacks El Wino's authoritative way with some of the more downtempo material, but there's plenty to suggest she will find a receptive audience for her passionate pop sound, overbearing quirks and all.

Favours The Song over ambient abstraction and real-time playing over rejigged samples.

This is a much more satisfying album than 'The Velvet Rope', even if most of the songs are overlong and a few juggle satin sheet-cliches with self-help ones to numbing effect.

Antidotes is frequently exhilarating, challenging but immediate, cryptic and catchy, calm then frantic, as intricate, itchy fret-webs are weaved around Afrobeat drums and far-out sonics.

While 'Make It Go Away (Radiation Song)' lacks the subtle lyrical twist (and a decent tune) of some of the other moments on Detours, it is a sober counterpoint to the image of Crow as all hair, tan and teeth. It also contrasts with the album's stand-out, 'Love Is All There Is,' which brings us back to more familiar Crow country on an album of big themes and surprising depth.

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

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.

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

50 Cent's skills are better suited to the nagging digi-loops of inevitable smash single 'In Da Club', the steel drum roll-out of 'P.I.M.P.' and '21 Questions' - perhaps the track most like something that you might have found Tupac or Biggie at work on in their prime.

Without question, for all its eclecticism, "For Screening Purposes Only" is a dumb, disposable record that no one will listen to in 12 months' time.

Ignore The Ignorant looks for escape into the US indie underground, "Last Year's Snow", "Cheat On Me" and "Nothing" sulkier than The Cribs we've come to know, reluctantly 'pop' dismissals rather than worried cures for a mainstream malaise The Cribs apparently regard as terminal.

What some see as derivative, unoriginal bollocks others view as honesty, craft and a lack of pretension.

No one was expecting Godrich to turn this noble British pop institution into Radiohead, of course. But the glimpses of greatness are enough to leave you wishing that bottle had prevailed and more in the vein of "Too Much Rain" had resulted.

Sounds surprisingly vital.

It is modest, lucid and tender.