Alight Of Night is a garage-weaned, art rock, squat-dirty masterpiece.

There is much to enjoy on this consistently rewarding album; brazen, bonkers and really quite brilliant.

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

Perfect Symmetry is often an exhilarating and unexpected pop record from a band you'd have thought incapable of either, and there's something genuinely life-affirming about that.

It's a workmanlike and often wearisome ambition that proves the record's undoing, which leaves The Secret Machines V2.0 sounding less the stadium-psych messiahs and more like a trio of very naughty boys.

Combined with the slick, predominantly live band set-up here it makes for some dreadfully clunky moments.

If there are moments when the feted snap and snarl of yore amounts to little more than ramming generic blues licks down the audience's throat, they're tempered with moments of discovery like the lysergic 'To Be Where There's Life' and 'Falling Down' which displays an uncharacteristic lightness of touch.

As ever, Wagner's narratives, such as on 'National Talk Like A Pirate Day,' are impressionistic, shifting time and perspectives, like the Norman Raeburn-influenced Dylan of 'Blood On The Tracks.'

Offend Maggie revels in that tease between balls-out western rock and Matsuzaki's playful but resolutely coy vocal patterns.

Overlong and oversexed, Futuristically Speaking... stumbles where you will it to stride; something surprisingly staid and mediocre from extraordinary circumstances.

This Is It... is an incredible leap forward as a result. She was already good. Now she's awesome.

Whether forsaken or not, Fucked Up certainly do a fine job of making the political sound personal--a victory in itself when taken with a sonic ferocity so broad in its range and wide in scope.

Ultimately, it's not that XX Teens throw everything including the kitchen sink at it, but rather that they drink everything under the sink and wait to see what happens. Welcome To Good Island is that kind of experience.

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

He's got an exceptionally stylish and more importantly, sellable album to back it up.

The album's sole significant guest, Nick Cave, emerges on the stalking 'Just Like A King,' but elsewhere there's sadly no real sign of the poetic edge that he or the pick of the earlier troubadours can produce.

These 10 songs evolve unhurriedly and, as with all Mogwai's best moments, like time-lapse photography from the heart of a dark storm.

Only by The Night will undoubtedly sell bucketloads but there's no escaping the fact that creatively, Kings Of Leon have stalled.

TV On The Radio sound wise beyond their years, youthful stars whose mouthpiece contorts itself into funk shapes and whups without sounding like an out-of-depth chancer.

Cold War Kids are perhaps the only band out there ambitious enough to tackle head-on the contradictions and heartaches of America, past and present, and to do so with this passion and intelligence.

Given the fact there are 25 tracks and a platoon of songwriters spread over Doll Domination's various bonus discs, it's not surprising that it occasionally succeeds, and there are hit singles to be found here.

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

What will draw fans old and new to this record, however, is the melancholia of Tindersticks frontman Stuart Staples' vocals, which become especially poignant on the forlorn 'Other Side Of The World.'

Perhaps it's just that the rest of the songs aren't up to scratch, but this album is a simple case of diminishing returns--what appeared carefree and sparkly-eyed to begin with feels more and more calculated as you go on, what first seemed endearing ends up feeling a little irritating.

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.

It's Shaffer's writing, rather than Ne-Yo's singing (and the distinction between the personas is one he's made himself), which elevates this collection beyond those of his peers.

Airplay or not, however, he's also sounding seriously dated.

Overall you're left with the aural equivalent of an unexpectedly comfy bed in a cheap hotel--relaxing, welcoming, unexpectedly pleasant, but eminently forgettable.