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.