Planet Of Ice is an oddly sour letdown, a high-quality album that suffers only from the reception and perception of its forefathers.

There’s nothing tacky or horrendous or artificial about It’s a Holiday Soul Party at all; it’s simply the sound of a band who understand all of these things, and have made a holiday soul party of an album in order to celebrate them.

Frustrating... We know that the Beta Band have one jaw-dropping album in them. 'Hot Shots' was nearly it, but certainly this is not.

While 25 25 is an uneasy listen at first, it's worth the perseverance even when giving up seems like the only plausible option.

Promise delivered, divided by expectations frenzied, multiplied by still-evident potential for future releases… equals a Pitchfork-style 8.6.

With Peanut Butter, Joanna Gruesome have raised the bar.

It is more fluid, more subtle; as such, it pulls you in gradually, irresistibly, its icy black under-current taking hold when you least expect it.

After the misfire of Living With The Living this is a content, relaxed record with nothing to prove. Ted Leo is a man un-fussily playing to his strengths.

Out Of Touch In The Wild feels like an album album, with the tracks naturally feeling their way to one another, but with enough stand out moments to show how far Dutch Uncles have progressed since they recorded that debut in Germany.

Me Moan is a remarkable record that takes a genre rooted in formulae and clichés--country--and spins it into something fresh, compelling and edgy. A stunning follow up.

The Gotobeds are as incendiary (and/or combustible) as ever.

Divorced from the accompanying visuals, the exercise proves less engaging overall. In context, however, it is legitimately hypnotic and soothing, as if Bob Ross was reincarnated with woodwork on the brain.

If you are willing to be patient it offers more surprises than you'd expect, flourishing on repeated plays.

Sleeker, stronger and more confident than ever, on Complete Surrender Slow Club flourish with each strum and every breath.

The Rapture have kept all the ingredients from their previous successes, but they have forgot to ignite the oven.

There aren't quite enough ideas here to sustain a 17-song LP, and despite being a not-unreasonable hour long, it's a struggle to listen through the final few tracks.

Ultimately, Peaches shows herself developing, late in her career, but unlikely to infiltrate the market she's targeted.

Classic Futureheads tracks are reimagined with quadratic complexity, with polyphonic rhythms weaving in and out of time, and piercingly tight multi-tracked vocals. On a technical level, it is brilliant... But let's face it – Rant isn't the sort of album you're going to listen to every day.

Carry On is a solid, if rarely remarkable work, showcasing an artist maturing at his own pace, and sounding content and comfortable in his form.

Thought Rock Fish Scale is one of the most enjoyable and insightful albums released this year so far.

A beautiful, touching collection of songs, and one which marks an important rite of passage in one man’s career, even if it doesn’t always feel like his best work.

North not only blurs the lines of genre, but it does so both effortlessly and convincingly. Darkstar took a risk in straying from a template that had already served them well, but nobody ever made a great record by playing it safe.

Overall, It's Alright Between Us As It Is is yet another solid entry into Lindstrøm's discography. It doesn't re-invent the wheel in terms of genre or what we expect of the Norwegian producer, but it just keeps things ticking along with exciting and unexpected flourishes at every turn.

Although the album shows impressive range - toggling back and forth between insidious ambient ('Dome Horizon') circuit-bending noise ('2T(fru)T') and a kind of stroboscopic speed-drone (the aforementioned 'chase sequences'), much of the textures and tech you could find in commision across the Captured Tracks and Wierd Records catalogues.

With Two Thousand and Ten Injuries Love Is All have created another master class in yearning, defiant, confused and lovelorn indie-pop, the sort of record you wish you had by your side when you were stuck re-heating cheeseburger puffs* for minimum wage in one of Essex’s premier petrol station.

All of Cass McCombs' deliberate ambiguities add up to a beguiling character worth shouting about, even if he's not willing to do it himself. Give this album a spin and join its gently strident fan base.

Heavyweight names add gloss and will no doubt result in dollar signs but Tesfaye is infinitely more interesting when lashing out largely alone.

With Sun Gangs it’s as if they've finished the whole cake and the house burst, bricks and mortar exploding through the sky like fireworks.

Despite Jello Biafra’s best intentions, White People And The Damage Done seems to settle for righteous belligerence while falling some way short of being a worth soundtrack for the anti-globalisation movement.

It’s as direct and aggressive as any of Halo’s floor-orientated material, and shows that, while she may turn more heads with more compositional, vocal-driven tracks, Hyperdub and Halo can move into new areas, one where syncopated drum lines break for vintage warehouse rhythms and the chill-out room has been invaded by pianists and a house DJ.

The back end of the record seems to lose everything that is so great about Luneworks and replace it with something even better: a discordant, throbbing pulse.

Wilson set out on a mission with this album – reinvent herself for the modern world, without her B-52s pedigree, by creating a totally new style for herself. And, by that standard, she’s largely succeeded.

It’s unsentimental and unfussy, as both Moffat and Dickens’ best stuff usually is, but still radiates a simple joy in celebrating a special time of the year.

On Face Tat, the chaos never stops: it's akin to a musical interpretation of all the theme park rides in the world, taken one after the other.

Kazuashita, then, is the barely audible sigh that follows when you crack open the vacuum-sealed bag that preserved GGD in that hiatus--everything’s there, but crisply folded and flat.

For the most part, it’s suitably overblown, cocksure and blunt, and still goes some way to capturing the genre's eternal, endearing refusal to grow up. For now, that's reason enough to celebrate their return.

None Shall Pass envelops the sounds of hip-hop’s spiritual home more than any album in his notable career.

Stars still occupy a unique position in the pantheon of the last 15 years of indie rock, but with every No One Is Lost that goes by, they look a little less likely to pull off another Set Yourself on Fire.

It won't win many points for originality--indeed they may lose a few old fans along the way - but this is the sound of a band reborn.

Diane’s strength lies in her assured voice and preternatural affinity for placing the perfect melody in the perfect place.

The Hamilton, Canada-based songstress has creamed together her best set yet. In Asking For Flowers, Edwards is uncompromising, but sombre.

It’s done brilliantly, with no frills, no ego, no sense of homage (just some damn fine influences), no fat, no bullshit, nothing bar hooks, energy and a certain air of ineffable sadness for good measure. Sometimes you need to believe a scene or movement will save your life. Other times, there’s nothing wrong being casually blown away by a record like The Soft Pack.

Prepare to bow down to the new Queen of Singing Sad Piano-Based Songs.

Although he makes Hello Skinny as unique-sounding as he can, Skinner also keeps it listenable, his hybrid sounds coming across as warm rather than overpowering.

So rather than the fanciful frippery it could so easily have been, The Moths Are Real is instead a fitting document of real life in all its mixed-up glory.

More considered than the debut, more quietly patient and yet somehow more addictive.

The album is brought to a close by the title track, a summary of sorts about what's gone on before that erupts in a monumental instrumental breakdown for its final two minutes as Big Box Of Chocolates closes its lid one last time. As kitchen sink dramas go, this is the perfect soundtrack.

The trio’s meandering avant-rap is somehow more encumbered by its lack of ideas than its lack of editorial savvy.

It’s definitely an accomplished one with plenty to recommend in its sonic traits.

Tracks like ‘My Step’, ‘Feather’ and ‘Blinking Pigs’ have that unique ability to transcend seasonal musical folly, there's nothing 'now' or 'then' about them - you can listen to them any time, anywhere, any weather and still be pretty pleased.

No Luscious Life exceedingly delivers on all the promise Golden Teacher have shown so far in their still relatively short careers and is perhaps the moment that breaks them through into a wider audience.

It is in this record’s opening salvo and in its closing stages that its aim, of reflecting the natural beauty of eastern England, where both Rogerson and Eno grew up, comes closest to being accomplished.

It’ll probably sound a lot better when it’s been beefed up and fleshed out live on stage, but on record this album does feel a little overshadowed by earlier moments of McBean’s career.

There’s nothing inherently bad about anything on Losing, but nothing’s going to stick around, either.

Bypassing traditional melodies and obvious aesthetics, Mystery Jets have arrived at an unusually original pop album of the most exuberant order.

If gentle psych-pop is very, very much your thing, you may fare better with Jonny, but otherwise the overriding impression the album will leave you with is that it would have made a really strong EP with some judicious pruning.

Unbalanced and ill-executed at times, Hvarf-Heim is a supplementary release.

At just over half an hour long Innundir Skinni is a modest little record compared to the self-indulgence of Joanna Newsom's latest or grandiose ambitions of countrymen like Sigur Ros, but its charms are plentiful and in her own humble, but distinct, way Olof Arnalds confounds expectations.

Trouble is--in more ways than one--a far more mature album than their debut, and it’s also a far better one.

The playing is astounding throughout, with Barnes and Trost turning a dizzying assemblage of strange instruments into a strikingly cohesive whole.

The result is a brilliant, imperfect record that affects you in ways Enter Shikari never have before and subverts what the entire band is all about. Anything from them would be ridiculous.

By the high standards of Mogwai’s soundtrack work--and therefore their work in general--it’s a bit tread watery. But it’s still bloody Mogwai, a band never less than magical.

Egypt Station is easily one of the most forward-thinking records of McCartney’s later career and a surprisingly welcome return. We might wish he could be more thoughtful and elegant in his older age, and maybe even a little bit cooler, but that wouldn’t make him Paul McCartney. Thankfully, he generally keeps his groan-worthy impulses to a minimum.

Genuinely, it’s the lyrics that are stopping Little Red from being properly brilliant.

It's an exceptionally accomplished piece of work that should place Matchbook Romance at the forefront of the cutting edge, POST-emo scene.

Future Politics is political, danceable, dark, shimmering and hopeful. Not a combination easily achievable, but Austra have never been a normal band. Utopia might be fiction, but Future Politics is real, beautiful, necessary.

You can hear the anxiety, claustrophobia and desperation pour from every fuzzy guitar, from every snarl. Yet it is also a remarkably upbeat sounding record, with infectious riffs, thumping drumbeats and an overall rich, joyous punk rock sound.

Rap paradise is paved with bad intentions and Key to the Kuffs disappoints by shying away from greatness where we've come to expect nothing less.

Musically, at least, Kings of Leon have matured during their two years on the road and, if you ignore some of the less than elegant lyrics, they have produced an acceptable second album.

In subduing and possibly internalising his animalistic anger and youthful vigour, the introspective search for his new identity is yet to bear any real musical fruit.

As an album to invest in, feel sentimental about, or be genuinely thrilled by, Ultraviolence falls short. Take it simply as a sumptuously-presented pop record, though, and you have to wonder if you’ll hear a better one this year.

For every full colour oil on canvas there are two doodles that fail to engage this sympathetic listener even after five or six plays.

Black Hours might be a tad scattershot, but it's held together with real spirit.

There isn’t a bad album in the Whigs / Twilight Singers / Gutter Twins back-catalogue but Do to the Beast manages to be at once more varied in style and more consistent in quality than any of its predecessors.

If you like Mogwai for the sounds they make, for their instrumental dynamic and ebbing/flowing moodiness, you'll probably like Mr Beast - there's certainly little to object to. But if you love Mogwai... perhaps Mr Beast isn't for you.

From the twin guitar salvos of Mark Goldsworthy and Liam Matthews through to Tom Kelly and Henry Ruddell's flawless rhythm section crowned by Mitchell's voice of reason, they're an unshakable and on this, their long-awaited first LP, an unstoppable force.

As a whole, 'Here Come The Tears' is a welcome collection of songs, even if the sentiment of it all does become a little saccharine-queasy after a while.

In Evening Air employs a clear formula where guitar and synth play off each other, where at points they're indistinguishable. It's this close partnership that gives the record an architected feel.

Is it Pulido? The absence of Smith? The third act crawl? In truth, all play a damaging part. Despite these irks, Antiphon is everything that it needs to be; a new beginning, loaded with promise. That's enough for now.

There’s a zip and kick to it, with big melodies (huge in the case of ‘Blk Stallion’) and clever turns of pace.

Shortwave Nights is a real enigma, and oddly addictive for it.

If you like your pop music intelligent, layered and tinged with drama, this is an album you can’t afford to ignore.

It works, if possibly only because Kevin Barnes is ridiculous enough to believe it works. And that is the genius of Of Montreal.

The most sophisicated, deliciously out of step pop album of 2004.

The Beatific Visions is one of the most enthralling, deceiving and delightful albums of recent times.

If you like your heart soaked in red wine, and your records to sigh and sway, come hither.

As the album ends with disco floor fillers by The Ramones and Blondie by way of Yeah Yeah Yeah’s and Franz Ferdinand respectively, you know you have had a fun if not entirely unforgettable experience.

Piramida is undoubtedly the band's most immediate work to date and it might be strange to be writing it, but nearly each and every track would work standing on its own.

The result is a more sober work than the group anticipated--sad, even (their words)--but an unexpectedly lovely one for being just so.

Having explordd hiphop's darker alleyways for years, Gutter Tactics is at once appealing and familiar, yet resists understanding more than anything that springs to mind... or rather, complicates and perhaps even undermines its message.

It’s Frightening is by no means a record which is without merit. I suspect that the production work of Spoon’s Britt Daniel has infused it with more presence than it might otherwise have had. However, that notwithstanding, the album’s lack of anything substantial to get your teeth into proves fatal.

From start to finish, the melodies are sweeter than sugar, the music bright and sparkling, with Rhys' charming falsetto resting on top.

For completists Obscurities is a must. For Magnetic Fields fans it's a worthwhile starting point for Stephin Merritt's other projects. For newcomers, start with 69 Love Songs and come back when you've fallen in love with everything else.

The two sides of the group, both new and old, combine gloriously in Summer, creating a pure pop climax some of the supposed greats of the genre would be proud of.

There’s genuine replay value here, even if the recording of it took about half as long as the convoluted fictional biography (complete with Photoshopped fake album covers) in the liner notes.

It's a very good effort, but ultimately it lacks the consistency of true greatness.

With Mines, Menomena have shown that they are a trio of reliably progressive, thoughtful musicians.

The result is a pleasant, occasionally beautiful, collection of singles that doesn't take itself as seriously as the buzz surrounding it (so you don't have to either).