Talk About Body is so ridiculously accessible musically, that audiences dancing along to MEN's absurdly addictive pop songs are likely to be blindsided if they ever listen carefully to the lyrics.

As a complete body of work, the album stumbles in very few places.

Guider is an intriguing, viscerally stirring study in contemporary post-punk that holds attention like a fox in a headlight beam.

It feels like there are more synthetic things of interest here. There are significantly less organic things--lyrics, sentiments, meaning--that will keep you coming back.

It is a record marked by a weary wonder at the departure of something huge from the world – Victorian invention and enterprise, the ages of steam and discovery, the impossible cruelty of empire, all fading into a half-remembered dream.

What Calvi's debut is a mixture of sprawling guitars that teeter somewhere between Tortoise's mathy noodlings, Deerhunter's brownish hue, Hendrix's fade outs and Howling Bells' shimmering grunge-gaze.

Suuns don't need to be a Queens of the Stone Age, but they have the potential to do more than just throw a cool clutch of songs together.

It's a scatterbrainedness that makes Girls endearing and frustrating at the same time, and it's pertinent to remember that Elvis Costello often sang about more than just girls. Still, it's hard to begrudge a band their niche when they do it so well.

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

Boldness, you realise, is not the same thing as greatness, and James Blake is not a great album. It has great moments, some of which hint at possible directions after the dust has settled around this release.

Whichever road they happen to tread next, it'll be worthwhile following in their footsteps.

As a body of work, Golden Worry is a fine representation of Thank You mk. II that allays any fears their fanbase may have had about the band seeking more commercial pastures with their new drummer.

Kudos doesn't so much follow on from the ragged density of songs like 'Mt. Kill' and 'Dickshakers Union' off their debut EP, but actually illustrates a band who've developed both a sound and identity all of their own in the process

Sure, there are those who might be after an In Ghost Colours part two who might be alienated by this album's evident ambition, but for most of us, this is going to be a serious upping of the game.

Despite this not quite equalling the dizzy heights of their earliest recordings, there's an adventurous slake in its dysfunctional make-up to suggest this won't be the last time we hear from its evasive creators.

As an entity it's perhaps best seen as the siesta to Landscapes' nocturnal astral tryst – lighter and less intensely psychedelic, but immensely enjoyable nonetheless.

If familiarity breeds contempt, regularity breeds complacency, and Deerhoof's prodigiously consistent output should not overshadow how precious they are.

It may not be a timeless classic - much like a lot of his immediately great yet throwaway peers - but for all Baldi's youthful exuberance, he's proven himself an honest and remarkably mature set of hands.

While the context may be different, Last Train to Paris suggests that, despite all the reality show-making, fashion designing, acting, inexplicable-name-changing, vodka-promoting, dressed-in-all-white-partying, skeet-shooting-with-Kevin-Spacey (probably) and all the other activities that make up a day in the life of Diddy, it's likely that he really does, and it shows.

Unlike Robbers and Cowards and Loyalty to Loyalty, the Kids have taken a completely different angle on their music writing, taking a similar road to that of Arcade Fire's The Suburbs by adding a slice of pop to their sound.

Bejar's reckless approach to romance is almost certainly one of those things you'd live to regret, but that's the appeal of great artistic endeavours: when the writer can pull in his audience so completely that we experience all the adventure while risking none of the consequences.

Potentially most interesting of all is the way parts of Red Barked Tree sound dated in a manner completely unrelated to how some of Wire's records haven't, y'know, aged that well.

It's a more than satisfactory return for a band whose live performances this past couple of years suggest they're here for the long haul rather than any financially induced pangs of sentiment or nostalgia, and if Content is anything to by, one suspects the Gang Of Four's creative tank is far from empty

If any criticism is to be levelled here, it would be that the album could so easily have been a double-disc effort, but this is a minor gripe on an otherwise flawless live document of a band striving for--and arguably achieving--greatness.

While the songs aren't exactly good per se, they're certainly not hateful. You'd dance to them. Maybe you'd have to be drunk. Maybe you'd have to be in Reflex. But you'd dance to them.

This is music to get lost in and lose yourself to at the same time. Strangely familiar, yet unique, in their own conservative way.

As a relative paradigm shift of an album, The King is Dead is a success, with The Decemberists managing to make their transition smoothly, creating a work that is well-structured, hook-driven and coherent.

Astro Coast is a welcome reminder of the youthful vigour and playfulness of early Pavement and Weezer, imbibing the Sixties rule-book of good pop without coming off as a bad pastiche.

Some will decry Valhalla Dancehall's essential familiarity, but on their fourth album proper British Sea Power are a band unique, complex and confident enough in their own right to remind us why we loved them in the first place whilst making modest refinements to their sound.

So far into his career this record might easily be overlooked, yet given the chance it's both a moving and rewarding listen.

The Thermals are in transition, sitting awkwardly between their lo-fi roots and a clear desire to do something grander. They seem stuck at a point where their skeleton is no longer fit for purpose.

As side projects go, this is one of those that will happily turn left rather than right when climbing onboard that transatlantic flight to you.

A Bureaucratic Desire For Extra-Capsular Extraction is yet more proof that Earth were, and indeed still are, vitally different to so much of what's come before them, after them and even surrounded them.

Although it may often be breathtakingly evocative, Ancestral Star is a record that many could admire, but few could truly love.

Until Coco can hit upon this kind of refinement of her influences in a more general sense, she seems destined to be known firstly for who her father is and only secondly for her own artistic achievements.

Middle Class Rut have crafted a solid release that, while unlikely to set the world on fire, nonetheless makes for an impressive debut.

Blurry Blue Mountain is another late career album that falls in the 'good enough to listen to, not quite hot enough to buy' category. The highlights will bolster their setlists, the rest will clog up your hard drive.

It doesn't have to be anything more than the two things it certainly is: a tribute to a longtime bandmate and friend, one in which he gets to take part in spite of departing the planet, and a collection of songs which at different points are clever, funny, fulsome and moving.

So if you want to thrash around your bedroom playing air guitar, pretending to be the rock star which you're never going to quite be, stick Steeple on and let the air guitar sessions begin.

What Shobaleader One does is strike a finer balance between the accessible and the surreal than pretty much all of Jenkinson's previous releases. It retains all the elements that are recognisably Squarepusher but manages to filter them through this newly polished lens and thrusts it into a new, invigorating stream of light.

If it hasn't already been made clear, there is a pretty constant, not to mention obvious, Eighties aesthetic permeating these eleven tracks. But it's been put together well enough that its never really overbearing or worse, a contrived mess.

Drawing Down The Moon marks a welcome return for Azure Ray, and makes for an oftentimes exquisite listening experience. It's just a shame that, when it comes to the songs themselves, much of the beauty is only skin deeP.

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.

Pink Friday wins merely on points, rather than the knockout punch it should have been.

There's no doubt Rivers is capable of astonishing creative output, supposedly at one time writing 384 songs in the space of three years. But, just because you can write a song every other day it doesn't mean that each one is worthy of being unleashed on the public.

Keep your sense of perspective and remember that The Promise really is an offcuts record, and you'll find it's a staggeringly good one.

Don't like it? Well Cee-Lo has two words for you.

It is heartening and not a little bittersweet to be reminded how Weezer once made sad, twisted, broken-sounding songs like these, and they made them work, and they made our CD player work, and they weren't a bit shit, and we loved them.

Whilst this is arguably down to her much-publicised intention to release as much material as possible over a short space of time, one cannot help but wonder whether - with a keen eye on quality control - the Body Talk trilogy could/should have been a truly groundbreaking single album.

He's had it rough (or as rough as can be for one with his level of talent and success anyway), but once again he's managed to take his adversity and turn it into perhaps the album of the year.

Danger Days is a record that too often passes by with a few cursory nods of the head and the odd prickle of emotion and swell of pride that is soon washed away by another ill-considered chorus repeat or bashful refusal to drive for the summit. It ambles, it slouches; it says little of consequence.

Tron: Legacy is a remarkable reminder of how electronic music can equal the emotional nuance and resonance of any ballad, torch song or symphonic pop track.

Perhaps the highest compliment you can pay the latest Faun Fables album is that neither its 'tuneful' or 'creepy' parts sound more naturally achieved than the other, and that they sound like they've sprung from the well of a woman with a unique creative – and literal – voice.

For a band still very much in its infancy, Sports is an astonishing body of work far beyond any kind of expectation you'd put at its creators' feet.

An Introduction to Elliott Smith constitutes a worthy glimpse and gateway into a discography that has enchanted so many over the years. There are 14 songs here; 14 finer you'll seldom hear.

It's a mixed bag all right. At times brilliant, at others unlike anyone else out there and occasionally frankly a bit rubbish.

If it's quality songwriting you're after, you've probably come to the wrong place this time, but what New Chain does offer is a 35-minute celebration of the spirituality of sound, bursting with life and soul, as thrilling as it is giddying.

Stereolab will always provide excitement, but in the past, part of that excitement came from a band having no idea of how they should sound, so that the result threw polemics and tangents together with an unmatched grace.

For the most part, Small Craft on a Milk Sea slots back into that forward thinking mindset, creating further realms of possibility for Eno to operate in.

Violens have achieved their sound and successfully executed their technique, but are still wanting for purpose.

Despite the Milberg-centric promo materials, The Concretes are clearly not just a solo star plus musicians, but the more singer-songerwiter-esque songs are the strongest here.

The Fool often sounds like it was assembled by a spectacularly talented committee, like the minutes of the recording sessions are probably filed away in a sterile LA duplex somewhere.

It's an album almost too personal, too suffocating, to match the transcendence of Portner's best work with Animal Collective; still, his vision of sad swampland, and its beautifully intricate and melancholy soundtrack, is haunting - the sound of someone confronting their demons and coming away stronger.

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.

Knoxville goes some way towards capturing the evident chemistry they found together, whilst also making it clear that we really need to catch them live to experience the full effect.

It may not be a great, or even particularly good album, but it does at least tide us over until Weezy become a free man, and the much talked about Tha Carter IV finally sees the light of day.

Compared to Ferndorf, and its staggering highpoint Freibad, it's far more introspective and thoughtful, and requires far more effort to become fully absorbed within. Which, surely, is no bad thing, but you occasionally long for a little whimsy back.

The reality is that it's more complicated than simply saying I preferred their early stuff, because all bands have to change. The fact is though, it's impossible to forget that Jimmy Eat World can, and have, done so much better.

There might be less going on than with the cut-and-paste stuff elsewhere, but ironically that makes these tracks seem like most fully formed moments here, the points of contrast which, as with all successful collages, make The Way Out work as a whole.

Celebrity guest star wobbles aside, Write About Love is a well crafted, very listenable album, one that sees Belle and Sebastian ditch the qualities of their music that were starting to cloy without totally jettisoning the old charm.

The fact of the matter is that Bryan Ferry has produced another album of inessential middle-of-the-road cosmopolitan adult-pop. The only difference is that this time they are his own songs.

Unfortunately, the hour-long main section of Jojo Burger Tempest is too hollow to be of much merit. The great variety of timbres on the album creates a psychedelic vibe, but the songs themselves are simply lacking in focus.

Ultimately, despite some innovation, United Nations of Sound cannot transcend the presence of its architect, who renders half the tracks fundamentally unlistenable with his horrible attempts to play gospel preacher or loverman.

Despite being an album that appears to be made up of such personal and reflective lyrical themes, the tunes themselves mostly rattle by in a flash with less regard for steady contemplation.

Comparisons or not, Rose exceeded the expectations that her EP drummed up and delivered a beautiful and tender, youthfully energetic album that crosses the line Rose herself has been toeing so carefully between indie and country.

Devoid of a true soul or sense of honesty Lights can be a pretty hollow listen. You could argue that away from the aforementioned hype-led anticipation that this album would surprise and charm; yet without the vested interest of big wigs and shareholders Lights might simply not be here.

Along with the deliciously slick 'My Enemy' and recent single 'We Can't Fly' they serve as an exasperating reminder of just how good this album might have been. Instead these tracks merely serve as Aeroplane's black-box, sole survivors pulled from the flaming wreckage.

Come Around Sundown is musical wallpaper for those who purchase such amenities from the likes of Tesco or Asda. It represents little more than a giant turd amidst a sea of mediocrity, several million of which will shortly be appearing in homes near you.

The Age of Adz is not an unqualified success; occasionally it does feel like a little too much, and until the dust has settled it is difficult to say where it will sit in his discography as a whole.

Familiar themes still surface, with the natural world continuing to loom large in Antony's conscience, but much of Swanlights is ambiguous and less easy to decipher.

For a band whose frequent line-up changes repeatedly threaten to leave them at an impasse, Post Electric Blues is a testament to Idlewild's stylistic and thematic consistency, while standing head and shoulders above the two albums which preceded it, if not quite equalling their career highs.

Whatever angle you examine it from, Lucky Shiner is an impressive statement, especially for a debut, and when Gold Panda lets the house beat sink into the background and experiments a little more with space and structure the results are gorgeous.

Although, Gough has always said that he finds music instantaneous and the lyrics the hardest part to write, It's What I'm Thinking showcases Gough at his most insightful to the human condition and himself.

It is laudable for Smith to try and eschew the eccentric frontman label in favour of something more cerebral. But in attempting to reach for the moon, he ends up merely stalled and snagged, dangling awkwardly from an unwieldy scaffold of clumsy platitude and hollow couplets.

Even if "Time To Dance" doesn't quite ignite the desire to boogie it--like the rest of Mixed Race--awakens something else you might not associate with Tricky: a burning interest to hear what he'll do next.

Shorn of Brownstein's intricate guitar playing, Weiss' wonderfully impatient drums and her USP: The Tool, The Voice, Tucker is operating at brave distance from her comfort zone. In doing so she's unveiled a whole lot of other things she's good at.

It's undeniable that for her self-titled third album, Marnie Stern has made some canny decisions. This time round, several of the tracks are built around huge, stomping riffs, with the speedier guitar lines mixed further back to create more space, without sacrificing that-which-is-Marnie.

Either way, while Abe Vigoda 2.0 are a group to be respected, I have a feeling, going forward, I'm going to spend a lot more time listening to Skeleton than I am to Crush.

Everything In Between is undoubtedly a step onward from its predecessors--it's more developed in every way, though admittedly lacks a little of the sheer raw bite that made Weirdo Rippers in particular so exhilarating.

While Deerhunter may not be a solo project--though a couple of the songs here were recorded solo--this band is the musical realm of Bradford Cox. And if he hasn't found the same amount of fame as Win Butler or even Avey Tare, then probably it's because the lethargically gorgeous world he has crafted isn't inclusive enough allow large numbers of people in.

Women write songs, but they tease us by keeping them hidden, interspersing the teeniest seconds of dazzling clarity with cool sounding sonic murk. And credit to returning producer Chan VanGaalen for whipping up an ambience as dense and seductive as that sepia blizzard on the front sleeve. His proteges are writing good songs, but it's not so much a production job as a sleight of hand trick--VanGaalan stops you from seeing Women's full workings.

Salem deal in fragments and ambiguities; their music is unmistakably dark, in all the senses above and more, and saps power from the tension they set up between reality and dream. But there's light and beauty there too.

It's not a completely successful experiment, but Le Noise is certainly an important moment in Neil Young's ongoing story.

Record Collection is an accomplished piece of work, but you have to wonder whether Ronson'd be able to achieve something of a similar magnitude and quality if he was left alone in a recording studio; no guests, no help, no connections.

An ultimately frustrating listen, not because of the quality of Ring per se, but because of the undoubted class of record it could have been if only it were a little more thought through. Still, there's certainly enough potential to justify Glasser's rising reputation as a worthy heir to a certain Icelandic lady's throne.

It remains to be seen whether A Swedish Love Story marks the beginning of a new era in Owen Pallett's career. What it is for certain, however, is a small glimpse of the extraordinary range of songs he is capable of writing.

History of Modern is a record for the die-hard OMD fans only and those who have followed them throughout their career up to their last record 14 years ago might enjoy acquainting themselves with new, but familiar sounds.

Maximum Balloon really about a great producer/songwriter exhibiting his considerable talents free from the pressure and expectation of his day job.