These words have lost none of their clout and, in fact, Tom's reworking of the sounds that surround them only serve to underscore just how powerful they can be.

That word, confidence, is one that can be applied to much of the record. For many other bands, it can be hard to pull off accessibility with credibility. Of course, that credibility could falsely come from their community more than anything, but this case is not that simple. There are real take you aback moments on this album that are based on plain pop sensibility above anything else.

It's consistent and enjoyable, showcasing some nice new ideas while continuing to pull off the same tricks that Flying Lotus has been using to make a name for himself 2010.

Frankie Rose and the Outs grants her the right to carry on doing as she pleases. As Lady Gaga comes across as a glorious car crash with her incessant costume change homages, Frankie similarly deserves the right to chop and change between band and styles. For as she chews music up and spits it out, she makes a beautiful mess.

Tipping just over the 30-minute mark, Epic is a beautifully formed, sonically engaging work.

This isn't the best album John Legend or The Roots have made, but it's not going to go down as the black sheep of either canon.

There's a definite identity to the band on this third album, and its highest points are some of the highest of the band's career thus far, but to this listener, the band lack the kind of killer edge displayed by newer challengers to the retro-rock throne, such as San Francisco's Wooden Shjips. That said, if you like the influences clearly on display, there's little to fault, and plenty of fuzzy swagger to bask in.

For Wilderness Heart remains, ultimately, a collection of ten tracks of roughly equal length, each taking roughly one classic idea and pickling it in (admittedly, impeccably realised) production gloss and traditionalist technique.

If the other Killers allow it, Brandon Flowers has brought a few decent additions to their greatest hits set, but cull those three or four tracks and what remains is an occasionally interesting, sometimes unintentionally hilarious mess of a concept album that's about as tasteful as the city that inspired it.

Grinderman is a living, breathing beast, not a side project, but a tangible band capable of sparking off in different directions.

There is the potential for something more than a mildly decent album in Sleep Forever. It's the arrogant self-indulgence that really holds the album back from being what it could be.

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.

Sex With an X exceeds all of the expectations we didn't know we had.

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

Sure, there's no serious wheel re-invention taking place here, and only a sycophantic fool would suggest that. Nevertheless, Who We Touch can hold its head high, safe in the knowledge that its creators are by no means a spent force.

Rivers and his Weezer buddies are oddballs but finally they're our oddballs and Hurley more than makes up for sticking by their side through one of the rockiest relationships in recent indie rock history.

While each track sounds different to the one that preceded it, they all manage to fit together as a coherent whole. Barking is still a credible effort and a pleasant listen, but it is also unremarkable and, had it been released by artists whose fame didn't precede them, it probably would not have made any waves.

On the whole, Penny Sparkle won't fulfill everyone's expectations, but few can argue it represents another stage in Blonde Redhead's audacious quest for development, even after 17 years and eight albums of trying.

Album three in Chromeo's discography, it sees a return to the Eighties electro funk upon which they made their names, albeit stripped down slightly.

There is enough great music here to make Ivory Tower a worthwhile listen, but this soundtrack drifts in the void between the two extremes of his back catalogue.

Whereas other pop-punk bands revel in sheer stupidity, Superchunk conjure up a profound musical purpose and sense of wonderment from behind every goofy-eyed chorus and oversized hook line. It is bloody impressive to say the least.

There's a strong undercurrent of entrancing, psychedlic-pop to enjoy if you're prepared to listen hard enough. But if you're not into that sort of thing, if you're all about the tunes and the beats, it's still worth a go--I doubt it'll set your world on fire, though.

The Walkmen have done it slightly different this time, but I guarantee that after hearing this album, the brilliance of Lisbon will stay with you for the entire day, no matter what color the sky sitting above.

Skit I Alt is definitely something of a return to form, in its own relaxed way, and once the listener has spent a little time with it, every performance and section becomes that little bit more tantalising.

The album is no Robyn and it doesn't quite match Body Talk (Part 1) in terms of the sheer number of highs.

Interpol is quite possibly the record that the more rabid end of the band's fanbase would have wanted Antics to be; a consistently flowing album, the whole of which is exceedingly better than the sum of its parts.

Happiness promises the rough edges and absurdity of one era's pop, but for the most part gives the mum-friendliness of the next. Hurts would surely be better if they committed to one or the other.

Isla is nothing revolutionary. That's not to say that its originality is completely lost, but perhaps a touch more adventure and earnest into the mix would change the Portico Quartet's breeze into something much more powerful.

Some of these songs would spring to life if they were less restrained, and adding a tactful but solid rhythm could be one way to achieve this. As it stands, there is enough here only to convince listeners of Selway's emerging talent as a songwriter if he sticks at it.

This band has a ways to go: they can write more substantial, affecting music than this, their songcraft can indubitably be tightened up. But I think maybe it's Man Alive's sheer confidence that makes me feel alright about saying that: this is a band going places.

These layered, multi-directional numbers stand out rather than fit in. On either side are tunes a little too straightforward, big ideas a little too self-contained to really mesh in the way you want them to.

Hawk is the most energetic record yet from the pair, with several pointers towards the sound of the enduring record they may well have in them....That said, some old weaknesses remain.

Although largely interchangeable with its predecessors, Cloak and Cipher still sounds fresh enough to please Land of Talk loyalists, and engaging enough to showcase their appeal to new listeners as well.

All that really matters for the moment is that their debut album is an unqualified success, a concise and perfectly-presented collection of first-class pop music.

A useful entry point for newcomers, then, but there is just enough to make this a worthwhile purchase for long-time fans too.

If you've heard the singles, which you probably have, then you've heard the best Teenage Dream has to offer

Dead Confederate have possibly made the best record out of all their contemporaries this year, which surely beckons the question 'How much longer can they be ignored?' Time to pay attention methinks...

While the likelihood of Surfing The Void achieving the same levels of critical or commercial success that Myths Of The Near Future enjoyed is debatable, Klaxons' status as one of the most confounding entities in the UK's languid music scene is cemented.

He's capable of weaving such a compelling mix of avant garde, classical and pop music, but this time the artist's self-indulgence has got the better of him.

The resulting record is, given time to grow on you, really rather loveable. Like someone taking all of your favourite Eighties 12-inches, remastering them and making you your own extra special mixtape.

This album may be out of time, often boring, but is just too competent to lend itself to any fun.

Overall, Alive As You Are's sea change is perhaps just a little too severe to fully engage with in one sitting, and despite the band's insistence this record represents a significant step forward, its retrogressive veneer casts something of a bewildering shadow.

It's more than a return to form for SSLYBY--it's potentially their finest hour.

While sometimes The Final Frontier seems to mine the Maiden groove until the canary chirps its last, the better songs are an indication that they aren't yet trading solely on their reputation.

Musically, the song structures are as bog-standard as Britpop, the lyrics constantly teeter on the edge of nonsense, while the lack of any real change in style save for rotating the guy on vocals means the tracks continue to merge into one another even after a few listens.

With a soundtrack that captures the spirit of the comics with such fervency, conviction and discipline, Scott Pilgrim vs The World looks set to be a lot less dislikable than you might've hoped.

Kaleide is immediate and it rarely dulls, bar the slow start to "Anjelica Huston," before it bursts out into sparkling keyboards at the tail end.

h each subsequent listen, the readout dial wavers more wildly between the 5 and the 9 mark, never quite deciding on where it will come to fall. The enigma that is PVT, then.

In a nutshell, The Suburbs' two most important achievement are to a) be good and b) not be a rehash of its predecessors.

What Wavves has created here is a collection of gleaming pop gems, laced with self-hatred and a keen sense of rebellion.

It seems it will take a third record for it to be fully realised, meaning that 'promising' once again seems like the right word, but on Where The Messengers Meet the Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band do a good deal of delivering too.

Where Future Perfect knocked us right off our feet, Transit Transit doesn't seem to have the energy to even push us slightly to the left. We miss 2004's Autolux.

For those of us who hadn't got our hands on the earlier mixtapes or his remixes for the likes of Blackalicious and Rob Sonic, Weareallgoingtoburninhellmegamixxx3 is an opportunity to assess El-P as a beatmaker on his own merits.

By drawing from her vast catalogue of experiences, she finds the scope for an engaging range of musical tangents. Yet somehow, she has made an album which is not confused or disjointed.

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

While The Terror of Cosmic Loneliness is not a complete disaster, even the most loyal of fans will find it difficult to love. The end result sounds quickly thrown together and unusually bereft of ideas.

It's the simplest track on this album, built from ascending string motifs, plonks of piano, and a straightforward beat that offers welcome respite from Rossen's obvious obsession with dislocated rhythms.

Throughout Infra, Richter's skill lies in his ability to re-emphasise and reinterpret, to construct an instrumental dialogue and a kind of imagined narrative through repetition and subtle alteration.

The I Am Arrows project clearly has potential, but at 14 tracks, Sun Comes Up Again can feel like a trudge through the outback of mediocrity rather than an exciting exploration into new territory.

While being pleasant and listenable enough, Pink Graffiti simply doesn't do enough to set itself apart from the post-chill-glo-surf-wave-fi trend, which is ultimately its downfall.

As long as her music remains as bold, inventive and occasionally thrilling as it is here, long may that continue.

Often collaborative projects end up being an average of its participants, merging in the middle in a grey mulch. Dark Night of the Soul escapes all of that, Sparklehorse bringing the songwriting genius, and Danger Mouse the production, and the details - the watery sounds, the effects, the atmosphere.

Serotonin makes its intentions pretty clear – it is a pop record, it has themes, it knows where it wants to go, it knows what it wants to do. It does those things – it is melodic.

This album is grounded. Slightly lost and, sadly, all too findable.

Flaws is perfectly executed and well produced and if you inhale the album in short, sharp breaths, then you may just find the middle of the road a charming place to be, for a brief moment anyway.

Ultimately, an interesting album within its constraints rather than a hands-down triumph, but there were a lot of constraints.

The biggest crime here is that it sounds so dated-listening to Flesh Tone is a bit like watching a filmmaker failing to ape the innovation of The Matrix more than a decade after it was made.

It's a record which brilliantly lives up to and even exceeds all the hype, mystique and hyperbole that has surrounding it since it's inception, and it's essential for anyone with even a fleeting interest in rap music.

Acolyte certainly won't be 2010's most adventurous album, but it's not trying to be. Instead, it's almost certain to be one of the year's most immediate and assured records, particularly for a debut, boasting any number of potential hit singles.

Night Work is a pastiche of Scissors Sisters' former glories that sees the band desperately sewing together the leftover scraps of their idols in a vain attempt to recapture the pertinence of their debut.

Expo 86 is good, it's just not great. Wolf Parade, the 2010 model, are good, not great.

Ultimately Perch Patchwork has some good pieces that just don't combine to make a great album. It's hard to call a band that is just releasing its debut full length "overcooked," but that's exactly what some of these tracks sound like.

Sex Dreams and Denim Jeans really should have been released a couple of years ago when Uffie was at the height of her fame. She should have struck while the iron was hot. She’s missed the boat completely now.

As the title suggests, it's a record which marks a transition for The Roots but which, like the America it addresses, is still aware of the burden of the recent past.

Further is at times a thrilling listen and barely puts a foot wrong, yet at a time when electronic music is expanding so quickly, it doesn't shine as brightly as it might have a decade ago.

The album is a sprawling, confusing, self-indulgent mess. Nonetheless, there are real glimmers of brilliance here.

It defies the listener not to nod their head and tap a foot, layering foreboding piano, languid acoustic guitar and a swampy riff under semi-rapped verses and a chorus about being found at the bottom of a river, and demonstrates Mason embracing his albatross with the ease of a man only too pleased to have one.

It's not got the immediate clout of Antidotes; and it's not one to spin when prepping for a party (it's actually kind of a downer, apart from 'Miami', which kills). But if you work with it, something really ghostly happens.

Proclamations that only the music matters, not the units shifted, are liable to ring a little hollow. Nevertheless, there's a lot to like about Body Talk Pt. 1.

Even with that super high-gloss finish, it's hard to dispute the depth of songwriting talent throughout American Slang, and as a summer rock album, it's (quite literally) nigh on faultless.

Listening to Barbara is like watching the England football team; expectations are high at the outset and true to form, things get off to a rousing start. However, after the halfway mark normality sets in, there's an alarming sense of underachievement and long before its conclusion, you're dismissing them as hapless failures.

For those who have heretofore found Harcourt to be a little too melodramatic, this is likely the album that will have them reconsider his work. We all need a little romance, and so much the better when it's delivered with a bit of knowing quirk.

Not so much judgement on Oasis as a whole, but y'know, it's just not a fun best of. The second disc is 73 minutes long, contains only two tracks from the golden era, and after a while becomes not unakin to drowning in the colour beige.

The cover of the Isley Brothers, "Why When The Love Is Gone" after "Don't Make A Sound" seems like sloppily tagged on attempt to be shown that the group's influences are genuine. Otherwise, Release Me is a perfectly produced pop gem with all substance and a lot of style.

The music is dynamic, danceable and largely based around swelling arpeggios of stabbing synths, but it remains resolutely cold, major keys avoided.

Shadows illustrates the band's strong points - simple yet effective melodies coupled with sumptuous vocal harmonies courtesy of Blake, McGinley and Love while lyrically scaling a fine line between happy-go-lucky romanticism and solemn melancholy.

This is how the covers album should be done, with tight technique and loving affection blending together to give the new versions life and bite.

Whatever the case, for Christina Aguilera, the x-factor has gone. The daring single minded focus has apparently been lost.

Harpischord, bombast and multi-tracked vocals create an eerily outdated sound, setting Destroyer of the Void's stall as an overblown oddity.

This isn’t a few Eighties synth presets stuck through a distortion pedal--it’s music that resonates far beyond a simple aping of well established precedents, often managing to be funny, sad and thought provoking in the space of a single track.

The front-heavy momentum of Pigeons is enough to ensure that that the dreamy beauty of Here We Go Magic's debut has been fiercely preserved.

It means you can put on LP4 around any mixed group of people at a barbeque or house party this summer and people can simply enjoy the sensory pleasure of interesting, lively music without analysing the cultural baggage than comes with it. The King of Space-age Pop would surely be proud.

While that argument over the art of the singer-songwriter may be embedded in a lack of originality, Villagers have managed to craft an endearing record, glowing with a heart-warming level of nostalgia.

With Champ they have rekindled the catchiness and immediacy of their first offering.

Too often songs come across as a pastiche of the Atlanta group, with none of the splashes of colour, none of the real sense of building atmosphere.

More often than not, Peggy Sue derive passion from poignancy, taking their listeners on a journey that makes having a broken heart interesting again.

Overall, Wake Up The Nation isn't a bad record, but it can be a bovine test of endurance, at least if one is to devour all sixteen tracks in one sitting. Had the quality control officers had the guts to stand up to its creator in chief, this could have been an endearing re-affirmation.