It’s certainly a digression from what they could easily have done, and that was something they, obviously, really needed and wanted to do. But it also feels like a regression from the promise and charm that they once exuded.

If Basement Jaxx want to hide their scars behind such easily enjoyable and well constructed pop music, then long may they continue.

Overall, there's a natural interplay between the players, and it lends the album a relaxed, easy-going vibe.

The intensity on Billy Talent III feels the same as the intensity of the band's live show, awkwardly forced and absolutely repellent.

Its their frivolous experimentalism and willingness to toy with all aspects of the past that make Girls such an invitingly warm and honest proposition

The music of Unmap ticks with signature twists and sounds, things that suggest Justin Vernon could be a national treasure on the lines of Neil Young or Elliott Smith instead of the heartbroken one hit wonder that some might have expected.

As a whole it's a musically and lyrically a beautiful reflection on the less than smooth course life can take. But it is not recommended listening if you’re going through a rough break-up or are feeling generally sad, unless weeping yourself senseless is your aim.

At only ten songs, it hasn’t the broadness of past, but it is possibly their most cohesive record. Consistency may rarely outrank greatness in order of virtues but if there’s an argument to be made, it’s perhaps found here.

Like a lot of great records, Masters Of The Burial is minimally arranged, slowly performed and quietly recorded; but there's never a spark here because Millan doesn't give enough of herself to it.

There are moments when the album loses its focus and blurs into extended jamming that doesn’t go anywhere particularly exciting, although Malone mostly manages to keep those tendencies in check.

For an outfit who've been heralded as the industry's great white hopes of 2009, The Big Pink undoubtedly have several moments of pure genius here, but ultimately, A Brief History Of Love lacks the consistency to elevate it from the status of a good debut album to that of a great one.

Don't get me wrong, this isn't an Emperor's New Clothes review, just an expression of concern: there aren't enough reasons for casual listeners to come back to this.

The musicians on the album--eight in total including Vic--seesaw between country, folk and indulgent Seventies rock, never reinventing wheels but generally giving the lyrical matter its appropriate platform.

Having set ridiculously high standards in the past both on record and in the flesh, Forget The Night Ahead hovers above the line marked average rather than the higher echelons of greatness its creators undoubtedly strove to achieve.

The opaque nature of Family makes it seem like a prime candidate for remixes with a touch more bite, but as it is, this is a record to fill those times when Panda Bear seems just a little too raucous.

In the hands of many other artists, White Lunar would be a career-high achievement. It’s testament to Cave and Ellis’ ongoing relevance that it can be released with relatively minimal fanfare--presumably with the knowledge that it’s merely the tip of a mighty, mighty iceberg.

Higher Than The Stars is a fitting way to end 2009 for one of the most exciting bands to emerge this year, and more importantly, hints that The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart may be capable of even greater things in 2010.

Tongue ‘N’ Cheek is a vacuous but fun party record, one that suspension of disbelief aids immeasurably.

Dark Young Hearts shines with talent, pop tunes with those secret corners you think were put there just for you to spot. Lyrical flaws aside, it's an indelible mark of grandeur on our decaying decade.

Backspacer is very much calculated to sound the way it sounds, and suggesting Pearl Jam have lost anything would be premature. Ultimately there’s no point fretting about the future when contemplating a record that’s so very much a celebration of the moment.

Overall, Journal For Plague Lovers is a strident comeback that would have been a worthy direct successor to "The Holy Bible" had circumstances been different.

For the moment they have tightened the experimental purse strings, offering a less rewarding batch of songs than they’re capable of creating.

As it stands it’s an indulgent and, at times, gorgeous listen that merely helps restate your concrete opinions about Muse.

It's Central Market, his second full solo release, that sees him coming of age in a manner that befits the familial myth.

Schizophrenic, surreal and fantastic--that’s Ashes Grammar.

ike all the tracks on 24/7, exercise in precision from the Icelanders, German style. Not Swiss. There is no neutrality here. Every loop and bassline employed on the album has an eye to a tension held just out of view.

The subtlety of musicianship on each track is quite brilliant.

It will not blow you away and, though well balanced, it's not a 'dipper' in that proceedings are constant and hand-picking the best selections does a disservice to the remainder, which complete a strong but not astounding record.

Two Dancers, then, doesn't so much follow up their debut as announce Wild Beasts as one of our genuinely special bands, one that can compete--in terms of both musical and lyrical ingenuity as well as sheer pop nous--with any US act you've seen talked up in the music press this year.

Popular Songs is as essential as anything Yo La Tengo have ever released, and perhaps even more so--an album that looks back at where they’ve been, smiles, and stares resolutely forward to what will come next.

"American Gangster" was the last time we saw the real Jay-Z--soulful, lyrically adept, his narrative streak reborn with a newfound alter ego--but here he is back to treading water.

It’s also not a record where you’re instantly gripped round the neck, it’s more a gradual clamping before nails start to dig deep into the skin.

When it's at its best, After Roberts harbours a brave sense of adventurism, a fearless experimentalism. And yes, it can sound like a million other things. But more often that not, it's just the glorious sound of nothing else.

That’s what this is, a record with definition and character, a pointed move away from the nerve-frying, oft random lurches of HEALTH.

It’s the often perfect synthesis between lyrical content and production on OB4CLII that makes the album simply sublime.

While the album concept may be flawed in execution this daring approach to composing and recording has resulted in an record which, regardless of its indulgences, is at least an intriguing listen and one which rewards patience with some moments of sublime ear candy.

The only thing is presence and the present. The modest conclusion to a modest and warm album, is that Eden might be closer than you think.

As an album, Poetry Of The Deed is a listenable, more than competent collection. The difficulty lies in it's lack of character.

Year in the Kingdom may not be a feast of eclecticism, but it is a lesson in the construction of compelling, stripped-down folk.

Treat Where Were You When It Happened? as the, in a very real sense, dry run for their shows. Their fun house is as much Pat Sharp as it is the Stooges, but it’s not without its merits.

If all that sounds like heavy going, a slightly bitter pill to swallow, fair warning, it is. But if you appreciate the effort that goes into crafting a record like this by giving it the repeated plays it needs, you're going to find a piece of work you'll come back to again and again.

In the hands of a different producer maybe the material assembled for When The Devil's Loose could step forward into something more Technicolor, as its faults are minor, but they are the faults which separate merely pleasant albums from great ones. As it is, When The Devil’s Loose is the former.

The Snake for the first time is a journey riddled with surprise--that almost nothing can be nailed down or predicted even after the seven-minutes-thirty of closer of 'My Heart' is pure 'lucky dip' stuff. Each time you dip in, you seem to come out with an even bigger handful of sweetness.

Humbug is a pretty good album that’s pleasingly incongruous amongst the pre-fab boredom of much modern Brit indie. It’s eminently not astounding but it is inventive, and likeably so.

Like Muse, Mew fly in the face of the zeitgeist, cultivating a devoted following all the while. It’s one that should be sated (and in an ideal world, expanded) no end by No More Stories.

It may only weigh in at seven tracks--one of which has already been released elsewhere, the remainder previously offered only as merch table CDRs--and a little over a quarter of an hour long, but Portland-spawned Blitzen Trapper’s Black River Killer is easily substantial enough to be mildly confusing at times.

The result is an awkward balance of personal exploration which they refuse to commit to, and a relentless chirpiness which is becoming increasingly unnatural.

With a greater use of the minor key, he's added flecks of sentiment to what is, predominantly, a very solid pop record. Just don't get bogged down in genre compartmentalisation.

With lyrics so accomplished, entertaining and labyrinthine as these to be matched with well-measured, anti-bravado beats and textural sensitivity it’s difficult not to see a bright future for Speech Debelle.

The production values on Watch Me Fall are hardly epic, but the guitars and keys slide out bright and clear, melodies unfettered by anything beyond crystal-pure hooks.

The milquetoast, wholegrain rock of My Old, Familiar Friend never really rises out of the mire to become anything other than a pleasant and forgettable toe-tapper.

It's just there was the expectation of more, and this has left me a bit cold.

Hospice is an album of white walls, long desolate passages, and sudden blitzkriegs of high emotional drama – it’s not always comforting, but the players are hyper-attentive to the nuances of each note and lyric.

There’s the same pent up aggression and wall of sound production, but Pissed Jeans have taken that blueprint and given it grunt and bite, via Korvette’s insurance-salesman-by day-everymanism and Bradley Fry’s knack for turning guitar sludge into genuine riffs.

At times hypnotic and otherworldly, it's a soothing, unsettling and challenging listen.

This is a terrifying, wise album.

Intuit is, unfortunately, probably not a high profile enough release to be mentioned in the end-of-year lists nearly as frequently as any of the aforementioned albums. But it’s easily the equal of any of those releases, in terms of its breadth of vision and depth of emotion, and it really establishing Knopf as a supremely talented and truly heartfelt songwriter.

Never before has a band name been more aptly descriptive of their music.

While there are fleeting moments of inspiration, Solo Electric Bass is a cavernous black hole that is mostly devoid of anything truly affecting.

Wolf's music has always held itself in reverence of a wild, untamed Mother Nature; and while The Bachelor is less organic and unfettered in its sonics than, say, the snap and crackle of Wind In The Wires, its message--to preserve all the things a broadband connection cannot provide for us--is clearer than ever.

Destination Tokyo is something of a departure from the group’s previous sound, insofar as it is pared back and produced with more of an eye for clarity.

Whether or not the band are more than just a gumbo of their influences is debatable, but in all honesty, OCD Go Go Go Girls is so damnably fun to listen to that you really couldn’t care.

Folk Songs probably won’t soundtrack a woman exhorting you through your flatscreen to buy yoghurt in the foreseeable, but it will be received with a deserved warmth by an established cluster of fans.

Yes, there’s technically more instrumental breadth in most episodes of Sesame Street, but this is a deeply, troublingly emotional record.

A generally rambunctious mid-fi indie electropop sitting at an odd remove from the band’s devotional cause.

Just as Interpol always seemed like a good imitation of a great rock band (no-one in particular, just A Great Rock Band, with all its slogans and hooks, and gestures and shapes), Julian Plenti does a fairly good imitation of a solo-artist showing his sensitive side.

A modest release, Tribute To will obviously be of most interest to My Morning Jacket and George Harrison admirers, but the quality of the covers deserves a wider audience.

This is one made like they used to make 'em--and it's utterly gorgeous to boot.

It’s a little too smooth in places, and also a little lacking in assurance, but just like my friend, it’s worth making the effort to get into this party.

Troubled, Shaken Etc. won't win any prizes for instant accessibility; if anything, it's a deftly-secured trove of deeply hidden treasures, that once discovered, will be hard to resist.

Gorgeous, exquisite... and no, definitely not a side-project.

The album showcases their massive creativity and playfulness and is a fitting testament to the power of pop music to move your heart and head as well as your feet.

There is no such contrast on this album, nor much of a sense for a distinctive or special musical moment.

He's crafted a whole album so stagnantly repetitive that one listen gives the illusion of having already been subjected to the same song again and again and again and again.

Don't you want to think? Don't you enjoy thinking? Or do you instead prefer listening to background whining? Are you happy to settle for this?

All in all though, Radio Wars is disappointingly average; pleasant but fairly forgettable, and in contrast to its misleading title, should really have been named Radio Friendly instead.

This is music aimed squarely for the naïve-at-heart, and the industrial knife-sharpeners are best waved elsewhere than at the entirely likeable Young. If these genteel Casio-noodlings are what the kids are going to be listening to in 2010, I predict a peaceful year for the rest of us.

A French Kiss In The Chaos is neither artistically interesting nor indeed very good.

The band have hardly been better than on that EP’s opening three song suite and that’s what is so frustrating about I’m Going Away; it’s not a bad album, but the band are capable of so much more; the title of the album is at least apt in that the Friedberger’s don’t sound like they are here for this record, it sounds like they already left and phoned this one in.

There’s a nocturnal ambience in places, a mythic sensibility throughout, but plenty of light in the dark.

If they cut out about half of the songs and focused more on the parts that sounded less like Sigur Ros, Riceboy Sleeps would be a much stronger record.

Although it falls a few steps shy of wowing unreservedly, The Knot remains a poised and compelling second album.

It is a record which drinks deeply from the well of the past but could only have been made today. Megafaun have cast off the weight of the canon and are spreading their wings.

He may be pushing boundaries and himself less urgently than before, but in doing so he’s made his most palatable and varied record to date.

They are not in tune with trends, or even an aesthetic, so much as something earthier...the seasons perhaps, because there’s no denying that Gorgeous Johnny has a latitude and a longitude... it’s the sound of a fading summer.

Its creators will surely insist that they’re proud of their work and that’s all the approval they need. All the same, it’d probably be nice for them if you could imagine anyone who didn’t already like The White Stripes and/or The Kills buying this.

Unfortunately, despite its improvements, the album still suffers from lackadaisical and unfocused songwriting. Sure, this record is quite a bit better than the one originally released, and kudos to the band for taking the time to prove their point.

Following a good few listens, Up From Below's ebb and flow is replaced with definite peaks and troughs, leaving such highlights dulled down.

While Broderick’s prescription is perfectly phrased for its purpose, as a stand-alone collection of music it has accompanying adverse side effects, i.e. it's not really a very enjoyable listen.

A glossy Sixties pop sheen hasn’t just been splattered wholesale over every track but instead nicely integrated resulting in a new and engaging, but hardly incongruous, Rumble Strips noise.

We have an album that displays a band with considerable potential, but which is disappointingly lacking in imagination: compositionally and lyrically.

Fortino may not have hated the world away, but she possesses a similarly intuitive ability to block everything out so she can operate in her own peculiar vacuum. It’s an admirable quality, but the desperately sad nature of her music makes it a place that’s difficult to visit with any degree of regularity.

Upper Air is a decent enough record, but it’s not strong enough to be listened to without recalling other, similar but better records.

It's a nagging feeling that despite the sheer addictiveness of the material, the stonkingly monumental percussion and the band's fledgling yet highly-accomplished abilities, it’s a bit devoid of that certain spark.

Why Oneida need a concept to rock out for two hours is still a bit of a mystery, but it never tires... if only all shameless self-indulgence sounded this good.

It is hard to really know if there is a place for cricket concept albums. Certainly there's a time and a place for them and at the start of an Ashes summer is just that--it's perfect timing from Hannon and Walsh.