This still isn’t for everyone, but it’s sounding less like a side-project, and more like a super-group.

Ten is just Ten, and I guess for all their reservations, the band have come to accept that: there’s no mystery to the new cover, just Pearl Jam in plain view, big shorts and all.

Gripes aside, a good chunk of BORN LIKE THIS.. shows an angrier, more cynical, and, hell, maybe even better DOOM. A day may come when the mask starts to rust, but it's not just yet.

It’s one of the best late-night albums of the year so far, and deserves to be remembered in the best of 2009 polls.

It's that all-too-rare example of a band combining myriad shared influences (early Blur, Radiohead, Suede... The Faint?) into something that seems to exist only in its own brilliant context, regardless of trends or cultural norms.

On the whole, To Lose My Life is a solid debut that will certainly divide opinion, but approach with an open mind and dividends will be reaped en masse.

An obvious problem of the arrangements is that "big" often means cluttered, and most of the songs feel like they should have finished a verse and a chorus sooner.

Wavvves does tend to tail off down repetition high street towards the end, but all in all, even where the experimental interlude segments of 'Goth Girls' and 'Killr Punx, Scary Demons' knit the record together like butterfly clips around a gaping wound, there's enough here to suggest Nathan Williams has the potential to become a very special talent indeed in the none too distant future.

Psychedelia with a southern soul lean, it’s a seriously heady piece of music.

Slipway Fires is preposterous, and in a way I actually wish I liked it more.

Face Control, the new record by Handsome Furs (Alexei Perry and Dan-from-Wolf-Parade), sounds like "Born in the USA," if the Boss had allowed a little more evil in the mix, and tried replicating Alan Vega’s demented yelps. Yeah, it’s THAT good...

Wracked with doubt, contradiction and existential despair, Mama, I’m Swollen strikes out as a weighty, superbly realised endeavour which, for all its oppressive nature, is as eminently listenable and brave an album as any the band have produced.

Twee without being cloying, Bishop Allen have dropped any signifiers that might make us think Tilly & the Wall (the clattering percussion, and urgent male/female vocals), and manage to present their light-hearted lyrics as sincere.

As a whole, Heavy Ghost is considerably subtler even than "The Crying Light."

In what’s been a tremendous year for female singers thus far (see releases from Marissa Nadler, Bat For Lashes, Emmy The Great and fellow Portland-er Laura Gibson), this is yet another to add to the pile.

Tackling weighty themes and wrestling difficult truths with aplomb, it ultimately emerges triumphant.

The most frustrating part of the brilliance is that it has been all too fleeting. Please Anni, give us more.

As Seen Through Windows is both a progression and an evolution from the band's previous work, and it would be criminal to overlook them this time.

It’s refreshing to hear his music decontextualised--without a wider narrative, or the restraint of having to make an album as a piece, it’s Ashworth’s songwriting that has to hold the collection together.

All in all, a precious record, this.

It's idea after idea after idea, and though TVOTR comparisons are as inevitable as they are fair, billing BLK JKS as the Brooklynite's more giddy cousins is perhaps a little off the mark: better to say both bands tap into the same ultra-distinct vein of murky sonic magic.

It’s a horribly calculated, horrible slice of anthemic horribleness. Throughout, dreadful lyrics are in abundance, pianos are thumped and drums are bashed.

A majority of IMD is destined to end up splattered across car adverts and in film soundtracks where the scene is of a pulsing, throbbing, energetic nature. Sadly, that won't lend it any more substance.

It’s tempting to conflate the fact Middle Cyclone is less outre than her last couple of sets with the fact it last week cracked the US top three, but there’s nothing particularly sell out-ish about it, and certainly with her lyrical gifts and that incredible voice still firmly intact, it’s hard to even really be that disappointed.

Unfortunately, too much of NLOTH sounds staid and uninspired, again maybe due to the changing musical landscape that was going on all around them during the making of the record.

While that’s frustrating the good stuff here is very, very good, and the less impressive fare on offer shouldn’t dissuade curious ears.

Take My Breath Away begins expansively, but rather than proving to be a promising start the opening track turns out, in fact, to be the highlight.

Here she’s hacked away the art school whimsy, tossed out the crystals and burned the floaty headscarfs, focussing her talents into ten razor sharp songs, some subtle, some vicious.

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.

Temple sets out to tinker with rather than drastically disfigure his familiar surroundings and for the most part succeeds, with occasional flashes of casual brilliance. That these flashes occur with minimal fuss merely adds to the enjoyment.

To reiterate, then: it’s not the third Beirut album, like, proper. But as a means of sating collective appetites before that record does arrive--heightening expectations, even--it is a remarkable achievement.

M. Ward turns in a star-studded set that feels at once a logical progression from 2006’s "Post-War" and a step closer to that all-out classic his preceding suggests; an assimilation and appropriation of American blues, gospel, country and folk as lovingly, winningly relayed as we’ve come to expect from the Portland-based troubadour.

Generally, though, its makers can count Common Existence a triumph.

No other band could legitimately produce this record without being accused of extreme plagiarism, and perhaps that goes some way to explaining why, despite its shortcomings, it is still likeable.

if you thought you had a handle on TAP, All aboard Future throws out almost all of the signifiers that would suggest Liars, and reaches back to the late-1970s / early-1980s futurists (This Heat, Cabaret Voltaire, Throbbing Gristle) as much as any contemporaries (Black Dice, Gang Gang Dance, Animal Collective).

As a document of the (musical) times, a beautiful, sundry package and admirable unification of today’s very finest towards a common goal, Dark Was The Night is unbeatable.

While it would be hasty to suggest disregarding the main conceptual focus, the truth is that Come Back to the Five and Dime, Bobby Dee, Bobby Dee's virtues lie in Ferree's considerable talents as a singer and songwriter, and not as a testament to a forgotten star or as a treatise on youth, fame and loneliness.

So anyhow--crossover album of the year, no contest.

There's nothing as straight-up enjoyable as 'LDN' or quite as remarkably scathing as 'Smile', but sticking with It’s Not Me, It’s You and penetrating its jarringly slick-meets-Garageband-amateur exterior is wholly advisable. Not perfect by any means, it nevertheless cements Allen’s status as a chronicler of daily existence.

Emmy the Great's debut is a triumph, with a maturity beyond her years, and with a humour no less enjoyable for being subtler.

It’s stirring, tragic fare that demonstrates why For Willie is a good introduction for those new to Nelson and Houck alike.

Disappointingly, this is a shaky collection for such a groundbreaking producer, though unlikely to impact his designs on commercial ascendancy.

With that image and, indeed, package, May will no doubt divide opinion and make certain people sick of him just by his very look and reflective genre, but to anyone with time to spend and ears to analyse he will be a speccy hero; a champion of triumphant performance irrespective of that well-practised image.

The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart have crafted an impeccable debut way beyond their years, and any misconceptions about them being mere revivalists of a scene only their elders could recall at first hand will surely be diminished instantaneously upon hearing this most accomplished of long players.

While none of the tracks here equal the individual brilliance of the album standouts ‘Rode Null’ or ‘Barfuss Durch Grass’, Snowflakes and Car Wrecks hangs together far better than a collection of offcuts might reasonably be expected to.

They’ve defied compartmentalisation again, managed to avoid crippling themselves in their dramatic reduction of outright 'singles' material, and left the door open to a number of future experiments. Unfortunately it just means that Tonight becomes a makeweight.

Much like Fleet Foxes, the music contained within isn't particularly ground breaking, but what is done is done well.

Unfortunately, the writing and production is as saccharine as the topics covered, either gossamer thin semi-ideas of tracks padded out, or bogged down by strings and a blinding sheen of instrumentation that does nothing to appeal to anyone beyond easy-listening FM aficionados.

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.

Tellingly, Mark Ronson loves this album. Truth is, it's fine, and perfectly adequate, but nothing more.

While Lambs Anger is in no way easy, brimming with first-degree sonic battery, it is compulsively listenable, and is most likely his, and Ed Banger’s, best album to date.

It's just as easy to loathe this record as it is to love it, but enough moments of merit exist to stifle any doubts over the quality of Rodriguez-Lopez' output as a solo artist.

A.M. buzzes and drones, floats and wafts. It’s cloudy skies and open roads. It’s hypnotic and swirly, it’s warm and cosy. It’s static eyeballs and minimal movement. It’s spellbindingly gorgeous.

Is Merriweather Post Pavilion the flawless album that it's been willed to be? Taken as a whole I'd say it's pretty damn close.

On The Crying Light, Antony acts as a conduit between popular music and the avant-garde, and if that’s not a mark of greatness, what is?

Where Andrew Bird succeeds so fervently with Noble Beast is in endowing it a vital, quixotic sense of humanity.

The Blood Bank EP is a fine appendix to the Bon Iver story, so far, and in its subdued elegance, the title track has all the emotional generosity of giving blood, tinged with the awareness of mortality.

They might borrow from forefathers to lay solid foundations, but Late Of The Pier have proven, with Fantasy Black Channel, that they’re a band with ability well beyond the simple sum of influential parts.

Glasvegas maybe won't change lives but with its rich indie wall-of-sound nostalgia trip, it should get a few kids delving through their influences and forming space-rock bands.

Whether or not this is enough to inspire acolytes the likes of which this writer had a first-hand audience with some three years ago remains to be seen, though Folie à Deux does look certain to satisfy fans' appetites as much as it may surprise and intrigue certain others.

On the surface it’s all nicely put together but almost all these covers lack the passion.

Individually as good as much of BTC, the bonus material is almost as listenable as the album itself.

A Snowflake Fell could have worked as a series of effective B-sides or bonus tracks on the aforementioned album package.

For those exhausted by a modern landscape, where playing a game of spot the musical reference is de rigueur when approaching every new release, Everything That Happens Will Happen Today is certainly a welcome relief.

So while it is more of the same, when that same is such an unpretentious joy to listen to it's churlish to complain. That's not to say it's perfect though: one or two tracks are slightly stretched beyond their natural life.

Without the filter and guidance of a strong writing partner, and without a personality able to temper his every whim, much of this album contributes to the argument that Paul’s output urgently calls for restraint.

Though the band are by no means no superstar DJs, the enthusiasm for the music they love is all too apparent. If anything, Tapes will send you digging for the full versions of some fine, forgotten tunes--and that’s no bad thing.

It’s difficult to be bowled over by the fact that The Killers have essentially crafted an enjoyable but fairly throwaway pop record.

This truly is an album you can’t just dip into, it’s a winning concept. And though it may not win millions of hearts, for those with time, it’s a truly rewarding experience.

If you come to Safe Trip Home without expecting the big hits or a surprise collaboration with a rapper, you’ll be disappointed. If you’re a Dido faithful who’s just endured five years of hell, you’ll find she’s is still the perfect soundtrack to your life.

With or without the four unreleased songs, this was always going to be an essential collection for any Belle & Sebastian obsessive, and the credits are a reminder there’s plenty more to come.

Again penned almost entirely by Campbell before tweaked to fit Lanegan’s whisky-guzzled grumbling, there’s a distinct element of ‘seen it, done it, milking it’ to every rootsy, airsome shanty and, although executed with exemplary grace, it seems there’s not quite enough fuel left to stoke the fires of desire once more.

this album is never less than interesting. It’s just that with but a touch of discipline, they could create something truly magical.

All through this Olausson gives every impression of earnestness; it’s this ability to fashion a hook out of something nobody in their right mind would even think of that ensures a level of sparkle even when the sonic territory is well trodden.

So yadda yadda yadda, a best of isn't as worthwhile as a group's actual albums, what a shocker.

Nevertheless, the casual listener will have little to soak up from here, only surface bruising. The masochists amongst us already know we’re gonna get our kicks from this.

As such, Limbo, Panto is shocking, funny, and above all irrevocable. Expect this lot to be around for the long haul.

This is strong stuff that thankfully avoids falling into crass sloganeering, and the music backs it up, it's arcing guitar lines and tribal percussion generating a growing atmosphere of anxiety, outrage and disorientation.

Berlin: Live At St Anne's Warehouse is basically one of the most creepily eloquent records of Lou Reed's career, tarted up in the sort of bombastic style that ironically may see it received better in the classic rockin' days of 1973.

An ambitiously themed, leftfield, modern classical album that not only impresses, but totally enthrals.

By now, Frida’s come so far from where she started, you will have been won over, and it’s possible to see the early schmaltz as a necessary counterpoint: a musical analogue of the innocence to be lost, and/or transformed into experience.

Smaldone’s rattling, tumbling, ragtime ballads are engaging rather than just pretty; plus, the narratives are consistently well-realized, albeit that the interpretations are largely closed.

K-the-I??? makes bold steps alongside the likes of Saul Williams, emanating poetic flamboyance without becoming too confusing, but with enough (e)motion and kinetic verve to satisfy even the most passive ear.

From the outset, No Mundane Options drifts by without asserting itself.

Intimacy is not quite the radical statement its makers might think it is (I’m not sure what could be given the group’s evident ambitions), but it’s definitely a little bit of invigorating redemption at a time when doubts were beginning to cloud what was, initially, a flawless reputation.

Where the split-personality of Cryptograms hinted as much, a cohesive effort on Microcastle delivers the goods in its entirety.

The carnival-esque, unsettling vibe permeating forms both its strong appeal and sometime downfall, as sustaining momentum at the pace O’Death strive to can prove alienating. Peppered with stark imagery and carried off with consummate musical skill however, for the most part it’s utterly absorbing.

There's still too much here which feels (and sounds) like filler, but when Jenkinson pulls it off it's as incomparably awesome as ever.

When SSVIIB play to their strengths--most of the time--the songs are so smooth that you lower your expectations for any strong hooks, as you would when listening to ambient, only to discover that you’re caught up in a glorious anthem,making this a kind of secret dance-music you didn’t know you were swaying to.

Quite simply, Alight Of Night is one of the most breathtaking records these ears have been partial to in a long while, and even if Crystal Stilts never make another record, their legacy is assured.

Depending how much you dig [Alt-Country], there are either one or two fairly splendid albums embedded in these 22 songs, running to 64 minutes in total.

An album as close to a dictionary-standard definition of the word mediocre as there is likely to be in the whole of 2008.

Some people are going to think this is a masterpiece, the equal of "Hissing Fauna." Others will call it a self indulgent mess that pushes indie-rock somewhere it really wasn't meant to go. Personally, I think both those sound about right.

Even if plenty of the songs on this record could be easily mixed up with something from their past two records ('Window Sills' and 'New Schools' are straight off Everybody), their idiosyncracies never diminish any of this album’s terrific songs.

Gang Gang Dance, however, have found their voice in a world of retro revivalists and fly-by-night trendhoppers. It's whatever they want it to be, and it's awesome.

Turn this one need up loud to fully appreciate it--it's hardly bedtime listening--but you might want to have a little sit down and gather your thoughts after listening to it through for the first time and then listen to it again.

That’s not to say this isn’t promising as a progression from the last album, with signs of grand ambition and more directions to explore.

The raw elements are present, but Rossi is only 22, and has much time. Nevertheless this EP is a consistent 20 minutes of raw beauty, and holds as much worth in itself as it does in the anticipation of what could follow.