A remarkable turnaround then, and although not quite a 360 degree shift, this is a damn fine record that Feeder should be proud of.

For now, Strength In Numbers, whilst not exactly redefining the zeitgeist, is a lot better than anyone could have expected.

The co-writes--not as many as you might’ve expected--generally boom from the speakers. The self-penned efforts are bare-boned, erratically excellent but frustratingly blighted by Adele’s penchant for going beyond her capabilities as a vocalist.

Briskly performed, smartly assembled and largely unmemorable, Diamond Hoo Ha is a lot like half-asleep sex; you’re vaguely aware this is supposed to be fun, but you keep drifting off, and you might have to ask the person sitting next to you if it actually took place come the morning.

The biggest problem with You Cross My Path isn’t so much the music though; sure it’s not an invigorating brew, but the blend of swirling Hammond and ponderous bass and drums stays on the right side of tepid most of the time.

Where the separate parts of the first half didn't gel – the chopping and changing of different styles too much to take in, perhaps, in too short a period--the second part is much easier to handle, and whilst the strong finish isn't enough to stop it falling short of "Z," Evil Urges does find its own place given time.

Formula is strictly adhered to, and while pace may differ from one jolly strum-about to the next, the void where there should be a worthwhile tune remains.

While Seeing Sounds is a marginal improvement on N*E*R*D’s second album, and a massive leap forward from Pharrell’s damp-squib of a solo record, it doesn’t quite reach the heights of (either version of) their debut, let alone the pick of Pharrell and Chad’s production work for other people.

'To America’ comes across very much a modern take on West Side Story replete with fine vocal performances from its central pair, sweeping strings and ebullient brass, it’s a jubilant finale to an album that, while never quite surpassing the evocative beauty of the band’s first, matches it with a keen flourish.

The record is almost as seamless as it is engaging, and it subtly commands your attention from start to finish.

Dragging a Dead Deer Up a Hill, can simultaneously be one of the most delicate, affecting albums of the year, and, yet, at the same time have such a strange, menacing name.

Little is embellished, musically or lyrically, and the no-frills approach can sometimes work in a band's favour. But this workmanlike trawl through suburban life won’t set your world on fire.

And that's what makes Exotic Creatures Of The Deep such an interesting and deceptively ambitious record. Not only is Russell Mael still capable of using camp innuendo to mock himself, as on album closer 'Likeable', but he's also not afraid to put those who owe him and his brother a debt of gratitude - however small - in the public spotlight.

Despite all of the ingredients for a great album being present, it just doesn’t ignite, perhaps due to the unmoving, maudlin stance from which it is all delivered.

These glimpses of something unexpected are few and far between, much of We Started Nothing tonally muddled into a weird new form of MOR: cool for five minutes amongst the fashionable crowd but unlikely to reach audiences beyond those fascinated with the hot and happening.

Takes never truly shakes the initial notion of a missed opportunity: failing to place a distinguishable spin on the material it seeks to celebrate, ultimately coming off a well-intended curio ticking as many boxes as it omits.

It’s one almighty journey through realms uncharted by The Futureheads thus far, and it’s done in fine form.

It’s from this multi-layered hive of instrumentation and exquisite verb-spouting though where ExitingARM begins to flourish.

Trimmed of a couple of tracks and with more than a single change of pace offered, the record could have been an excellent one. As it is, Velocifero stands as a fine piece of work that proves there’s a lot of life left in these synthetic machines.

A number of plays through and it’s still not clear who, exactly, the band are taking the proverbial out of: themselves, playfully and absolutely intentionally, or us, fans who’ve become conditioned to not expecting the best from a band who, personally, have been a shadow of themselves since that first ‘sequel’ release.

Fleet Foxes doesn't leave the stereo. Three, four, five times through-–these songs resonate over and over until they stick for good. A sign of a great record: words fail but a feeling remains.

It has resulted in a not-completely enchanting experience, but an involving and worthwhile one nonetheless. Explore for its many corners of interest.

The Cool Kids’ revivalist format might not remain flavour of the month long enough for their debut LP proper, "When Fish Ride Bicycles," to have much of a commercial impact when it’s released later this year, but this taster ten-tracker of older material certainly leaves a pleasant aftertaste.

Here, all percussion devastates; it pounds away at the insides of Life… The Best Game In Town like a beast caged, packed ready for shipping. Let it loose and all hell’s coming your way.

In the end, what was once an exceptional record is now merely a rather good one. That’s a real shame, but it can’t entirely derail Alphabeat and their purist pop vision.

Truth and parody meshed together in an altogether confusing and ill-conceived manner.

Album two may see an outline of refinement established, but for now their doldrums meanderings are more exhilarating than many acts’ most-accomplished must-haves, making this a two-from-two contender for a top-ten year-end finish.

Perversely given the record’s comprehensive musical overhaul it’s perhaps a surfeit of respect for the source material that proves Anywhere's undoing; for all its undoubted accomplishments there’s a lingering suspicion that this is too safe, too respectable a record to do justice to an artist who remains forever mid-topple from the bar stool in the popular consciousness.

It is a towering, complex achievement and startling progression to boot.

The brisk bout of choral sighing that rounds off ‘I’ll Be Glad’ provides an effective grace note for this hugely likeable record, if underlining slightly the notion of Lie Down In The Light as a worthy, somewhat minor addition to Oldham’s formidable oeuvre.

French Kicks cannot rightly be pegged as a one-trick pony but the formulaic organisation of this record emphasises lushness at the sacrifice of any surprises.

Does this mean Inherit is one for the better-luck-next-time pile? No, because while we’re right to expect more from these three women, their middle of the road still stands heads above much produced by the younger generation of noiseniks.

It’s a mixed bag then: sometimes they hit bull’s-eye, other times they miss the board altogether, but the erratic results reveal a band dragging themselves out of their comfort zone.

Thing Of The Past is a comprehensive collection that dispels any previous notions that its creators are mere one-trick ponies, and as for that other bloke, Devendra what's his name?, Vetiver's identity crisis is surely a Thing Of The Past.

By no means an awful record, but certainly a disappointing one.

Though an admitted level back on the recent disco-drone of "Growing’s Lateral" and even their fantastic EP release of "Living" from last year, these noise troupers have set up a decent new stall.

That’s not to say they don’t come across like an all-singing, all-banging Life Aquatic armed with pots, pans and whatever instrument comes to hand, but from the raw, stamping folk-punk to the string layered sea ditties, All We Could Do Was Sing is much more than it initially lets on.

With Couples they've managed to turn two years of inter-band heartache into an ambitious, forward-thinking pop record that tops their debut by quite some distance.

The Age Of The Understatement is as solid an idea in execution as it is in concept; a record unafraid to reach beyond its obvious limitations and produce a swashbuckling end result that might even broaden a few horizons for fans and players alike.

Nouns is truly psyched, soaring sound.

Awesome offcuts.

These wandering riffs, devastating drum rolls and rollicking motifs will stick with you, but primarily to serve as an appetite-whetting taste of where their makers may venture next.

So while Blue Lambency Downward may not be punk in body, it’s certainly filled with that same defiant spirit.

If French-born London émigrés John & Jehn don’t quite succeed in nailing the stroppy friction of their live shows over the course of their self-titled debut, third base is at least within groping distance.

Everything's The Rush isn't an awful record. Delays don't do awful; they just do okay, and okay might as well be called forgettable, because that's what the first part of this album is.

Both ancient and futuristic, a mildewed signal from a more advanced culture that failed to survive the ice age, Third doesn’t make you pay attention to its desolate contours, but rather stare out of the window, creeping panic causing your mind to dart in a million dark directions at once.

Here there can be no snobbish derision and calls of 'selling out' or playing to the average man; in creating an album showcasing the very best of the band’s talents they have created one so perfectly fit for, as Scott so vividly puts, “the soft, soft static” of popular radio.

Quite evidently her attempt to court an urban audience after the disco leanings of this record’s immediate predecessor-–whatever 'urban' actually means nowadays-–Madonna’s sidestepping outside of her shimmer-pop comfort zone has resulted in a well-intentioned failure of an album that will be a commercial success regardless of any critical indifference.

Tunes-wise there’s some strength in depth here but it’s telling that, in spite of the lip service being paid to various left-of-centre influences, Santogold feels a strangely conservative listen, in danger of satisfying neither fans of M.I.A.’s wild stylistic forays nor the bubblegum masses thirsting after their latest dose of content-free self-assertion.

It might not be their best-ever album--Phrenology can still claim that title--but Rising Down finds The Roots reinvigorated, more passionate than ever.

The descriptive we’re looking for here is ‘shallow pastiche.’

Imperial Wax Solvent is another remarkable batch of brilliantly deranged tales no whiskey-breathed war veteran across the bar could trump.

This isn't a character assassination (honest), more an explanation why an album that's actually pretty accomplished, musically, should, in the end, prove so forgettable. Even though guitarist Robbie Stern's classical training has been put to good use with some of these arrangements, all too rarely are other band members allowed to shine.

The achievement of The Seldom Seen Kid is that Elbow manage to be both incredibly consistent and perpetually improving.

On the whole Mr Love & Justice is an album that sounds like it was made for the sake of it rather than to cascade any real statement of intent.

Elephant Shell finds the ambiguity created by this choice absolutely harrowing, however, and proceeds to run back to that basement with its eyes closed, one hand over its mouth and the other clutching its Bloc Party tapes.

There’re dudes out there (Google them) who will try and tell you this album has some relevance, that it represents pop, that it’s important. That it’s good. They’re wrong.

Atmosphere play an autobiographical angle affectingly well. It’s an approach that’ll lead some to conclude When Life… is a little on the dull side, but with six albums under their belt seems the duo’s formula is not about to let them down just yet.

It is a ‘safe’ record, one that plays to its makers’ long-established strengths without really stretching them--but fans of all the aforementioned predecessors are certain to find much to love across these 13 tracks.

With a little more pace and drama to offset this off-whitest of visions, El Perro Del Mar could be an interesting prospect indeed.

Fans of Jesu will enjoy the boisterousness of some arrangements here, the incessant crushing of the listener’s resistance.

Best advice for approaching Worldwide? Stick to moderation. Small doses are a thrill, but consume too much and you’ll find yourself in need of a dark quiet room and a cold wet towel draped across your forehead.

They’re not inventing any new wheels at this stage of their career, but dEUS are delivering the goods at a level where established fans will immediately click their subtle steps forward and newcomers can get a grasp of what to expect from prior long-players should they decide to delve into the catalogue.

Predictably there’s a slide towards more abstracted material toward the latter half, and parts of Saturdays=Youth are all hairspray and no body, but the whole thing sweeps along with such an irrepressible mix of youthful invincibility (‘We Own The Sky’) and flouncing fatalism (‘Too Late’, ‘Graveyard Girl’) it sucks the wind right out of your cheeks before you’ve had chance to huff.

These odd moments aside, it’s tempting to suggest that never before have a band--and a band who, let us remember, this writer awarded a generous 8/10 for their summery, tuneful debut--managed to nail mediocrity so definitely between its tired eyes.

A shame, really, since there are couple of songs here displaying a melodic facility far in excess of the record’s dumbed-down intent.

As pastiche, this all makes for a fragmented and cumbersome back-to-back listening experience - utterly dominated by wild mood swings. But with so many independently functioning songs on offer, certain suites of two or three become hands down irresistible.

While there are inevitable parallels what with one album following the last so soon, this fourteenth LP from the fluctuating-of-membership Bad Seeds is a bolder creation that its predecessor.

As it is, it’s just satisfying. It’s ironic, then, that the record comes with such a momentous title, because really, it’s a gentle personal triumph.

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

There are enough sturdy ideas in Walk It Off’s first half – just about--to ensure Tapes ‘N Tapes’ good ship stays afloat for a third bout, and it’s definitely a record that’ll reward repeated plays, but with the twilit otherness of "The Loon" largely evaporated here, it’ll need a change of tack to put the wind back in their sails and set the blogosphere to reeling once more.

Do It is simply a case of Clinic once again doing what they do best; but with a new-found vigour that rediscovers the confident swagger of earlier releases while building upon realms explored on later excursions.

A pleasantly surprising album then that will hopefully earn its creator his fair share of deserved recognition.

From start to finish this is an unexpected adventure through the crossover, leaving the door of the VIP bunker open for us all to sneak in.

Too often, though, this record slips into a comfort zone that, while making it impossible to generally dislike, renders it hard to get excited about.

There really isn’t anything wrong with this album. It’s just the most amazing sugar rush you’re going to have this year, and is what, at this point in time, sounds strongly like the best debut album by a British indie band since Tigermilk.

Last Night is sensible, clean, pleasant. But it lacks that essential injection of endeavour and emotion.

In the end we’re left with a solid, sympathetically-performed record that only intermittently comes to life, which is either a subtle victory or a hollow triumph of taste over gutbucket soul, depending on which way you look at it.

Now we have Accelerate; the actualisation of a new found urgency. Gratifyingly short at under 35 minutes, it’s a summation of much that is or was great about R.EM.: wordy proclamations by Stipe, ringing Rickenbacker trills by Buck and lush backing vocals by Mills.

At times hypnotic in their understatement, every so often they gently erupt with vivid melodies that bring the underlying air of tension to its peak.

Funplex then: a bit like that school re-union. Good for a few hours’ reminiscing every once in a while but over-familiarity will only breed contempt.

It may not be an album to die for, but it is a rare album of note, as much for its context as its content.

Consolers of the Lonely is often grotesquely overblown despite moments of genuine excitement.

The production is sublime, every beat and note fully realised in glorious colour. The songs, however, sound tired, and despite determined efforts to sound upbeat and jaunty, they end in a slump of indie-pop lethargy.

13 Blues… scores 10 in almost every sense, but to award such an accolade would imply this is a record never to be bettered.

There’s only two real weak points to the album.... That’s it. The rest of this is good to great.

Twenty One revels in fun found in the cobwebbed corners of Alkan’s mix and the nightlifing minds of its lyricists.

Red’s a grandiose statement of intent, crammed with aspirational symphonies that run the gambit of popular culture over the past 40 years without ever succumbing to grating pastiche.

Now they’re back, back, back (repetition absolutely necessary) with a second dose of barely-pubesced raucousness and, a mere two spins down the line, DiS is seriously reconsidering the prospect of having children, like, ever.

Cut adrift with its own bewildering reference points, peppered with glimpses of cryptic brilliance and slabs of deceptive nonsense, Beat Pyramid is a flawed patchwork masterpiece.

It's a record that certainly stands up to comparison with their previous outings - sometimes bettering them--and, if you've been seduced by their charms in the past, be prepared to fall in lust all over again.

Trouble In Dreams is full of amazing poetic adventures which could never flourish in the harsh light of the public eye.

Though far from flawless, removed from any brouhaha Street Horrrsing sees Fuck Buttons carve their own niche and not only produce a debut record that will claw at any prejudices over its 40-minute span but show up their drone brethren as too often resiliently stuck in the mud.

If you’ve got the savvy to work out how some of Reality Check is actually occasionally brilliant, then you should also be able to figure out it’s also absolute shit.

All fascinating stuff, and the resultant album is a fitting testament: exciting, yet flawed like the man (John DeLorean) himself.

Solid and safe fun perhaps.

It’s the sound of Chuck Schultz’s Peanuts, dusky ‘70s Californian sunsets and the sound of a talent transcending her artistic straitjacket. Here’s to volume two.

Glass’s voice, too, is the same that’s been luring lusty seamen onto the rocks for millennia, but the way it and the drums are textured--so that the machines they’re passed through sound like they’re melting away--brings Crystal Castles to the outer edges of greatness.