Girl or boy, The Decemberists have been there to drape a drunken arm around in the absence of fortune for the best part of 15 years now. The good news is, the tone in that arm is firmly set again. A genuine and welcome joy.

Pop lives or dies primarily on the quality of the songs, and in comparison to the commercial pop he's emulating, these songs come up short.

While there are some lovely sounds on Somewhere Else... but it's hard not to yearn for something more.

Albert Hammond Jr. has a solid album on his hands, but it is what it is: Momentary Masters isn’t veal, but a damn fine cheeseburger.

Despite the aggression in their music, it's not uncommon for APTBS to tone things down a few tracks into an album, but watch out for the lull in this one.

Quietly, creepily and insidiously catchy.

Shelter from the Ash is another masterpiece.

Hey Everyone! manages to occupy a space all of its own--an achievement in itself.

Sonically speaking, Hunx And His Punx have hit on an essentially 'vintage' sound without being terribly authentic.

Though their own spirit may have mellowed and darkened over time, on Wild Go Dark Dark Dark couldn't be moving more resolutely towards the light.

Like other effective instrumental LPs, The Most Beautiful Ugly compiles a series of vignettes into one coherent stream.

There is nothing here that is particularly new, but when it comes to the many, many contemporary bands who take their influence--either musically or aesthetically--from the eighties, Wampire are at the top of the pile.

But for all its wandering into uncomfortable territories, Small Sound preserves the core of Tennis’s charm, and it's savvy of the duo to (hopefully) consign their elements of feet-finding to a stop-gap EP.

In Music for Insomniacs Berry has created a synth fantasia of dreamy soundscapes for the wakeful, but with a greater dynamism and more grandiose scale and momentum than most ambient music.

Volume X certainly appears to have more than enough subtle moments and hidden delights to ensure its longevity.

Ultimately, Brothers of the Sonic Cloth’s LP is so tasty, it’ll have you unashamedly coming back for seconds, and thirds, and fourths, and dessert, and a cheese course, and just one tiny little wafer thin mint.

At just 39 minutes long, it’s spectacularly brief, especially for Dälek (2007’s Abandoned Language, for example, stretches to 63 minutes) but brevity here works in their favour, as there’s very little fat that needs trimming.

With Foxhole, The Proper Ornaments often make going through the motions sound like some revelatory train of thought.

This 1989 may work wonderfully on its own terms (if Adams had written this himself it would be his best album) but its real strength is in highlighting Swift’s immaculate writing for those of us whose relationship to the original is intellectual rather than instinctive.

On fifth album Smokey Rolls Down Thunder Canyon the cast expands again to include erstwhile Strokes guitarists and movie stars, and at points you’re left pining for the eccentric acoustic phrasings of yore.

This is a fantastically arranged and conceptually exquisite record, and as much as it feels like anathema to say that a contemporary pop highpoint has sprouted below the surface, in the case of Class Actress it's true.

As colourful as its cover sleeve, Wildewoman is packed with a joyous authenticity that’s achieved through a well-structured set of songs that traverse a veritable array of musical styles.

Overall, Stars Are Our Home is a delightfully mixed bag that does rare justice to the term 'supergroup'.

While there's a noticeable over-reliance on antiquated classic rock bravado, there's plenty of space to explore here to keep the most discerning noise-rock fan interested.

Overall, the record is recognisably Fallon’s; he takes his best ingredients of trademark likeability and searing emotional insight and transfers it while changing things up musically. It’s inspiring to see a musician like him take strides and experiment, not necessarily taking the safe route.

It is both accessible and challenging at times, and a few bloopers aside a perfectly worthy release, providing the purchaser can tolerate Ian Svenonius' occasional lapses into horrendously irritating vocal histrionics.

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.

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.