Bejar's reckless approach to romance is almost certainly one of those things you'd live to regret, but that's the appeal of great artistic endeavours: when the writer can pull in his audience so completely that we experience all the adventure while risking none of the consequences.

Potentially most interesting of all is the way parts of Red Barked Tree sound dated in a manner completely unrelated to how some of Wire's records haven't, y'know, aged that well.

It's a more than satisfactory return for a band whose live performances this past couple of years suggest they're here for the long haul rather than any financially induced pangs of sentiment or nostalgia, and if Content is anything to by, one suspects the Gang Of Four's creative tank is far from empty

If any criticism is to be levelled here, it would be that the album could so easily have been a double-disc effort, but this is a minor gripe on an otherwise flawless live document of a band striving for--and arguably achieving--greatness.

While the songs aren't exactly good per se, they're certainly not hateful. You'd dance to them. Maybe you'd have to be drunk. Maybe you'd have to be in Reflex. But you'd dance to them.

This is music to get lost in and lose yourself to at the same time. Strangely familiar, yet unique, in their own conservative way.

As a relative paradigm shift of an album, The King is Dead is a success, with The Decemberists managing to make their transition smoothly, creating a work that is well-structured, hook-driven and coherent.

Astro Coast is a welcome reminder of the youthful vigour and playfulness of early Pavement and Weezer, imbibing the Sixties rule-book of good pop without coming off as a bad pastiche.

Some will decry Valhalla Dancehall's essential familiarity, but on their fourth album proper British Sea Power are a band unique, complex and confident enough in their own right to remind us why we loved them in the first place whilst making modest refinements to their sound.

So far into his career this record might easily be overlooked, yet given the chance it's both a moving and rewarding listen.

The Thermals are in transition, sitting awkwardly between their lo-fi roots and a clear desire to do something grander. They seem stuck at a point where their skeleton is no longer fit for purpose.

As side projects go, this is one of those that will happily turn left rather than right when climbing onboard that transatlantic flight to you.

A Bureaucratic Desire For Extra-Capsular Extraction is yet more proof that Earth were, and indeed still are, vitally different to so much of what's come before them, after them and even surrounded them.

Although it may often be breathtakingly evocative, Ancestral Star is a record that many could admire, but few could truly love.

Until Coco can hit upon this kind of refinement of her influences in a more general sense, she seems destined to be known firstly for who her father is and only secondly for her own artistic achievements.

Middle Class Rut have crafted a solid release that, while unlikely to set the world on fire, nonetheless makes for an impressive debut.

Blurry Blue Mountain is another late career album that falls in the 'good enough to listen to, not quite hot enough to buy' category. The highlights will bolster their setlists, the rest will clog up your hard drive.

It doesn't have to be anything more than the two things it certainly is: a tribute to a longtime bandmate and friend, one in which he gets to take part in spite of departing the planet, and a collection of songs which at different points are clever, funny, fulsome and moving.

So if you want to thrash around your bedroom playing air guitar, pretending to be the rock star which you're never going to quite be, stick Steeple on and let the air guitar sessions begin.

What Shobaleader One does is strike a finer balance between the accessible and the surreal than pretty much all of Jenkinson's previous releases. It retains all the elements that are recognisably Squarepusher but manages to filter them through this newly polished lens and thrusts it into a new, invigorating stream of light.

If it hasn't already been made clear, there is a pretty constant, not to mention obvious, Eighties aesthetic permeating these eleven tracks. But it's been put together well enough that its never really overbearing or worse, a contrived mess.

Drawing Down The Moon marks a welcome return for Azure Ray, and makes for an oftentimes exquisite listening experience. It's just a shame that, when it comes to the songs themselves, much of the beauty is only skin deeP.

On Face Tat, the chaos never stops: it's akin to a musical interpretation of all the theme park rides in the world, taken one after the other.

Pink Friday wins merely on points, rather than the knockout punch it should have been.

There's no doubt Rivers is capable of astonishing creative output, supposedly at one time writing 384 songs in the space of three years. But, just because you can write a song every other day it doesn't mean that each one is worthy of being unleashed on the public.

Keep your sense of perspective and remember that The Promise really is an offcuts record, and you'll find it's a staggeringly good one.

Don't like it? Well Cee-Lo has two words for you.

It is heartening and not a little bittersweet to be reminded how Weezer once made sad, twisted, broken-sounding songs like these, and they made them work, and they made our CD player work, and they weren't a bit shit, and we loved them.