For a band whose frequent line-up changes repeatedly threaten to leave them at an impasse, Post Electric Blues is a testament to Idlewild's stylistic and thematic consistency, while standing head and shoulders above the two albums which preceded it, if not quite equalling their career highs.

Whatever angle you examine it from, Lucky Shiner is an impressive statement, especially for a debut, and when Gold Panda lets the house beat sink into the background and experiments a little more with space and structure the results are gorgeous.

Although, Gough has always said that he finds music instantaneous and the lyrics the hardest part to write, It's What I'm Thinking showcases Gough at his most insightful to the human condition and himself.

It is laudable for Smith to try and eschew the eccentric frontman label in favour of something more cerebral. But in attempting to reach for the moon, he ends up merely stalled and snagged, dangling awkwardly from an unwieldy scaffold of clumsy platitude and hollow couplets.

Even if "Time To Dance" doesn't quite ignite the desire to boogie it--like the rest of Mixed Race--awakens something else you might not associate with Tricky: a burning interest to hear what he'll do next.

Shorn of Brownstein's intricate guitar playing, Weiss' wonderfully impatient drums and her USP: The Tool, The Voice, Tucker is operating at brave distance from her comfort zone. In doing so she's unveiled a whole lot of other things she's good at.

It's undeniable that for her self-titled third album, Marnie Stern has made some canny decisions. This time round, several of the tracks are built around huge, stomping riffs, with the speedier guitar lines mixed further back to create more space, without sacrificing that-which-is-Marnie.

Either way, while Abe Vigoda 2.0 are a group to be respected, I have a feeling, going forward, I'm going to spend a lot more time listening to Skeleton than I am to Crush.

Everything In Between is undoubtedly a step onward from its predecessors--it's more developed in every way, though admittedly lacks a little of the sheer raw bite that made Weirdo Rippers in particular so exhilarating.

While Deerhunter may not be a solo project--though a couple of the songs here were recorded solo--this band is the musical realm of Bradford Cox. And if he hasn't found the same amount of fame as Win Butler or even Avey Tare, then probably it's because the lethargically gorgeous world he has crafted isn't inclusive enough allow large numbers of people in.

Women write songs, but they tease us by keeping them hidden, interspersing the teeniest seconds of dazzling clarity with cool sounding sonic murk. And credit to returning producer Chan VanGaalen for whipping up an ambience as dense and seductive as that sepia blizzard on the front sleeve. His proteges are writing good songs, but it's not so much a production job as a sleight of hand trick--VanGaalan stops you from seeing Women's full workings.

Salem deal in fragments and ambiguities; their music is unmistakably dark, in all the senses above and more, and saps power from the tension they set up between reality and dream. But there's light and beauty there too.

It's not a completely successful experiment, but Le Noise is certainly an important moment in Neil Young's ongoing story.

Record Collection is an accomplished piece of work, but you have to wonder whether Ronson'd be able to achieve something of a similar magnitude and quality if he was left alone in a recording studio; no guests, no help, no connections.

An ultimately frustrating listen, not because of the quality of Ring per se, but because of the undoubted class of record it could have been if only it were a little more thought through. Still, there's certainly enough potential to justify Glasser's rising reputation as a worthy heir to a certain Icelandic lady's throne.

It remains to be seen whether A Swedish Love Story marks the beginning of a new era in Owen Pallett's career. What it is for certain, however, is a small glimpse of the extraordinary range of songs he is capable of writing.

History of Modern is a record for the die-hard OMD fans only and those who have followed them throughout their career up to their last record 14 years ago might enjoy acquainting themselves with new, but familiar sounds.

Maximum Balloon really about a great producer/songwriter exhibiting his considerable talents free from the pressure and expectation of his day job.

For a band so obsessed with invoking their past, you do wish the Manics weren't so reluctant to throw in a bit of the old grit and ardour. It's a very nicely put together record, but there are moments so far away from the music that drew you to this band in the first place that you wonder if it's wrong to question what you're actually doing here.

My Father Will Guide Me Up A Rope To The Sky sounds more like the essence of Michael Gira than the Angels Of Light ever did, and ought to also serve as another broadside to the idea of reformations being inherently grubby and uncreative ventures.

These words have lost none of their clout and, in fact, Tom's reworking of the sounds that surround them only serve to underscore just how powerful they can be.

That word, confidence, is one that can be applied to much of the record. For many other bands, it can be hard to pull off accessibility with credibility. Of course, that credibility could falsely come from their community more than anything, but this case is not that simple. There are real take you aback moments on this album that are based on plain pop sensibility above anything else.

It's consistent and enjoyable, showcasing some nice new ideas while continuing to pull off the same tricks that Flying Lotus has been using to make a name for himself 2010.

Frankie Rose and the Outs grants her the right to carry on doing as she pleases. As Lady Gaga comes across as a glorious car crash with her incessant costume change homages, Frankie similarly deserves the right to chop and change between band and styles. For as she chews music up and spits it out, she makes a beautiful mess.

Tipping just over the 30-minute mark, Epic is a beautifully formed, sonically engaging work.

This isn't the best album John Legend or The Roots have made, but it's not going to go down as the black sheep of either canon.

There's a definite identity to the band on this third album, and its highest points are some of the highest of the band's career thus far, but to this listener, the band lack the kind of killer edge displayed by newer challengers to the retro-rock throne, such as San Francisco's Wooden Shjips. That said, if you like the influences clearly on display, there's little to fault, and plenty of fuzzy swagger to bask in.

For Wilderness Heart remains, ultimately, a collection of ten tracks of roughly equal length, each taking roughly one classic idea and pickling it in (admittedly, impeccably realised) production gloss and traditionalist technique.