Under Great White Northern Lights would be a funny postscript. It's not particularly revelatory, less cohesive a concert film that Under Blackpool Lights, and in no way intimates that the band was about to go into hiatus. Really, it serves, more than anything else, as a reminder of just how singularly odd the White Stripes are, and how boring things are without them around.

Gone is the rawness of his debut and the innovation of its two follow ups. More worryingly, he’s missing the emotion that made those records so potent.

We can speculate as to how their ethos and focus was developed from time spent in the company of other imaginative musicians – it could well be essential to their consistent evolution – but the evidence on Peepers leaves no doubt as to how successful this union of education and expression is.

Whilst at times the melodies feel frail, and it seems to struggle with a slight lack of something musically, at others the album is triumphant, with complex, brilliant pop songs about that age old theme, heartbreak.

Song construction isn’t quite as nifty and complex as, say, Grizzly Bear, but there are plenty of moments to keep you coming back for more.

These tunes are fun and youthful, but also grown up and varied--there’s something for everyone here, whether you’re blasting this record at the park with mates or in the car on a road-trip or sitting on the beach--all you need is a little sunshine and wine (not in the car, though, please) and let Thomas, Garbus and Weisman take you to that place we all remember well (fondly or not).

All in all, it’s a shambles. Incarnation No 4 lacks the interesting feminine insight of Rihanna’s latest, the flamboyance and ‘balls’ of Lady Gaga, the nous of Annie, anything approaching the vocal talents of Beyoncé or the nonsensical slapstick fun of Girls Aloud.

Liquid Love doesn’t try to be anything other than forty minutes of groove-tastic electro-pop, and as such comfortably hits its goals.

Some real quality lies within, but it’s difficult to lose yourself entirely when you know you can’t trust it not to wander off down the wrong path.

Because past the pop songs, past the soaring (and let’s not make any bones about it, this album soars in places) this is a supremely clever album.

Sisterworld derives unity from its punchdrunk stagger, arresting the worry Liars had lost their command of atmosphere after "Drum’s Not Dead." They’ve soaked themselves in a new city and emerged renewed, once again.

What makes Broken Bells such a compelling body of work is undeniably the result of the broad range of sounds that fill its palette. Although there are instances whereby each of the two conspirators come to the forefront, at no point does this sound like a Shins record with beats or a hip hop record with guitars.

In the broader context of British alternative music, it cements Frightened Rabbit at the creative peak of the folk-crossover scene.

The focus is all in forcing just a tiny a glimpse of the endless vastness of life outside of our species. Plonk yourself down, and wait for it to wallop you.

The Monitor, then, is a boisterous, eloquent argument that rock music need not be dumb in order to be enjoyable, moreover, that we should be questioning and analysing our heritage rather than precariously stumbling onwards. But mostly, it's just a stupendous collection of songs; one that demands to be listened to as loudly as you can possibly get away with.

Far from implying that mind-expansion = mesmerising creativity, jj no 3 unfurls like it's going through the course of a drug-induced reaction.

If there were ever a reason for Black Rebel Motorcycle Club's existence, this would be it, and despite the false dawns of albums past, Beat The Devil's Tattoo can hold its head high as their most compulsive body of work to date.

After the misfire of Living With The Living this is a content, relaxed record with nothing to prove. Ted Leo is a man un-fussily playing to his strengths.

Are The Roaring Night is by no means a perfect record, and there are minor flaws to stand alongside the frequent moments of brilliance, but what cannot be questioned is how skilled they are at shaping layers of sound to form an enveloping whole, with each overlapping texture or shifting tempo plunging the listener further and further into the darkness.

In other words, it’s exactly what a Pavement retrospective should be - a heavily slanted, palpably enchanted slab of richly flawed anarcho-pop.

Any attempt to give an accurate numerical mark to such an incongruous creature would seem slightly beside the point, so it’s enough to say that A Sufi And A Killer is hard but rewarding work – the more you put in, the more you get out.

The result is a collection of pop songs with a good sense of both depth and dynamics.

Casey Dienel and partner Shawn Creeden have created something that has a sense of the familiar yet also a simultaneous feeling of fresh investigation, a record with frequent moments of measured and finely balanced beauty but also a restive application of shifting textures to create a nuanced patchwork of sounds that keep their piquant flavour with repetitive listening.

As a collective effort, The Bundles offer a different kind of intimacy; the closeness of a tight-knit group of friends rather than emotive fervour of the individual confessional.

Drever’s voice is well-suited to the lyrical sincerity of the album but avoids being overly earnest. While sometimes a bit sentimental, Drever’s gentle declarations of loyalty are charming rather than trite.

Perhaps they're better this way, as a hidden gem to be stumbled across or searched out. It's certainly worth the effort, as they sure as hell don't make them like this any more.

Hesketh can write a damn good pop song, and whether that’s what caused the initial buzz, it's something hard to deny when presented with the cold, hard proof of Hands.

Despite the handful of standout tracks, what makes Hidden unique is the way it flows as a cohesive whole.