Chesnutt’s vocals never intimidate, and Elf Power’s accompaniments and choral tongues are tasteful, careful not to overpower the vocals while innately aware how important the supporting cast is in shaping the overall mood.

Fucked Up Friends is a blissful reminder that the practice of absorbing rather than regurgitating influences--innovation and invention--is alive and well.

The Little Ones however have produced a record that naively ignores all the elements that make reality real, and therefore it doesn’t make much sense. It’s happy and lively to the point of vulgarity.

The result is like a musical cab ride from hell, a forty-minute endurance test of half-baked cockney cod-philosophy.

On a cursory listen to Dig Out Your Soul, it's hard not to think 'yeah, it's Oasis' and then unwittingly switch off - not through boredom or distraction, but because it's all so comfortable and, well, familiar.

Its restrained combination of new and old, tradition and innovation, sums up the strengths of OH (ohio), an album which isn't another Lambchop masterpiece, but rather a fine addition to an extraordinary body of work.

The best way to approach this band is to stop comparing them to the usual reference points--instead, it's far more rewarding to accept Offend Maggie as a land of its own making, something to be indulged, explored and, finally, cherished.

Had this been a debut album perhaps it would have been better received, however, the shadow of the successful first album looms heavy here and may just have listeners reaching for the older material rather than the current.

Listened to absentmindedly, its deep, rumbling groove and overlapping rhythmic lines may initially seem nothing more than an artfully assembled soporific swirl. Live with it a while, though--give it time and space in order that it may weave its beguiling spell--and delights aplenty unfurl.

Truth be told the record is hard to quantify - it's so dense and layered that attempting to describe why it works just makes it seem contrived, while it's success should measured by the fact that it sounds anything but.

Some Are Lakes is a record that grows in stature with repeated listens, whispering more of its secrets under the still blanket of late nights.

Despite the album peaking early, though, there's more than enough evidence here to suggest that Hauschka, thrillingly, is just getting into his stride.

No one will begrudge him returning to his day job with Grizzly Bear, but anyone who hears In Ear Park will be hoping he takes another working holiday as soon as he gets the chance.

The announcement of XOXO, Panda And The New Kid Revival heralded if not a double-footed leap of joy, certainly a raised eyebrow and fuzzy, dual sense of a) knowing exactly what to expect and b) being pretty happy about it.

It'll no doubt sell by the bucket load; it's one for the completists and dads at Christmas, but first timers looking for an introduction to The Clash should definitely look elsewhere.

Pieced together from bits of wreckage, this is music created in glorious isolation, drawing on its own influences to create something just as fresh and just as joyous; drifting out into the ocean on its own shonky raft.

Jake One may not be the "perfect beat-maker" he proclaims to be, but on the occasions when he finds the right connection, he can be tough to beat.

The erratic nature of this album makes it a near perfect soundtrack for these troubled times, where no one is quite sure what awaits around the next corner.

This is not the sound of the London underground (although the album ends with that particular sound); it sounds nothing like London. Not the London I know. London Undersound was made by a Wandsworth-ite so rapt by his own fears and insecurities, that he has completely lost sight of the bigger picture.

Technically it's well crafted pop music, that is undeniable--and on individual songs it's a success--but as an album it fails, it's a distancing record, it doesn't engage you and, if anything, it alienates you with its lack of evolution and variation.

Too much nothing, too much that sort of fits… let’s go with it; not enough time spent on making the musical corners as sharp and interesting as they could be.

Folds proves that, sometimes, the gamble you take on saying too much can pay off.

Never once do Dungen verge on pretension, sure their songs are grandiose and there are more ideas in 4 than most bands muster up in their whole career but then are pulled off so successfully that one can’t doubt that they are there for any other reason other than furthering the band’s sound.

Every song is predictable, workman-like, lacking invention.

If you're already aware of Koushik's work, this record may not be a revelation to you but if you are unfamiliar with the author, the laid-back magnificence of Out My Window is a fine place to start.

This is good but not as great as it probably should have been.

Assured, short and ultimately sweet, Friendly Fires is a glib reminder that you don’t need an M6 underpass, New York penthouse or guestlist to have an all night disco party, and remind us there’s no shame in getting your groove on.

The Hawk Is Howling may not induce the apprehensive anxiety of "Happy Songs For Happy People" or even match the apocalyptic ambience of "Rock Action," but when taken in isolation, even outside of the Mogwai name, it holds its own as Mogwai's first solely instrumental album