This record is as on disco and early house's dick as much as Britpop was on The Beatles' and The Kinks'.

As good as he evidently is as an arranger for the modern pop market (props, too, for song-penning collaborators Paul Epworth and Anthony 'Eg' White)--lacks lyrical consistency: for every neat tongue twist guaranteed to have you mouthing the words back in the shower the next day, there's some truly atrocious couplet that's best forgotten before it's heard.

Once, this band were making music to stare skywards to, to contemplate the vastness of the universe we’re such a tiny part of; now they’ve discovered a hidden reserve of human spirit, sucked it in and produced a record that will reconnect their wealth of talents to listeners fearing they’d forgotten how they’d ever reached such a lofty pedestal. It’s great to have them back.

Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea is the logical next chapter in this manuscript which has had many of us hooked since the opening lines.

They try hard, Coldplay, but it just isn't enough; their fourth album might just be their best yet, but it's still a long way from being the epochal classic that Chris Martin is desperate to create.

There’s no doubting it’s a very good album. The band’s best? Probably not. A successful return from a hiatus overlong? Certainly.

Regardless of the songwriter, the lyrics overlap from track to track, and no doubt there will be a few erudite folks campaigning to weave a singular poetic storyline for our edification. Whether this is by design, or simply the product of the fanciful imaginations of Wolf Parade fans, the casual listener is rewarded with a batch of songs that works best when taken from a beginning-middle-end perspective.

Despite the sometime over-the-top dynamics of its voice--the USP that’ll actually be the main appeal to certain admirers, anyway--this album is an engaging listen, one that builds on the promise of its maker’s debut and suggests that, with a little taming, My Brightest Diamond could enjoy the sort of recognition the likes of Bat For Lashes can attract--neither will ever be Björk-sized of profile, but each is creating engrossing, romantic music that transcends genres.

Clever, joyous and never patronising, O is a half hour bite of summer that’s perfect for fending off the darkening nights.

Like an unexpected fist in the face from a five-year-old, Ponytail’s boisterous pop-punk jams are saved from saccharine overkill with some unexpectedly tight hooks, plus a paradoxical, feathery lightness of touch that makes their music feel orgasmically flush even at its churningest and most densely impenetrable.

A remarkable turnaround then, and although not quite a 360 degree shift, this is a damn fine record that Feeder should be proud of.

For now, Strength In Numbers, whilst not exactly redefining the zeitgeist, is a lot better than anyone could have expected.

The co-writes--not as many as you might’ve expected--generally boom from the speakers. The self-penned efforts are bare-boned, erratically excellent but frustratingly blighted by Adele’s penchant for going beyond her capabilities as a vocalist.

Briskly performed, smartly assembled and largely unmemorable, Diamond Hoo Ha is a lot like half-asleep sex; you’re vaguely aware this is supposed to be fun, but you keep drifting off, and you might have to ask the person sitting next to you if it actually took place come the morning.

The biggest problem with You Cross My Path isn’t so much the music though; sure it’s not an invigorating brew, but the blend of swirling Hammond and ponderous bass and drums stays on the right side of tepid most of the time.

Where the separate parts of the first half didn't gel – the chopping and changing of different styles too much to take in, perhaps, in too short a period--the second part is much easier to handle, and whilst the strong finish isn't enough to stop it falling short of "Z," Evil Urges does find its own place given time.

Formula is strictly adhered to, and while pace may differ from one jolly strum-about to the next, the void where there should be a worthwhile tune remains.

While Seeing Sounds is a marginal improvement on N*E*R*D’s second album, and a massive leap forward from Pharrell’s damp-squib of a solo record, it doesn’t quite reach the heights of (either version of) their debut, let alone the pick of Pharrell and Chad’s production work for other people.

'To America’ comes across very much a modern take on West Side Story replete with fine vocal performances from its central pair, sweeping strings and ebullient brass, it’s a jubilant finale to an album that, while never quite surpassing the evocative beauty of the band’s first, matches it with a keen flourish.

The record is almost as seamless as it is engaging, and it subtly commands your attention from start to finish.

Dragging a Dead Deer Up a Hill, can simultaneously be one of the most delicate, affecting albums of the year, and, yet, at the same time have such a strange, menacing name.

Little is embellished, musically or lyrically, and the no-frills approach can sometimes work in a band's favour. But this workmanlike trawl through suburban life won’t set your world on fire.

And that's what makes Exotic Creatures Of The Deep such an interesting and deceptively ambitious record. Not only is Russell Mael still capable of using camp innuendo to mock himself, as on album closer 'Likeable', but he's also not afraid to put those who owe him and his brother a debt of gratitude - however small - in the public spotlight.

Despite all of the ingredients for a great album being present, it just doesn’t ignite, perhaps due to the unmoving, maudlin stance from which it is all delivered.

These glimpses of something unexpected are few and far between, much of We Started Nothing tonally muddled into a weird new form of MOR: cool for five minutes amongst the fashionable crowd but unlikely to reach audiences beyond those fascinated with the hot and happening.

Takes never truly shakes the initial notion of a missed opportunity: failing to place a distinguishable spin on the material it seeks to celebrate, ultimately coming off a well-intended curio ticking as many boxes as it omits.

It’s one almighty journey through realms uncharted by The Futureheads thus far, and it’s done in fine form.

It’s from this multi-layered hive of instrumentation and exquisite verb-spouting though where ExitingARM begins to flourish.