The music on Hippies is formulaic, but in their ability to work so perfectly within a rigid aesthetic, Harlem hint at real songwriting ability.

The top hat-wearing guitar hero has gingerly handpicked a diverse palette of vocalists to accompany each of the 16 tracks and contribute to the lyrics, while he takes care of the riffs....Yet the iconoclastic guitarist is careful to never upstage his guests.

Apparently, No Más is completely sample free, with every sound painstakingly worked on to make it sound like it came from an old sample. It's this kind of logic that makes No Más an oddly compelling listen, in the sense that you're never quite sure whether what you're hearing is amazing or awful.

On the title track, Steve asks, "Don't you got nothin' better to do than listen to a man from another time?" The album presents itself as a fitting answer to that question, and an appeal to anyone wanting to look into the distant delta past.

The summery feel and gloriously messy pop sensibility are at times great fun, but with something that is so derivative, it is hard to get too carried away without getting an urge to switch this album off and dig out the originals.

Badu remains a singular, refreshingly unpolished talent.

Without wishing to unduly gloss over the intermitting albums, Outbursts captures and builds upon the intangible beauty of their debut effort. Turin Brakes are, once again, a must-hear.

It's a slight album, but by the standards he himself set, and patchy Black Francis is better than no Black Francis at all.

No weirder-than-thou fragments and rejected material here, though: this is a seven-track collection that holds a general, accessible appeal for fans of all things sunfried and fuzzed-out.

Black Tambourine have finally gotten the treatment they deserve. This is essential listening for anyone who wonders where indie-rock's been, or where it's going. The influence is obvious, and the music has never sounded better.

Option Paralysis may be considered a side-step by some, but there are so many exuberant flourishes and cleverly thought out harmonies that it's probably better to consider it a mind-boggling step over. The Dillinger Escape Plan isn't out of tricks just yet.

Archie Bronson Outfit have hovered on the fringes of success for some time now, somehow never quite achieving the success that their critical acclaim would suggest they deserve. Coconut may be a bit too obtuse to change that, but it's a fascinating release; for those willing to explore beneath the seemingly obtuse surface, there's much to delight.

Ably coaxed on and assembled by Ward--whose input ought not to be overlooked--Volume Two is an outstanding collection of tracks worthy of any discerning listener's undivided attention.

Minor grumbles aside, however, Two Thousand And Ten Injuries is a deliriously fun listen, one that manages to suck you into its own little world for half an hour.

There are a couple of occasions when Goldfrapp's new relaxed attitude shades into lazy songwriting: Dreaming and Hunt are bland. But overall Head First is skilful pop designed for adults.

When even the track titles are difficult and unclear it is evident that one is dealing with a band that demands dues are paid. If you choose to do so, the time and effort spent may well ultimately pay off.

There are standout moments of beauty in the sound they make--usually when pausing to gaze upon the full sun--but these reveries are the exception rather than the rule, and just as the listener is absorbing them, along comes a guitar to wrench them away.

It is a hugely impressive piece of work, and subsequent listens will reveal further layers and melodies you missed first time around. Don't delay the induction a minute longer.

Tom McRae is so desperately trying to convince us that he's still a curmudgeon and angst continues to fill his soul, but it sounds unconvincingly flat.

An invigorating album, then, and one that says a great deal despite being instrumental the whole way through.

Skull In The Ice is an exception; perhaps the most tender of all the songs, it begins with a stripped-down strum and evolves in the chorus with luscious, rich surroundings. It's the sort of crescendo all these tales deserve, but the hungover state of affairs that rings supreme in this record seldom allows for this to happen.

We Built A Fire is an unassuming, quietly smouldering flash of brilliance to carry us from the deadened depths of whitest winter into the slanted and enchanted light of a spring well spent.

It is an oddly affecting and [Dark Destiny is] a neat way to close out an album that, despite dropping the odd clanger, pillages the '80s with considerable style.

What can be said for Alberta Cross's debut LP is that it does what it does very well, and the good and great of songwriting deserve recognition regardless of how conventionally they reach their goals.

Its real strength lies in the fact that it implores you to return for repeated visits to a world riddled with other people's cast-offs. Ironically, it recycles nothing; everything here is box fresh.

It's an ethereal end to an album that is both exhausting and exhilarating. Sisterworld is, in musical terms, an interesting place to visit, but you'd definitely not choose to live there.

The pace is so chilled it would make a trip-hopper give up valium, and once past Vaporise it's hard to take much notice. You suddenly find yourself at track seven, and don't remember what's come before. Things do pick up again towards the end, although by now the debt owed to other artists is piling up.

This album will, at least in theory, open a new chapter in the band's story, but the songs--as well as being significantly more streamlined--manage to stir and move like never before.

Tomorrow, In A Year provides a complex view of The Knife as unmatched in their daring, their music quite defying categorisation as one species or another.

The occasional overlong segment of a song (The Battle Of Hampton Roads) and self-pitying tone and vocal that skate a little close to "emo" (No Future Part Three...) are really the only complaints that can be levelled. This very American, sometimes Irish-American sounding album, funny, occasionally scabrous, occasionally angry but most often simply passionate, is one of the smartest and most intelligent punk releases in a while, and one of the most enjoyable too.

You won't find a more compelling wall of sound in many other places this year.

In short, Pavement's influence will continue to be felt for years to come, and this compilation admirably explains why.

That, however, is before you take into account various Eastern influences that lace themselves around the guitar lines, not to mention some unexpected interludes of funk, hip hop and even swing. As a result, taking the whole record on board in one sitting is an intoxicating experience.

Although each track sounds different, there's an admirable flow across the whole album.

Big Echo won't change the direction of modern music but it's such an easy, pleasurable listen that it can't fail to enrich whatever environment it's played in. Unreservedly recommended.

Mark The Hard Earth is a solid enough album but perhaps not the masterpiece that Drever fans were expecting. The man seems incapable of recording a duff track, but there are just a few moments on this album where he seems to take the easy route.

Rather then shy away behind tricksy, overtly difficult melodies or instrumentation, Little Boots has created a pop record in the truest sense of the word; not only does it fizz by in no time at all, it also doesn't alienate or discriminate.

The band's experimental side (the side that made them good) has suffered, as if "Wires" was the new blueprint on how to write successful songs.

Pretentious? Undoubtedly. Overblown? Yes, of course it is, but we expected nothing less.

The Bells is a mixed bag of accomplished piano pieces that could do with a bit more subtlety in those passages where the intensity rises. It's those softer, more intimate asides that have the greatest impact.

Ultimately this is not the artistic disaster it could have been, for despite some uncertainties it is clear Peter Gabriel has plenty of original thoughts to add to these songs.

It's certainly nothing unfriendly, and none of it would sound out of place on the duo's traditional weekend slot at Lovebox.

Strange Boys are not revivalists, and they're not out of touch. Instead, they offer exactly the kind of rock 'n' roll slap in the face we need in this angular, post-modern 2010. The garage hasn't sounded this good in a long time.

It would be easy to look at the words and assume that this was a band on the brink of a split, were it not for the fact that their first album featured a very similar outlook and identikit themes. Essentially, it is hard to see where the band might go from here.

So far, so deliriously cheesy. Unfortunately, the remainder of The Beat Is... lacks any sparkle or panache, with the band falling foul of a very current musical disease; the Auto-Tune obsession.

Come Down With Me marries synth-prog stuff with guitar-driven indie rock in a way that comes across as equally smart and approachable. The achieved effect is something to behold.

Walking a fine line between being leftfield and hook-laden, Jaga Jazzist have delivered another selection of epic, psychedelic sojourns through electronics, brass and beats that consistently engage and excite.

The Golden Archipelago is an admirable achievement: a project that has been meticulously prepared and executed with passion and flair.

A very satisfying addition to an already impressive Efterklang discography, then--and it would be interesting to see if the band writes faster music on their next album.

Half remembered, half acknowledged, half understood, it is, in short, very subtly brilliant.

There's just enough pop influence to catch the audience's ear along the way - the refrains on Chocolate Makes You Happy, Dear God, I Hate Myself, and This Too Shall Pass Away (For Freddy) are as infectious as any mainstream pop song.

It might take a week, a month, or even a year for it to yield up all its treasures; but after only a week in its company, this reviewer's instincts tell him that Have One On Me is a masterpiece.

What the two have come up with next is a new member and a sort of hillbilly Pixies for children, or perhaps a grunge starter kit for Polyphonic Spree fans.

This dreamy, warm and otherworldly concoction is the perfect antidote to the grey and chilly beginnings of the impending new year.

One of the most deeply satisfying aspects of this almost wholly satisfying album is the way in which the band succeed in the creation of moods and conveying of emotions.

This album and its predecessor are worthy and awe-inspiring tributes to the man and the Malian musical traditions for which he and Diabaté were--and continue to be--the strongest and most compelling of standard-bearers.

Work is by no means a bad album; it's just a disappointing one. For all their early promise, the band have made a record that reflects its title and monochrome artwork all too literally.

If only they worked a little harder at it, they could be so much more than indie fodder for those who find Kasabian's recent work a little too experimental.

It's these flashes, however, that highlight the shortcomings of some of the other tracks on ((un)), leaving plenty of room for improvement for that difficult second album.

While Mumford And Sons may not excel as urbane, multi-dimensional songsmiths, they succeed by virtue of their sheer, unabashed wholeheartedness.

Falling Down a Mountain: enough classic Tindersticks to keep die-hard fans more than happy; and enough new stuff to everyone else think twice about relegating them to the cabaret circuit.

But what comes through now is the strength of the songwriting, and his willingness to try out new things.

The album, in general, is much more relaxed than anything Reed created (post-Nico, that is), and while the whole thing has a vaguely hazed-out feel, the effect created is more stoner chill than frenetic heroin-induced madness

Kollaps Tradixionales is an outstanding album that competes with anything the band has done previously under its various monikers. It's early in the year to be predicting albums of 2010, but this will surely be up there.

This is a record built on the dependable building blocks of guitar, bass and drums, albeit arranged and (presumably) Pro-Tooled into exciting, original new formations.

Local Natives have made a stunning debut, feeling simultaneously familiar and challenging, and presenting a sweeping collection of tracks that are at once cinematic and sonically lush, swelling and serene.

Fixin' The Charts comes with a lofty goal: to grind down the blemishes that mar the rock face of the popular music mythos. But to attempt to "fix" history, to paint over its wrongs with a broad, sneerish stroke, is a gross mis-step in the career of one of anti-pop's savviest purveyors.

Genuine Negro Jig is a stunner in every sense. Its music is as fresh and innovative as it is deeply rooted in its time and place.

Odd Blood peaks in the middle, with two marvelous extended tracks which take the raw materials of '80s soul and funk and somehow manage to inject the mesmeric, insistent rhythms of Krautrock without making a terrible mess of things.

One Life Stand feels English in the best possible sense: it's cosmopolitan, unassuming and ever-so-slightly eccentric.

The vast majority of I'm New Here sees Scott-Heron looking back on his life. The result is remarkably honest; as he puts it at one stage, "If you have to pay for what you've done wrong, then I've got a big bill coming".

Heligoland doesn't touch the perfection of Blue Lines, but few albums do. It is though a return to form from one of the real pioneering bands of our age.

These are songs that can sashay straight past you if you're not careful, but producer Stuart Matthewman (whose work with Maxwell sounds equally poured over) slips in subtle moments such as the twinkling percussion on Morning Bird and the slow-burn backing on opener The Moon And The Sky.

Toro Y Moi puts intelligence and inventiveness into a youthful music genre dumbing itself down at an unduly early stage.

This is a special album, make no doubt about it, casting its spell as it makes both a moving memorial and an example of raw talent. If techno with a soul is what you're after, then look no further than this.

He remains a formidable wordsmith, and a fast mover by the looks of things. However his career develops, it will be crucial for him to keep a tight hold of the bewitching elements that help make not just his debut, but also his latest, a refreshing listen.

The Whitefield Brothers have somehow succeeded in folding the world in on itself with Earthology. The sounds on this disc are mixed together in such a way as to be totally surprising, totally new, and yet completely cohesive.

This could well be Midlake's masterpiece, which is saying something considering the esteem in which The Trials Of Van Occupanther is held.

It's not a bad album, it's not a good album, it's merely an alright album and that's the real problem.

Although Storytellers' qualities imbue it with sufficient class to shine forth from the background (in much the same way as Air's Virgin Suicides score, perhaps), its gentility and decorum are so consistent that this is an LP that needs to be sought out.

This album is only worthy of more than one star for provoking a reaction. That, at least, is better than being merely another dull shade of musical grey. But only marginally.

As much as Unicorn would benefit from having Solo or Salt Air included, it's a testament to the quality of the majority of the other tracks that they've still managed to make a solid debut.

Romance Is Boring is a triumph, a glistening, breathless success. Musically and lyrically Los Campesions! are a rare treasure of a band at the peak of their considerable powers.

Ultimately it's an incredibly rewarding listen, even if the self-observing anxiety that's writ large throughout means it doesn't quite reach the lofty heights to which its creators have bravely aspired.

This is effectively Hebden's Balearic album, and while it may not please everyone with its relatively conventional outlook and lack of experimental tendencies, few will be able to deny it as a thing of beauty.

Somehow, all this variety works well more often than not.

Realism showcases how effective it can be when it is allied to a dry sense of humour, a flair for melody and an ability to engage with more than a narcissistic world view.

Corinne Bailey Rae has completed a remarkable comeback, against titanic odds, and for that she should be applauded. But to do it with a record as powerful as this is extraordinary.

This release was unusual for the band in that it was accompanied with the lyrics in the liner notes, however, so the words that are sung, muttered, chanted and whispered are available if needed, on this most beguiling, dream-like and ultimately just-out-of-reach release.

At times arresting, at other moments it's let down by some odd choices in the production and mixing. There is enough to hold the attention and to draw the listener back.

Scout Niblett is an acquired taste, but so many of the best things - olives, anchovies, nipple clamping - are. And if you have ever been tempted to acquire a taste for Niblett, The Calcination..., along with This Fool..., would be a good place to start.

It's a moment to rejoice on an album that just feels flaccid in comparison to the youthful debut.

The results might not always work--the dreary "Disturbed This Morning," for example--but when they do, it is almost always exciting. By no means is this a classic album, but there are plenty of worthwhile moments to be had.

Their sonic departure won't be radical enough to put off fans, but the ultimate feel is familiar enough not to persuade any detractors. They may have taken a step forward, but they're still on the same street.

Its youthful sense of noise and joy and wonder are heartening, its way with a tune addictive. Would that all summers were as warm, as happy and as big-hearted as this music.

Even Spoon's nice sounding (albeit always obtuse) lyrics can't make up for the generally flat music here, and with Transference, Spoon's undeniable swagger has taken a considerable hit.