Refreshingly free of pretensions and convolutions it's full of well-written songs with melody and fun at its big heart.

Abnormally Attracted To Sin turns out to be a collection of tracks that simply doesn't work as a whole because it can't properly be listened to in one go. Pity, for somewhere in amongst it all Tori proves that she's still capable of producing a storming album.

Minor missteps aside, Further Complications is a bold, progressive step forward in the so far, so very good solo career of Jarvis Cocker.

Processed it may still be, but the emotions this time round feel more human, and, as a result, make a deeper impact.

You can slice up its track-by-track constitution--a gently sung, interesting turn of phrase here, an evocative chord progression here--but it is a beautiful, haunting creature as a whole, and a poignant testament to the power of simplicity.

'Em Are I is an abandoned puppy of an album that you can't help but take to heart.

This is a rather catchy, rather clever slice of electronica that you could easily find yourself falling in love with. It is also the kind of album that you could hate yourself for buying because you get off on the kind of tunes the Tweenies find annoying.

Impressively, then, Nathan Fake has shown he is very much more than a one trick pony, with a bold second album statement that gets more impressive with every listen. We should watch his every move closely.

More remarkable than the variety and risk-taking pursued by the band are the melodies themselves.

They will remain a formidable live proposition, but Maximo Park's third album has to go down as a disappointment--especially given the band's previous high standards.

On record it's just a little flat because it's all about energy and despite occasional flourishes, the songs are a bit underwhelming.

This is a fairly straightforward rock record, to some degree, and its simplicity takes away from those moments in which Hukkelberg thrives.

But for all its shortcomings, Bricolage is at least well intentioned and definitely well executed--frenetic, tightly instrumented, and performed with aplomb.

Once again produced by Stephen Street, Coxon has created a work full of guileless charm with a deceptive simplicity that masks some intricate musicianship, while its English pastoral ambience is interleaved with some more exotic influences.

On first listen it feels like the musical equivalent of doodling a massive cock-and-balls on a Rembrandt, but eventually this reveals itself as the first moment of compositional brilliance on an album packed full of them.

As the vocals get filthier, the beats get glitchier and it still consistently exudes class.

There is a clarity of musical and lyrical vision here that is rarely found in modern music.

Minor criticisms aside, however, Outer South is an enjoyable, relaxed album that contains some of Oberst's best work.

Even if the strut is more tentative and the recollections come with a twinge of regret, Cause I Sez So is certainly one for the ages.

Entertainment, though, sounds tame by anyone's standards; and by eschewing their seedy, sweaty origins in favour of clean-cut pop, they've dumped those elements of their act which made them unique in the first place.

If there's a more surprising album this year, we'll be, er, um, surprised; Primary Colours is one of the best albums of 2009 so far.

When you think of Islam's best music, you think of his talent for direct communication, often with just a guitar to help him out--and those are the moments where Roadsinger comes alive.

Wooden Arms, on the other hand, bears the sound of something far more collaborative and just that little bit more complete. Our refound love for musical vanguards should therefore also extend to Patrick Watson.

Let's hope they carry on with that form of expression, as Replica Sun Machine has created an early blast of summer sunshine--playful, majestic, reflective and content, all in the same record.

'Autumn Hill' is one of several tracks that will doubtless find their way onto soundtracks (Hopkins's main source of revenue), but Insides deserves to be heard as a unique and complete work of art in its own right.

Wall Of Arms is an expansive, confident second album that takes The Maccabees from indie also-rans to genuine contenders.

We're not reviewing the single, rather the accompanying album, which after all that promise is something of a minor let down.

Listening to the album as a whole, it's satisfyingly compact, a neatly produced record with stand-out tracks and growers.

Gardot's wistful, breathy voice belies her youth and the unobtrusive competence of this album effortlessly belies the difficulties she has striven to overcome.

So, while you couldn't call this effort beige, it is still clear to see that it is lacking the necessary punch to make it a classic.

Clarke is a genuinely talented songwriter, if rather earnest in his intentions, but in Music for The People he and his mates seem to have lost the plot.

It's obvious that they've spent a while cultivating a specific look, but they seem to have only spent half of that time on the album.

Yes is a super-concentrated hit of everything there is to enjoy about the Pet Shop Boys: danceable yet everyday pop, with irony behind the warmth and warmth behind the irony. One of their best.

It is a pleasure to report that the latest SFA opus is a joy from start to finish.

Once again the theme of emotional cleansing runs through much of the lyrics, though this particular well of inspiration has not yet run dry.

Touchdown is a concise, flab-free 35 minutes of music made by a band, which despite their collective CVs, probably wouldn't be picked out of a line-up.

Art Brut have retained their cheeky nature from earlier albums--the riffs and grooves are tight, and the lyrics are clever.

Despite a couple of forgettable tracks near the end (the bland Tony The Tiger, and the overlong Everything To Nothing) then, this is an album that wears its befuddled, het-up, over-emotional heart on its sleeve, and is all the better, less slick and more interesting for it.

The band's way with a catchy hook and a summery, laid back vibe may yet see them overtake Maroon 5, but that's where their lofty thoughts should settle for now.

It's the musical equivalent of the death of Bambi's mother: exquisitely rendered, but, once experienced for the first time, you need to steel yourself for subsequent visits.

Mythomania is overdriven, with sparks flying from the bolts in its neck and fruit machine cherries lining up in its vacant eye sockets. But it sounds perfect somehow.

It's a record for parties, for escaping the grind, and for enjoying your relaxing drug of choice.

In the context of a studio recording, Cage The Elephant's premiere isn't far off insufferable.

It would be nice to see The Broken Family Band attempting something other than the boringly retrograde rock on display in Please And Thank You.

A good first try for an album, but it's just not quite there yet.

Dance Mother is not, and is clearly not made to be, easy listening - it's an admirably ambitious rather than lovable record, and it doesn't reveal its secrets in a single listen.

Owen and Hobbs could have just rewritten their debut note for note, but instead they have chosen to take us on a journey that many of us know all too well. Here's waiting for the next instalment.

It's reminiscent at times to what pal and label stablemate Will Oldham did on Bonnie "Prince" Billy Sings Greatest Palace Music.

Standing alone, Fantasies is an accomplished, enjoyable LP. Next to its siblings in the Metric back catalogue, however, it seems to lack urgency, a sense of the essential, dynamism, and even the touch of righteous anger that made itself known now and then.

Swoon, then, is a mixed listening experience, with the solemnity and over-seriousness of the general tone and the occasionally grating nature of that voice being more or less mitigated by some lovely melodies and first-rate guitar riffs.

Petits Fours just has too many annoying bits about it to be good.

The point really, as it is with all of You Can Have What You Want, is that regardless of what era Papercuts are paying (unintentional) homage to, they always sound relevant and never out of step.

The Future Will Come is the kind of album you could listen to loudly in a club, or at home with some headphones and it would suit either. Welcome back intelligent dance music, we've missed you.

His legacy already assured in his field (or fields, perhaps) with no apparent signs of slowing down, this is further evidence of the enduring, glitchy charm of Prefuse 73, and another compelling reason to seek him out.

Carpeth is traditional enough to please the Cropready massive, but also quite experimental too. Those new to the genre might be better served by checking out something more palatable, but for those with a taste for something more outlandish Carpeth certainly delivers.

Amongst the other songs of Spring Tides it only serves to pull you further under the hypnotic spell of Jeniferever.

Two Suns is a dense, intricate album that features at least six brilliant songs, two of which are pure pop gems.

It's a joyful sound when she cuts loose, and wedded to an attitude you wouldn't mess with, works a treat.

Kingdom Of Rust is a triumph, and the best album the band have ever produced.

It's not what you'd call pretty, exactly, but there's a hell of a lot of charm and admirable grit to Young's decision to say bollocks to politeness and tell it like it is.

The acid test for an album such as this is to play it on a grey day and see if it can still work its magic. Begone Dull Care certainly does that, and is all the more remarkable for doing so with only eight tracks to draw on.

It is in reality a bit boring, a bit generic, and a bit aggravating.

Apart from the nice flourishes and an undoubtedly authentic-sounding replication of mid- to late-'60s underground psychedelia, this album seems to have been something of a misfire, lacking a convincing emotional undertow, or sufficient clarity in its musical presentation to engage or entrance the listener.

The band's relatively quick turnover suggests a restless creative spirit. However Sun Gangs harnesses that to communicate music of a raw emotional power, a record that should open more doors for the band than it closes.

His craft here does have more to do with storytelling than it does with music making, but these haunting, desolate narratives are very much complemented by the lo-fi, repetitive, yet meditative backing tracks, which are ultimately presented like the lost soundtrack to a movie.

It is to Costas and Burton's credit that they have fashioned such an enchanting album from such an unpromising premise.

This is a confident debut by a band that can only keep on improving.

Dananananaykroyd are, on this album's evidence, a fine band.

That they emerge victorious is a tribute to the strength of these fine songs as well as some seriously glamourous production attitude.

Whatever your interpretation, it's clear both parties have a deeper understanding of one another's music than any outsider could ever hope to comprehend, a synergy that has only strengthened over the 20+ years of their acquaintance.

It's a frustrating listen, ultimately. There's enough promise here to suggest a band full of potential, but you get the feeling that they won't be breaking out of that cult status anytime soon.

Be that as it may, it is the band's recent failure to effectively collaborate, and for these 11 tracks to properly mesh, that has fostered the mediocrity inherent in A New Tide.

The wry humour on display even extends to the setlist, with 'I Tried To Leave You' being the first song of the encore. It's little touches like that which make Live In London both the perfect souvenir for those who were there on the night and also a handy introduction to one of the true living legends of the music industry.

Listening to Rules is a surprisingly boring experience. At several instances throughout this album you wish someone would let rip with a guitar solo, fire off a rave horn or just do something to liven up proceedings.

Labyrinthes is a jubilant album of experimental indie pop that hold ups to the scrutiny of constant plays. You may not have an idea of what's being sung, but it's a great album which easily transcends the language barrier.

While it might be criticised for not having some of the mystery characterising previous albums, Lost Channels is a blissful yet haunting record.

Big production bombast in the latter half of the record--especially on 'Africa,' the English-language 'I Follow You' and the title track--could happily be skipped over, but there's at least half a record here that's as indispensible as it is likeable.

This is an odd gem of a record that should be cherished in a class of its own.

Grace/Wastelands is Doherty scrubbed up, older and wiser and showing signs of regret for the past. It is a great album but then, so have they all been.

Minor grumbles aside, Bromst is a thrilling, hyperactive album that runs from calm and composed to frantic and frazzled, usually within the space of an intro.

The result is both classic Decemberists--all folk pop whimsy wrapped up in darker lyrics than their surface suggests--and a new direction, using the '60s/early '70s folk foundations to follow their logical path into that odd corner of the English genre that somehow crossed over with Heavy Metal.

Anyone with even a passing interest in Royksopp--whose ears have been pricked by an Eple or Poor Leno--could do far worse than immerse themselves in one of 2009's greatest releases.

Crack The Skye is a monolithic achievement from a band that never compromises in terms of vision or style. It's easily the best metal album of the last 10 years.

1990s have not made a bad album, but like the decade itself Kicks never lives up to its promise and contains too many derivative and unmemorable moments.

As an homage to bands that paved the way, though, Fuckbook succeeds.

Most of the songs are well constructed and do not outstay their welcome, though a few do not make the grade.

It's all surface no feeling.

Their debut is never a dull listen, and boasts enough creativity and considered intelligence about it to set Grammatics apart from their indie contemporaries who are young pretenders by comparison.

To Lose My Life is an album made to a predefined plan with skill and no heart.

While this means that all is not lost (or perhaps more accurately, saved), it does leave the listener with a sense that he's not sure whether he wants to embrace a new direction or not, resulting in an album that is somewhat disjointed and ultimately unfulfilling.

The next obstacle for Wavves will be deciding whether to ditch the bedroom and work in an actual studio, but for now these lo-fi pop gems are more than enough to be getting on with.

All in all, passably decent party music, but lacking in the divine touch its title might imply.

For most of its lengthy running time, though, Easy Come, Easy Go is terrific.

This album, though at times an obscure experience to the untrained ear, is at other times Royksopp-like, though never to the point of radio friendliness.

While there are resemblances Spiritualized, what should be a slow burning record, white hot in its intensity, is laid to rest sounding rather limp and uninspired.

Just when you think the album is sinking into mediocrity, Borrell and company respond with two of the best tracks they have ever put their names to.

This is a startling new direction, and while not entirely successful, it confirms Cornell as a vocalist of versatility and strength.

As a product that needs to sell it fits the bill perfectly - there are at least five potential top ten singles here--but as an album, the whole thing feels precision tooled, vacuum-packed and strangely lifeless.