[A] brilliant album.

The detail of individual tracks is almost irrelevant, as the album drifts from sunrise strings to rise-and-fall synths to piano notes as delicate as foals taking their first steps. But it creates an undeniably compelling whole.

Being doomed seldom sounded so beautiful.

For all their fitful moments of greatness, these albums remain too cluttered with filler to measure up against the best of the band's stuff, though ¡Dos! is a tentative step in the right direction.

All those years in Audioslave have smoothed Cornell's appealingly rough edges, and as grand as King Animal occasionally sounds, it lumbers when it should roar.

It's a shotgun blast of cranked guitars, bruising hardcore and canyon-sized choruses, and it's mesmerising.

This is an understated gem of a record.

Vitalic's third album retreads the same gleefully maximal path as the records that came before it.

Each of these six songs is named after a traditional Norwegian dish, and together they cook up a satisfying if unadventurous snack.

What it all adds up to isn't big-push psych loonycakes like The Flaming Lips, but something more subtly disorienting.

It sounds like Aerosmith, with plenty of hard-rocking blues swagger and lighters-aloft balladry, but most of the tunes are rubbish.

Recorded in a primary school, the Reading warbler's third solo record is whimsical, pleasant and calming, with shades of Damien Rice and Regina Spektor.

The Avetts are clearly happiest when they're miserable. Which is fine, if you're in that kind of mood.

Only the Bond-esque 'Confide In Me' is worthwhile in an otherwise sorry array of pop bangers left soggy on the barbecue.

As its title suggests, the album is one for the long haul rather than instant gratification.

While the low-key arrangements and melancholic song choices may make Tinsel And Lights an EastEnders special of a Christmas album, if you're planning on a microwaved turkey dinner for one this year, there's probably no better soundtrack.

If the thought of tackling Young's longest ever studio album hasn't scared you off, you must be a fan. In which case, prepare yourself for a treat.

They need to retire. NOW.

When they do keep it 'cloud'--with the dissolving beauty of 'Cloud Body' and the fairytale-like 'Love Is Life'--the results are remarkable. But elsewhere, romance and originality suffer.

It quickly loses its appeal and gives way to the feeling that this is a just reasonable thrash metal record.

It doesn't always work, and the softer 'Awestruck' is kinda preachy. But when the vitriol is squeezed into Fugazi-via-My Bloody Valentine-via-Sonic Youth swagger, as on the mighty 'Catatonic', it's admirable.

The magnificence of their live show is lost a little on an album that screams 'organised fun' more than 'spontaneous party', but mostly it's giddy garage rock.

Unfortunately, this rarities compilation focuses on OM's 2008-until-now phase, and it grates heavily.

Trust never want to be seen to be trying too hard, but finale 'Sulk' is where it all comes together, like Chromatics with an evil glint in their eye.

It might lack the raw appeal of Kendrick's 2011 mixtape 'Section.80', but it's also a big-budget reminder that the 25-year-old hasn't forgotten his roots.

Its bluster and sheen ends up burying the barbed poetry of frontman Mike Duce.

A sharper edit and this would have made a great EP.

For those who can stomach its muscular experimentation, Circles is out of this world.

The album's more subdued moments--like the disarmingly sweet navel-gaze of 'Simple As This', or the folksy arm-around-the-shoulder reassurance of 'Note To Self'--are its most remarkable ones, where Bugg's voice, usually accompanied by little more than an acoustic guitar, takes on a preternatural wisdom.

So while The Haunted Man deals in less trinkets than its predecessor, it's not scant in splendour.

Slightly predictable, but the work of master craftsmen.

When Wainwright leaves us hanging at the end of 'Everything Wrong''s soft chimes with the frank, childlike, "I have been really really sad/Except for having you with your dad," each sentiment is a choker.

Lyrically witty, full of neat turns of phrase, his songs recall the quirks and kinks of Jonathan Richman, the tale-telling and wit of Alex Turner (specifically the Arctics man's gentle, romantic work on the Submarine soundtrack), and the playful verbosity of Pavement's Stephen Malkmus.

It's cinematic, dramatic, and has vocals so indistinct that Tamaryn (the singer whose band this is) could just be coo-ing "turn up the smoke machine" over and over again.

The rough edges that gave them their early oddball indie pop character have been sanded off in favour of earnest but uninspiring anthemic rock.

Musically, they've come on. Kevin Baird's bass work – always a highlight – is finally showcased to full effect on the 'Rip It Up'-style swagger of 'Wake Up' and the jagged riffing of 'Sun', while 'Pyramid' features some seriously impressive guitar noodles.

By trading nonsensical time signatures and atonal bursts for fluidity and stadium rock, they've subtracted from their former wretchedness.

The most obvious progressions are the band's clearer song structures and Lee Spielman's vocals.

Metz deliver the same righteous anger that informed much of their favourite music in the early '90s.

It has the reckless spirit of a record that hasn't been over-analysed, but with an intense flurry of ideas from someone in the absolute prime of their creativity.

Tender Opposites is a technical delight, sounding like psych-nitwits Deerhoof giving an old friend a bearhug.

Ultimately, Jialong is the sound of a producer having the time of his life--and boy oh boy is that infectious.

Mainly, Halcyon sees Goulding's quirky-as-usual vocals lazily spliced into factory-standard chart dance.

It critically casts an eye over Wolf's public persona.

There's a bunch of teary emotions bagged up in the spikiest of descending scales.

The influence of Chairlift, Warpaint, Alt-J and The xx all subliminally creep into adorable but chilling laments on dying young and wrecked romances.

Uncomplicated, Spinto Band-ish jangles like 'Second Look', 'Tallboy' and 'Everything I Know' plough casually and happily along without a care in the world, very much like the band themselves.

This is a sweet postcard from a man who still gives a shit about trying something new.

What Muse have done is re-establish themselves as a respected British institution by being fun.

Ultimately, this album is the sound of the future.

The new EP by maximalist electronica savant Chris Clark covers yet more new ground while retaining his indelible touch of genius.

It's a fine build-up to the Selkirk quintet's fourth album, due out early 2013.

It might have taken a decade, but this feels like grime finally beginning to grasp its vast potential.

Given that this album spans nearly a decade of the band's huge and peculiar journey, it's odd that its somnolent air actually renders it slightly one-note.

This is funny peculiar, not funny Barenaked Ladies.

If you can get past the earnest nostalgia and tweedy affectations, this isn't a bad album, just an average one.

This is instead a solid collection of outtakes, rather than a full display of their songwriting muscle.

Destined for the 'obscure, kinda interesting' slot come end-of-year list time.

No-wave krunch meets mutant disco shuffle meets snippets of global radness and, yeah, it's better than Animal Collective's new one.

After the twin peaks of 'Watch The Throne' and 'My Beautiful Twisted Dark Fantasy''s rap-pop grandeur, Cruel Summer feels slight in comparison. Still, as a cross section of the most brilliant, solipsistic mind in rap, it's an essential purchase.

However successful the whole endeavour (¡Dos! and ¡Tré!) might end up being, ¡Uno! can only be judged on its own merits, and those merits are somewhat erratic.

There really ain't anyone bringing the world party quite like LV.

A lacklustre collection of what sounds like pallid versions of previous hits.

The newly reduced duo return with a fifth album that could be 2012's least likely coming-of-age.

Squired by The xx producer Rodaidh McDonald, this second album is hugely accomplished.

For all the strange twists and turns, the rich layers and dark beauty to be found, nothing here grabs you and sets up home in your heart like 'Veckatimest' did.

If you've the stomach to set aside your indie sensibilities and endure the occasional terrifying flashback to '(Everything I Do) I Do It For You', Battle Born holds some majestic moments.

The trio's first new album in eight years finds The Black Keys' filthy uncles, Grinderman's cellmates and The Stooges' delinquent offspring still deeply embedded in a scuzzy groove.

Turns out bringing his [Glyn Johns] old-school rock'n'roll expertise into the southern-fried fold makes for a perfect match.

The debut album from Liverpool girl-trio Stealing Sheep strips the style of all Wicker Man cheese and stuffs it full of modern relevance.

The psychedelic outings sound too sharp as a consequence, but it's an effective repositioning overall, even if it's hard not to want to scruff up their hair just a little.

We Are The Ocean's third is a record full of lean, muscular rock and sees a band who were once regarded as sub-You Me At Six also-rans, deliver an undeniably stonking LP full of catchy choruses and chunky riffs.

The resulting noodly beats might have pricked ears in 2007. But in 2012, with Flying Lotus set to redefine the LA scene with his keenly awaited fourth album 'Until The Quiet Comes', it's not quite enough.

Considering Take Care is an affecting masterpiece easily on par with his debut, there could be no greater accolade for the genius of this man.

Cuba is just another tool for Mala, an outlet for his name-making style, which remains instantly recognisable and consistently listenable throughout.

It can be dour but that just makes the moments of light, such as the galloping, violin-augmented 'Golden Age', gleam all the brighter.

This fifth album is a relatively sedate affair.

As it turns out, Love This Giant is completely out of kilter with what's contemporary, and off-the-hook brilliant to boot.

Tempest is a relentless exploration of bleakness.

It hides more than xx did, sneaking its miserable joys behind bare spaces, surprise time signatures and subtle dramas. But listen after listen it reveals just as many treasures beneath its layers of shimmering sadness.

This band surf the cosmic channels of krautrock, cruising along on motorik beats, waving at pals The Horrors and tipping their hats to Syd Barrett as they chug through hypnotic, psychedelic pop songs.

Their introspective, mainly mid-tempo 11th album is a massive foamy middle-finger to retromania, running elegantly from jangly indie to kraut jabs.

Loud, weighty but oddly civilised.

Come Of Age breezes through their awkward teenage phase with ease.

'Algiers', their seventh album, is far less surface-level appealing, but the sad twang of a pedal steel and Joey Burns' rich lyrical imagery draw you in, and depth and craftsmanship is slowly revealed.

At times things seem a touch over-produced--something that's always a risk when you spend half a decade working on 11 tracks. But mostly, Marshall's thickly layered studio shenanigans make Sun shine.

It's a tougher listen than usual, but it's still laden with lashings of classic Lekman pop hooks and a vocal that's sweeter than a Swedish cinnamon bun.

Caminiti's style is uniquely desolate and delicious.

This fifth album of Afro-Latin rhythms, tropical chanting and brass from the former TV On The Radio (on 'Return To Cookie Mountain' and 'Dear Science') and Foals ('Antidotes') collaborators will do nicely.

It's a hardcore record from a top-shelf kind of a guy, but the work of a unique mind.

Frustratingly, the one thing Held needs is the one thing their Tumblr-goth fans are short on: concentration.

A fun comeback album filled with screeching and penis jokes.

The result is excellence as usual, with DOOM rumbling along between sinister and silly while JJ slings in off-kilter operatics.

Not a classic, then, but you could just listen to the good ones a lot.

This album's two-hour stretch may seem offputtingly dense at first, but give them time, and Swans will take you to a place that is beyond good and evil.

At its best [Four] excels with a glut of sensitive pop tunes which, although no substitute for exhilarating, provocative post-punk, prove Bloc Party are still capable of depth.

Scratch dances merrily over the electronics, but the two parties rarely connect in a cohesive way.

It's chaotic and confounding. It will frustrate as much as it delights. And no, not everything they throw at the wall manages to stick. But my, what a lovely mess they've made.