Sure, 'The Weirdness' rarely comes close to capturing the feral magic of the band's best vintage work (even if 'Mexican Guy' is built on the same rhythm as '1969') , but, hey, it's The Stooges - and that should be enough for anyone.

If Burrows gifted Razorlight two of their biggest hits (in "America" and "Before I Fall To Pieces"), what his former band gave him in return was the platform to bring something far more interesting into the light of day. Welcome the new dawn.

While the album may not fully scale D'Agostino's high bar, in attempting to make that leap Cymbals Eat Guitars have made their best album to date as well as a touching goodbye to a friend.

There's a 10 out of 10 album that's been thrown away here; as it is, it's the best demo you'll hear all year. [12 Nov 2005, p.41]

The five new tracks added for the UK release, especially the Suicide throb of ‘Run Around’, suggest the real thrills are to come on their debut proper, but for now, this is an exciting enough introduction to a new force of darkness. Buy two, and give one to a hippy.

Uptown Special is Ronson’s moment of absolution: you can try to hate it, but in the end, as with all the best pop music, resistance is futile.

Music For Men is a sugar-coated dance record that echoes with universality.

It is a collection of whimsical neo-psychedelic folk songs of no little charm, but, crucially, little drama either.

Aside from the vocoder-enhanced cosmic disco that features midway, this is an introverted offering--though much too good to fall asleep to.

Having eschewed the garage rock roots of their debut, DOLL have morphed into a temper-explodin', strop-throwin' antithese to their Swedish peers. [3 Jul 2004, p.65]

They sound like they actually mean it. [11 Sep 2004, p.57]

Nothing new, then, but the Jaxx's sound returns re-energised. Call it the Disclosure effect.

O’Neill’s sixth sounds both settled and intensely familiar, with the sense little time has passed since 2009’s ‘A Ways Away’.

It has the pomp and arrogance of their best work, enough new sounds and interesting new avenues to satisfy the musos and, at its core, is a very good collection of very good songs played very well. A little more silliness would go a long way, though.

While the guitars are grimier and the drums hit harder, Pins haven’t totally smothered their sound in engine oil.

Business-as-usual has rarely sounded this beautiful.

As intelligent as it is ferocious. [31 Jul 2004, p.40]

This is a lovely record. [12 Mar 2005, p.58]

Green Language is an adventurous, enthralling, emotional and frequently brilliant album, then. And yet, from an artist of such rare talent, it’s also a frustrating, slightly underwhelming one.

It’s a self-important album, but an accomplished one.

Epic guitars, crashing drums and intense keys--it's a dramatic record that will shake your bones.

The subtle, sleepy, silkily textured likes of 'Pity Love' and the spry, sly 'Just To Make Me Feel Good' are a sweet breeze.

‘Ways To Phrase A Rejection’ proves the four-piece do a good enough job of recreating the kitchen-sink narratives of the era, but where they really excel is when they slip back into the 21st century.

Skeleton's only real weak spot: moments of genuinely inventive instrumentation and musical ambition are in abundance here, but somehow the songs feel less than the sum of their parts.

Where he once seemed like a busking Rodney Trotter, he’s now left the loser affectations behind and is more like Del Boy, a man aiming for bigger and better things and becoming a national institution in the process. Lovely jubbly.

No surprises here, but it’s hard to fault Kannberg’s strongest solo album yet.

Majical Cloudz may be dark, but there's light poking through.

So We're New Here isn't exactly groundbreaking, but it showcases a producer so in love with the music of now that he not only preserves the power of his source material, but makes it more relevant.

History has rarely been so engaging.

Truly, Weller's back. And this time, he rules.

The Sounds pick up where White Rose Movement faded out, with their melange of sussed Scandi cool, new wave pop pout, and Killers-style synth mayhem.

Having distanced themselves from the E-word long before it became fashionable to do so, Chase This Light sees them outgrow it.

Noctourniquet's greatest strength--or, to hardcore prog-trolls, its unforgivable weakness--lies with its melodies.

At 32 minutes it’s brief, but not without its thrills.

Another set of unassuming Americana. [19 Mar 2005, p.59]

A mini-classic of magpie pop. [21 Jan 2006, p.35]

If you look at it as a Grand Guignol of rock cheese, this album is huge fun.

Shamelessly self-indulgent, you imagine their aim is to jam themselves into a sonic trance as much as the listener.

Bye Bye 17 ditches raunch and irony for old-fashioned songwriting and something approaching sincerity, and the results are kind of amazing.

'Tired Of Hanging Around' is one seriously pissed-off, paranoid, twitchy record.

A set of heartbreak hymns to sob come curfew time.

It’s safe to say this album messes with our heads. You could do worse than let it mess with yours.

Mainman Rick Froberg might be midway through his fifth decade, but he and his cohorts can still make one hell of a racket.

It’s easy to hear his plaintive songs, full of heartbreak, mountains and fjords, and picture Ásgeir recording in Bon Iver-style isolation.

Sounding as vital as they ever have seven LPs down the track, there's life in them yet.

When they get it right--‘Let Go’ is precisely the sort of arthouse R&B blockbuster they could’ve done with more of--they flirt with perfection.

Sonic developments in the form of style, delivery and arrangement (an experimental approach no doubt encouraged by Mogwai producer Tony Doogan, who recorded the album in Glasgow earlier this year) are marred by disappointingly dumb and predictable lyrics, and where the quintet once made it sound so easy to come up with killer choruses, this second effort finds them slumping into forgettable filler territory on more than one occasion.

Tell Tales is spirited and theatrical, if not necessarily memorable enough to pass into local lore.

Convalescent, and luminescent.

The Free Nationals’ supreme musicianship is unquestionable, but they more often than not seem to require an outside presence leading from the front to really bring it all home.

One knock-on effect of going professional is that you can now hear the music clearly and properly, and it turns out that Mr. Williams isn't exactly a Mozart in the songwriting stakes.

The problem is that Ferg fails to provide a coherent musical vision to go with these compelling reminiscences.

Even more subdued than usual. [12 Aug 2006, p.32]

His choices are faultless and his sense of fun is very apparent.

Hazy, dark, The Cure-ish dreampop with a Lynchian vibe.

Given what we know about Cuomo’s eccentric inner world, it’s hard not to find those dazzlingly perfect melodies kind of hollow.

They have the relentless persistence needed to stick to the wall long enough (this is their third self-released album), but despite their striving for the grandiose (Kings producer Ethan Johns provides the country-ish bluster) and breaks (a spot in rom-com Going The Distance for last album "Union"), there's still that dark sparkle missing.

Unfortunately, in trying to take on all comers at once, there are parts of Queen that feel like an overreach. There is a better ten track effort hiding in Queen, but you get the impression Nicki kept tracks like ‘Miami’ to hedge her bets in a bid for streaming success. The Queen is back, but only just.

Hushed vocals, strummed guitars, creeping cello, and an all-encompassing sense of politeness are the order of the day. [19 Jun 2004, p.57]

We find exquisite Beatles-indebted pop, moments of effortless lyrical and melodic brilliance and a few tunes which drift dangerously close to easy listening.

Where it works best is that clear marriage of anger and aspiration, interwoven with Furman’s melodic drawl, musical tenderness and reverb. In parts, though, ‘All of Us Flames’ is an example that sometimes less is more.

This ain’t ‘Chinese Democracy’. ‘Still Sucks’ doesn’t feel laboured or overthought and never overstays its welcome.

The result is a soothing, slow-burning collection which reflects on times and friends gone by.

In parts Riz's flow is slightly awkward, but his rhymes are tight and full of razor-sharp quips, and the production is slick and energetic.

For all its prettiness, though, Passerby is a record that boasts about as much excitement as a gentle breeze, and its rewards are too few and far between.

If there’s a criticism of Broken Politics, it perhaps that the record doesn’t broadcast this voice often enough.

For all Hemerlein’s prodigious talents, you can only have your heartstrings tugged for so long before it all gets a bit wearing.

[Shonen Knife's] 13 Ramones covers sound exactly like you'd expect.

Swirling synths abound, but remain encased in four-minute micro-epics which sometimes mine the icy ambition of pre-megastardom Simple Minds.

Spiky, occasionally over sugary. [14 May 2005, p.67]

Although clearly Canibus is undoubtedly one of the best freestyling lyricists of his generation, he's still to find the right production team to match his vocabulary.

Twist[s] both the ultra-familiar and the obscure into awkward new shapes. [21 Jan 2006, p.35]

A little shade among the sugary rays might not go astray, but maybe that's just the goth in me talking.

It's not without charm--the needle-jump static of 'Dolly And Porter' gently drives a sweet melody; stroboscopic flickers of synth make a gripping arrangement for 'Closer To The Elderly'--but too often it's just Taylor's fragile voice cooing drab, introspective mantras over sparse electric piano.

If you've ever wondered what growing up in middle-class 1970s America would have been like, these deeply personal revelations are for you. [30 Apr 2005, p.64]

Constant jangle blurs the songs, and a cover of Neil Young’s ‘Revolution Blues’ only emphasises Ranaldo’s newfound likeness to the Canadian in one of his dirgier moods.

The album could do with being at least half of its 70 minutes, to cut out the self-indulgent meandering.

Uncanny Valley is like listening to a latter-day Oasis album: too weakly reminiscent of past achievements to really satisfy.

Sometimes, on Magick Songs, you may wish they would--there’s a little alienating insularity here, but it’s still inspiring to see the band follow their instincts.

Ultimately, this is just a rock album that does exactly what it says on the tin. They are head-banging, pitch-altering rock songs that may not change the world right away, but they’ll give yer head a little wobble at the very least.

Presented as a 96-minute opera, his fourth studio album is a haughty gesture weighed down by its own folly, scanning instead as pathos.

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

So one third's great and two thirds grate, which is an improvement at least.

Ultimately, it lacks the variety or the startling sonic leaps that would make it essential. Interesting, but no cigar.

A good seven years out of date, Doom Abuse is pure synth-pop mania, frequently teetering between unadulterated Trent Reznor pop brilliance and impressions of Skrillex driving a monster truck through a Savages gig in a video arcade.

Duck is far from inventive, but there’s fun to be had.

This is, primarily, experiential music, meant to be enjoyed communally at their ear-splitting live shows.

It's often hugely clever... but tends to forget that the best metaphors are the ones that make you crack involuntary smiles, not the ones that require five minutes and a dictionary. [26 Feb 2005, p.66]

Grizzly Bear’s Chris Taylor has his production paws all over San Franciscan quartet The Morning Benders’ second full-length effort, and while Big Echo has more than pastiche to offer, a great deal of it still sounds a bit too familiar.

Shelter From The Ash is a more sedate affair, full of ghostly baroque folk stories that feel disappointingly ethereal.

‘Convocations’ is a mature work, but its length and intricate creation makes it difficult to get under its skin, the record’s wonderful honesty hidden behind layers that you wish could be peeled back.

As with everything The Indications do, ‘Private Space’ is incredibly listenable, yet for all their efforts to expand their sound, they still rest often on the formula of old.

In summary then, better than most if you like that sort of thing.

A few strokes of fortune might send this London quintet--or, say, Clock Opera or Fixers--towards stratospheric hugeness.

It’s ultimately toothless.

It's those constant and predictable superstar interjections that prevent the album from standing out as much as it had potential to do.

She’s as frustratingly twee as a hailstorm of cupcakes. Her second album’s adventures into electronica on the squelchy, sulky ‘Kill My Darling’ and the unsettling ‘Next Summer’ are more remarkable.

This may not be a groundbreaking record, but it’s definitely one that delivers bops befitting of a woman who keeps on performing even when she’s served with court papers on stage.