A disquieting atmosphere is conjured by both the constant shifts in tempo and Niblett’s emotionally naked lyrics, while ’s naturalistic production deepens the album’s near-menacing intimacy.

London quartet Good Shoes offer little to get flustered over with this sometimes dire, but mostly mediocre second album.

They’ve possibly succeeded in alienating the casual fan with the brief moments of nastiness that are here.

There are just too many ideas for a first encounter. The good ones are special, no doubt, but a lot of the others are just other people's and lack the stamp of a band who know exactly who they are and what they're about.

Their seventh album, might be one of their best, with the band and leader Britt Daniel sounding as energised and playful as a puppy

You’ll find Eels’ most revealing, autobiographical work-to-date to be the most beautiful break-up record since Beck’s ‘Sea Change’.

At less than two minutes, many of the songs remain as sketches neither punchy enough to work as snotty punk songs nor ever developed into anything more.

The Betrayed plays to their strengths in that it sounds more like the work of blue-quiffed CGI-animated ninja warriors than real people with wrinkles.

It's fair to say that with so much going on 'Contra' is much less immediate than its predecessor, requiring a bit of patience to uncover its true shades, contours and charm. But it's certainly worth sticking with, because with their second album Vampire Weekend have escaped their collegiate niche without sacrificing their true essence.

All 13 of the tracks here sound nothing like their much parodied clip. It’s just that sadly, branching out isn’t a good thing for them.

There’s no denying that Heartland is an overflowing well of musical creativity that leaves you feeling like you’ve missed something crucial if you let your attention drift. But the array of sounds can smother the songs.

Here is a winsome, lady-driven response to the wood-chopping likes of Midlake, Fleet Foxes and My Morning Jacket that remains refreshingly sweet.

Beneath the patina of skeezy Freshers’-Week-LOLZ lyrics (“got a water-bottle of whiskey in my handbag”) lies a talent.

Stripped of all the sonic flotsam that usually surrounds them, Animal Collective come into their own--if you can ignore the chatter to listen with innocent ears, they surpass ‘good’ and remain bewildering.

Never quite hitting the peak of "Hell..." they walk a fine line here between fame-hungry thugs--something that ill-fits them--and existential thinkers with the “intellect of Einstein” and a fondness for sonic dissonance.

Nothing quite fits, giving the impression that this material wasn't good enough for the guest artists' own albums.

Radric Davis is deeply flawed, and ultimately Gucci has committed the worst crime in rap: he’s boring.

It’s not Hudson’s foghorn bellowings that are the real enemy on this record, it’s that motherfucking computer program [Auto-Tune].

They’re out of step, out of time, out of place, and have completely gone off on one in their own strange little world; as such, there’s much to admire about The Bravery. Just never go down to Endicott’s basement.

The album feels genuinely organic, a common ground of moods rather than a forced fusion.

We’re pleased to report that her third English-sung studio effort is as nutty as ever; combining Neptunes-esque beats with flamenco, post-punk riffs, synths, Arabian strings, gongs and disco.

Despite the abundance of male influence on the record, from ex-boyfriend to songwriters to producers to mentors, Rihanna makes the sound her own, and fights back.

'Poker Face,' pretty much the one song 2009 will be remembered for, are included on the original album, this becomes essential for anyone who even remotely likes pop. For the rest of us, it's the moment Gaga cements herself as a real star.

The more you delve into it the less you find, because it’s all affectation.

The lead single has been switched more times than a Sugababes member and the tracklisting has been mercurial. But, oh boy, was it worth the wait.

Submissive this is not.

This is The Cribs’ best album to date.

‘Think I Need It Too’, the best thing they’ve done in ages. And yet, much as we want to love it, the rest is a pulled punch.

It’s a hollow, unforgiving, brutal yet utterly beautiful record, full of deep intricacies that won’t let you go. ‘By The Throat’ indeed.

Can you hear it? It’s here! Biffy finally make that sprint-burst into the rock stratosphere and trample over the competition like badly tattooed elephants smashing through dead branches.

he may toy with everything from Detroit techno to dubstep, but Harvest Festival hangs cohesive.

Recorded under the radar with producer Jason Lader and Bright Eyes collaborator Mike Mogis, it’s a strange little album, just eight songs long but deceptively dense with ideas.

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

Though the harder of heart might not be able to swallow the rock’n’retro stylings, Invisible Girl is an ice-cool, analogue-warm winner. Make like its creators and loosen up.

In truth, the majority of this largely monotonous second outing becomes a one-size-fits-all affair, and you’re left digging around in this hallucinogenic haze for a new high.

Out of the lo-fi punk/hardcore/black metal bedrock clatter of sound they create, lysergic and buzzing riffs clarify gloriously before melting back into chaos.

Butler’s done well to harness the fuller ideas first explored on "Smokey" but, in doing so, has sacrified raw Devendra for something just a bit too, well, Bees-y.

Butter is twitchier than a smoker on a 12-hour flight, and you wish Hud-Mo would have more confidence in his majestic melodies before shredding them. For the intrepid listener, though, this is popping candy for the ears.

You could argue Wolfmother’s ballsy and carefree hi-octane music is all just innocent fun, ideally washed down with a six pack of tinnies. Yet it’s utterly devoid of soul and intelligence.

It’s a fantastic record, a slow-burn masterpiece that buds gradually and thrives on the oxygen of repeated exposure.

It may be breathtaking in places, but Flossie's Lungs are just a bit too full of bluster.

Despite the odd catchy moment such as ‘Die Happy, Die Smiling’ you’re left thinking that those yodelling fucking elf-botherers Sigur Ros have got a lot to answer for.

Whereas Mogwai’s more recent work threatens to make a formula familiar, Fuck Buttons’ fizzling DIY laboratory still has the invention and ingenuity to surprise.

Cox may have tagged Atlas Sound as just another side-project, but Logos is a clear indication that his solo creative output is just as richly rewarding as what came before.

OK, their lightweight bossa nova songs grate, but when they go all funereal, you get great lines such as “We move like knives through scars on land.”

Complex and artful, there’s no need to understand fugues and canons to appreciate this--its utter perfection and joy is self-evident.

Even shorn of their comedic context, the best of these tracks still have the power to rupture internal organs at 20 paces.

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

We’re all for people celebrating the music they love free from boundaries of race and that, but there’s something inescapably grating about hearing a German/English newspaper heiress wittering on about fucking Babylon in thick patois. Crushingly disappointing.

Geneva blossoms into an evocative, inspiring album.

It’s a challenging, warm if understated effort destined to thunk into the indie solo album dartboard somewhere between Julian Casablancas and Duncan from Maximo Park.

Bracing brilliance channelling the spirit of Yoko Ono, Le Tigre, Aphex Twin and Alice Coltrane.

As an album, the moments of intelligent beauty aren’t quite obscured by the gloom-by-numbers and, considering how rabidly commercial this really is, that’s something of a little victory.

The Temper Trap relocated to london in May of this year in a bid to woo the uk: this is not a bad calling card at all.

London-based collective Fanfarlo’s debut is a carefully orchestrated treat.

Ten years after their last masterpiece, The Flaming Lips have finally produced another one.

Yeah, it’s his shtick, and you could laugh with him if the music was in any way exciting. Unfortunately, however, Dark Touches filth-funk fury is made impotent by sheer lack of hooks.

If The Horrors' "Primary Colours" is the night out, then Three Fact Fader--Engineers’ follow-up to their 2005 debut--is the sound of the blissful recovery next day.

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

It's strange that such a traditional set-up (drums, bass, keys, guitars, voices) has resulted in one of 2009's most unique debuts.

The populist music-for-the-people philosophy embodied at the core of Harris’ anthem-heavy new record--which is basically the aural distillation of his hedonistic yet geeky everyman persona--is something to be cherished right now.

They have done a hell of a lot of growing up. An immense album.

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.

In less dexterous hands, of course, this could--and most likely would--be a disaster, but Darnielle's lyrical prowess and songwriting nous ensures he just about gets away with it.

To be fair, this is easily the best thing they’ve done since the mid-’80s and ‘Rockets’ and ‘Moscow Underground’ have some of that epic post-punk/new-wave disco spirit of yore, but it’s still not enough.

An exercise in taking a joke way too far.

Goodnight Unknown is another understated treasure from the prince of the perpetually bruised heart.

The problem is not so much with the contents as with the packaging. ‘Mind Chaos’ is a pop record, and, as a pop record, it kind of works – it’s full of chart-friendly singles and sung by a bunch that are bound to find themselves doted on by 13-year-olds.

Fans of whiskey-drenched, feedback-fuddled blues-rock, form an orderly line.

Having developed their sound over six albums and finally tossed the carcass of previous band Red Red Meat, these super-sized ideas are Califone’s primest, most satisfying to date.

Malawi’s Esau Mwamwaya, however, is proof that even the West’s slickest and sickliest can be used well by inventive minds.

They’ve taken finest pop moments of the ’70s and laid them out with all the retro flair of a fondue set.

‘Pick Up The Phone’ and ‘Hi How Are You’ are amusing bursts of irritation, but ‘I Can’t Stand To Stand Beside You’ and ‘What’s In It For Me’ stand out, lost classics that could have snuck on to The Who’s ‘Live At Leeds’ (well, almost).

Uneven it may be, but when his goofy rhymes catch sparks against a noxious mix of grime, electro and funky house it’s dazzling.

Musically, Madness still trade in pub singalongs powered by ska rhythms and music-hall jollity--but the jollity feels forced, and Suggs’ tired vocals suggest a man going through the motions.

Remarkably, with this astounding debut, an unassuming 21-year-old from SW2 has revitalised a forgotten form to make one of the finest forward-thinking British pop albums of recent memory.

The album itself reveals she’s also got a penchant for exhuming the sickly-sweet memory of Minnie Riperton’s ‘Loving You’ and setting it to 17 different slow jamz drenched in studio gloss.

Sure, the two slower tracks might make for a break in the relentless pace, but who needs the rest? If you just so happen to be one of the best in the up-tempo pop-smattered emo-punk game, why bother slowing down? For this lot, more is most certainly more.

It's a grandiose (Rick Rubin produces), earnest affair that sheds the trio's earthy realness for a glossy veneer which is sometimes thrilling (the majestic 'And It Spread') but often, well, nothing more than an unconvincing stab at that most scary of concepts: mainstream country.

Soft and slipper-shod as it may seem, there's a complex coldness to Sandoval's lyrical persona.

Although Joe has now reverted to the boring D’Agostino, the feral noise-pop his band creates is as vicious as ever.

Fool’s Gold might mine a rich vein, but they rarely forge anything more than mere tourist trinkets.

With his sixth release, Brown has become the UK’s most consistently entertaining and often innovative solo artist.

For all that his songs brim with melodic invention, in the end style trumps content.

This time the Mickie Most-omatic (phasers set to Winehouse) has dredged up someone so inauthentic she makes Duffy look like Johnny Cash.

Leaving behind the soul-infused, gutter-punk leanings of their debut, this desperately craves the attentions of the MOR indie mainstream in a way so steeped in bathos that the over-produced sheen of the car-ad soundtracking title track shines less like superstar diamonds and more like sun off a bald man’s head.

Recovering emos Brand New have taken doing things their own way to the point of invisibility, but their journey into the widescreen ether continues with yet another breathtakingly accomplished record.

III is unspectacular, yet it’s laudable that Billy Talent’s chins to remain unencumbered by the ballbags of big business.

Girls are genuine drop-outs, bona-fide freaks who’ve made a record far removed from the predictable cycles of the music industry. Now that’s a real story.

There are moments on indie folksters Why?’s fourth album that propel you into a state of emotional bliss.... [But] Eskimo Snow isn’t immune from the odd blooper, however.

Half of it’s as good as anything TVOTR have ever done.

It’s this ability that makes The Big Pink so special for, beneath the dissonance, the artful posturing and the pop hooks is something far more enduring: these guys have got a soul and they’re not afraid to bare it.

It’s the vividness of the lyrical themes and rich, poetic words that ultimately carries the record over, but unfortunately so much attention is paid to crafting the perfect setting for Graham’s brooding lyrics that they all too often become lost, a nuisance among an overly eager wall of sound.

As a bite-size CV of the last five years of his career, it’s pretty good.

The beats on Tongue N’ Cheek are still raw, clamorous and unpredictable, but in a springy, primary-coloured way.

This record isn’t a fifth as clever as it thinks it is. It’s glorious in a dozen other ways, though.

Journal For Plague Lovers is an outstanding album in its own right and is not "The Holy Bible." But then again, what is?