The result is an absolute pleasure.

Not since Bon Iver’s "For Emma, Forever Ago" has there been such an accomplished album of torch songs.

Music to stick pins in voodoo dolls of the popular kids by.

Taken on its own merits, there are more than enough moments on Back On My BS to stop the world from forgetting his name. The pity is that, given he’s one of rap’s most distinctive voices, right now Busta seems to have no idea who he is.

The concept is pleasant at first, but pretty soon the repetitive nature of each soundscape--clipped beats, soft Catalan/Castellano vocals and the odd bash, pluck, bird-call and random tinkle--starts to make NME jittery.

Jeffrey Lewis has stepped in to chronicle the detritus of the human condition for his amicable fifth full-length album.

Yet get past the grating AF-isms and there’s some good tunes.

The Hacker is still a dab hand at dark electro, his rich, chewy tracks bubbling like molasses in a cauldron; Miss Kittin still veers close to self-parody.

If soukous and Congolese rumba sound exotic, the reality is as bland as yam quiche.

On their third album, the trio largely abandon the Latin influences of earlier outings for a medium-haul flight back to the more two-dimensional sounds of Canadian indie-rock.

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

We’re left with a sprawling, obvious, uber-commercial, stoopid punk-pop album that might just stop five million American idiots from voting for a war-mongering Republican baby-slaughterer when they grow up. Works for me.

You know everything is going to be OK within seconds of the surging, tidal riffs of ‘Wraithlike’, and what follows is simply a fine-tuning of what the Park have done before.

While it’s not the glorious shambles we were hoping for, there’s a feeling that no matter what rehabilitation they go through, thankfully they’ll never lose those magic battle scars.

As it clatters into earshot, the most immediately surprising thing about We Be Xuxa is that it sounds pretty much how you’d expect it to, ie confused, teenage and drunk.

Although those searching for a raised pulse will find the title all too appropriate, Blood From A Stone’s hushed, held-breath, Cocteau Twins-ish atmosphere is addictive.

It’s sickeningly impressive. Yes, Coxon’s stormed through the Davey Graham Advanced Finger-Picking Guide but he hasn’t forgotten to flip it over and write some of his best ever songs.

Though less immediate than debut "Marry Me," Actor is full of charm, picking its way through disorienting rhythm changes and peculiar progressions.

The notoriously hardcore sexual aggressor has swapped strap-ons for sentiment and turned all flaccid in the process, and guess what: it’s quite...nice.

While homegrown folkies such as Laura Marling are happy to lose themselves in twanging bluegrass and Americana, it’s refreshing to hear a Brit ploughing up our own verdant folk history. Scot troubadour Alasdair Roberts does just that.

As is often the case when a rarefied musician enjoys themself too much though, this is a wildly self-indulgent release; 16-tracks which veer between excellent and average.

Fans of Animal Collective will be familiar with the expressive freak-out moments here, but Akron/Family are secretly far more at home nestled somewhere between Fleet Foxes and Led Zep in your collection.

All that seems to have been lost over the years of caning from the likes of ‘We Are Electric’ and ‘Danse En France’ are the tunes.

Time will tell how Primary Colours stands up to the likes of "Loveless" or "Psychocandy," but right now, this feels like the British art-rock album we’ve all been waiting for.

It’s perhaps not the best month to be showing such unabashed love for Phil Spector, but timing aside, this is an outstanding album.

It’s testament to their power that an average Isis album is still pretty good.

Grey Britain has important things to say, but due to the lack of any direction or mission, it allows itself to be eaten up by the anger that fuels it.

The spontaneous sounding arrangements--topped by Watson's uniquely mercurial voice--are at turns ornate, grand and subtle, but never less than totally bewitching.

Balf Quarry, however, sees Elisa Ambrogio and Pete Nolan emerging blinking into the sunlight as they continue to excavate the more focussed sounds of last album "Boss."

Like nothing else you’ll hear this year.

Wall Of Arms sounds mostly effortless and unstudied.

As debuts go, True Romance is an astonishing statement of intent – if they’ve got any more ideas left after the 10 tunes here we could have a rather special band on our hands.

Together Through Life sounds loose and informal, and you get the impression that its creator had a lot of fun making it. A shame, then, that it’s not quite as much fun to listen to.

They do their best to distance themselves from Actual Sabbath, but too often it’s by slouching through their Satanic netherworld, Dio’s cabaret bludgeoned down by lurching riffs and over-egged orchestration.

It’s not original, but you’ll love it for the summer at least.

If you really feel you need another Canadian choral indie troupe in your life, this is worth a punt.

While their version of My Bloody Valentine’s ‘Only Shallow’ sounds exactly the same only much more so, the unexpected choices work best.

Beneath their notorious humour, 11th studio album Coaster is less angry than previous political witch hunts, but Fat Mike and co still love to offend.

The Enemy¹s second is weighed down with pomp and bluster.

They're silly but their songs demand to be taken seriously, just like Prince, Ultravox and Bowie. And yes, they're like MGMT--in that they're great.

For the first time in years, Pet Shop Boys sound thrillingly modern. The songs, too, are the finest in years.

So, business as usual then; SFA have made another enormously enjoyable record, but one that is unlikely to ‘do an Elbow’ and suddenly make them a serious mainstream proposition again.

So the album doesn’t sound old but there’s a refreshing warmth emanating from these fizzing and burbling Moogs and Parker Steinway keyboards.

There’s no better soundtrack to getting by and falling in love as the world wobbles unsteadily about us.

Art Brut haven’t made the record that’ll reverse their gradual slide back towards cult. But they have at least made the one that’ll make the cult even more fervent.

The effortlessly cool beats, hooky choruses, and above all, his witty, super-fast flow indicate this skinny blond to be a genuinely talented star.

Manchester Orchestra are from Atlanta and play loud/quiet grunge. Nothing new then, but fans of the Pixies and Weezer will love it.

Though there’s a lot to dislike, there’s also the bones of something interesting here. If only they’d stuck with making more numbers like the enticing Adam Green-ish gypsy pop of ‘Neal’, they might just have won us over.

My Maudlin Career is the kind of record that exists to reward those both mad, and sad, in love.

Still Flyin’ are a silly, dumb blast of a bash worth attending.

No matter what instruments are used, their weedy, aggro-pop retains the impression that it’s the chosen soundtrack for lifeless 35-year-olds stuck uncomfortably in suburbia.

She’s great, but Lord, it’s heavy-going.

Busy and Melissa have made a record that shimmers with possibilities, mapping out an alien territory that’s eerily inviting. Now it’s time to build on it.

A quiet return to form.

They’ve certainly lost none of the delicious oddball energy that comfortably pitches their carefree electronic and romance-heavy tunes as the work of a lounge Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

Swoon is a bit of a dying whale of a record. In a good way; vast, dark, a little mysterious, sad, dignified and palpably in pain.

Black Francis has brewed up a pretty thirst-quenching prospect with Petits Fours’ the debut album from this new venture with his wife.

The slow, dusky familiarity and lack of dynamics make for more of a groundhog day than transcendence into any fifth dimension.

It’s Dionysian disco: dynamic, decadent and utterly brilliant.

The abstract hip-hop guru’s fifth full-length offering, in the tradition of wayward cut-and-paste instrumentalism, is one almighty mess.

The guitar-led epic soundscapes, choral chanting, woeful strings and portent keys on their debut ‘A Love Of Shared Disasters’ are still present.

So, less shoegazing and ’80s pop, more Doors and ZZ Top. Still magnificent, though.

Pretty, but all too forgettable.

Two Suns is epic in scope and ambition and requires a similarly epic patience to unravel its charms.

Whatever way you look at Kingdom Of Rust it’s a magnificent rock record, one which will delight the faithful and also surely see them pick up new devotees.

This is often quite brilliant genre-busting music from a girl who makes a mockery of Lily Allen’s status as the voice of ‘ordinary’ Britain.

Life And Times is unchallenging pap. But it's furnished with the odd line of lyrical craftiness and melodies that, on the whole, manage to keep the stabilisers on his career because (as always) they make the seemingly untenable emotions of their writer sound tolerable.

The suggestion the pair have somehow increased the emotional palette of their repertoire is a red-herring, but this is still a tremendous success.

No-one could accuse this Portland trio of skimping on sarcasm--even if it is the kind of sarcasm that dribbles likes a student rallying against capitalism as he pulls in to a McDonald's drive-thru.

Crystal Antlers may be treading the same ethical path that bands such as Fugazi did, but it’s their ability to amalgamate and transcend genres with apocalyptic effect that makes them truly revolutionary.

These dark, old blues tracks have never sounded more haunting.

Although less vitriolic than 2006's "Nux Vomica," his third album still throbs with delicious melodrama and anguished assertions.

[Danger Mouse's] electronics in ‘Lucid’ detract from the caper and the sub-Lily Allen skank of ‘Jelly Belly’ is ill-advised, while ‘The Running Goblin’’s harpsichord mires it in a midden of shtick.

Simply put: an album stuffed with great, joyful songs.

In this brilliant new time of directional change, the piano-led analogue boy is practically smiling his words out on the Mark Ronson-produced 'Ballad Of Old What's His Name'.

This is a record that wraps itself around you like a kohl-eyed Winona Ryder in an early-'90s slacker movie and doesn't let go for a solid, dream-like 40 minutes.

If it weren't for the stalker-punk of 'Pussywillow' and 'Time Passing', both glowering oddly from the mess and nodding towards early B-52s, we'd shove this in the wardrobe.

Thieves Like Us look and sound like three yuppies trying out the music lark after being laid off by an investment banking firm.

Dananan’s first album proper suffers from the same problems as Los Campesinos!’ flawed debut; ‘Black Wax’ and ‘Pink Sabbath’ are both thrilling, if wonky, pop songs, but they could be appreciated more fully as singles rather than back to back.

Their default position is to panel it: hard-driving Zep-worship so unvarying in its pace that Everyday Demons comes on like one long undead riff plus a lot of yawled guff about about being an ‘Evil Man’ with ‘Demon Eyes.'

It’s no revolution, but It’s Blitz!’s heartfelt love letter to the transcendent possibilities of the dancefloor is an unexpectedly emphatic reassertion of why Yeah Yeah Yeahs are one of the most exciting bands of this decade.

Polly’s second joint album with Parish couldn’t be more eclectic in its breadth and scope.

In an attempt to purge themselves of the jaunty millstone that is "Young Folks" and all the joyous indie pop that went along with it, PB&J have ended up with a purely draining effort. Living Thing borders on the narcoleptic.

On the laidback, spaced-out strength of A New Tide, they’re still as pleasantly beguiling as they were 11 years ago.

Isis’ lewd lines on this debut arrive, then, as the law of diminishing returns for all things brazenly sexy begins to set in.

So, his odd decision to make Jamiroquai-like pillow-pop adds yet another string to Oye’s heavily-laden bow, but this is one we’d happily take the wire-cutters to.

The record veers off along theatrical tangents that recall Muse or ELO as much as Sunset Rubdown but ultimately don’t seem to make sense.

Like their too-cool-for-school foremothers, they kind of miss the point of what Italo is about. Unlike them, however, over 10 tracks, they can’t even muster one bleedin’ catchy choon.

It’s this feverishness that’s key to this magnetic and rewarding album.

Grace is less a masterpiece than an escape, a memento of his charisma and charm more than a leap towards new horizons.

This is a man who penned a song called 'Chimbley Sweep' without conceding how daft that sounds, and this overblown opus about a mythical Margaret is equally wet and earnest.

It’s a shame, then, that instead of a sequence of whip-smart sonatas ruminating on the Scandinavian psyche, all that dribbles out is a pedestrian stream of the same old bubble-bath beats.

'The Czar' is a microcosm of Crack The Skye: thuddingly impressive, richly textured and constantly surprising.

Line-up changes (guitarist Jamie McMorrow was replaced by V-Twin man Dino Bardot) have resulted in a beefier, bouncier, more playful sound, with vocals shared more evenly and harmonies abounding.

The actual music on this album is excellent--the sort of Canadian indie beloved of people who live in cities yet dress like the Unabomber....A hole is kicked in the side of it by Carey Mercer’s berserk singing however.

Obits create the same buzz in your brain that was almost certainly present the first time you heard The Hives or The Vines, the feeling which had you so giddy that you perfected excitement wees to rival a puppy (probably). This time, though, it’s not bratty whipper-snappers but a fine veteran taking the lead.

While it’s a step down from both "VV" and his Danger Mouse work, it at least might be his definitively stoned record.

The effect this record has, with its remedial drumming, crappy store-bought synth presets and faux-sensitive, third-form lyrics, is as pleasant as unnecessary eye surgery.