The Killers have made half of the album of the year. Lucky that now we've got Napster, you only need to buy half. [5 Jun 2004, p.55]

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

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

Hopeless Fountain Kingdom might be defiantly ambitious, but it’s surprisingly cohesive.

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.

At 60 minutes plus, it’s too long, and neither Cocker and Eno’s ambient doodle nor 3D’s ‘Invasion’ work. But, nonetheless, ‘Never...’ is sleek, deep and full of ideas.

Despite this early start, she oozes a smoky maturity that bodes well for her debut, but unfortunately then shanks it off the fairways by prattling on about Air Max 90s and hanging on the District Line.

It’s hard to see where Bugg goes from here: he’s either a man still in search of a niche or, more worryingly, locked into the wrong one.

Steele would surf in the morning and retreat to the studio later on. It’s the kind of idyllic setting where days simply just pass by. Unfortunately, too many of the tracks on Two Vines do exactly the same.

With ‘The Romantic’, pop’s economical king of ear candy has surely extended his reign.

Kiss Me Once proves that after 26 years in the business, Kylie can still pull off a very modern pop album.

Jacko xscaped in a faulty pod, but now at least we’ve a worthy tribute.

It’s a no-holds-barred trip into Taylor Hawkins’ personal favourites, and a loving homage to some of classic rock’s greatest voices.

Ultimately it’s the album’s sense of humanity, not its innate clever-cleverness, that elevates it to something special.

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

It's impressive that singing about the careless abandon of life seems as natural as ever for him, even as he hurtles towards 70.

Total couldn't be more mid-noughties if it came dressed in a geometric hoodie, and the result is a chopped-up, sample-heavy stew that's a whole load of fun if the Tales Of The Jackalope shebang was your Hacienda.

She steps up the challenge, revelling in the church-like acoustics and delivering a heart-stopping 'Cosmic Love'. 'Dog Days Are Over' is rendered as fresh and powerful as when you first heard it, rather than the supermarket shopping soundtrack it's now become.

There's a new depth to the murderous lyricism here that discounts any possibility he's renounced violence. [12 Mar 2005, p.58]

But trying to be something you are obviously not does have its downfalls, the main one being - true colours are never easy to hide. Early on, songs such as 'Take Care Of Me', and 'I'm Keepin' You', have a guarded and helpless feel to them. She sounds even less confident and seems to provide a glimpse of inner pain.

An assured debut that scores as much for what it doesn't do as it does for its low-key, insidious rhymes and chrome-gleaming rhythmical clatter. [24 Jul 2004, p.49]

‘Monthly Friend’ might not be the progression we were quite hoping for, but there are sparks of more refined songwriting and tunes lifted by a bolder voice. An artist who’s so admirably dedicated to their craft is certainly one to keep an eye on.

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

They’ve stopped trying to do indie rock by numbers and gone back to the sort of idiosyncratic weirdness that made us fall for them in the first place.

There are a couple of duff tracks here, in the shape of ‘Fear Of The Knife’ and the horrible cod-reggae of ‘Bandbreaker’. More broadly, Skaters’ whole shtick can feel about as current as that Hot Hot Heat T-shirt lurking in your bottom drawer.

Will... have you oiling your joints and gearing up for a bit of robobooty gyration. [21 Jan 2006, p.33]

The Calexico-ish 'The Lady Is Risen' shows he can get close to a folky barnstormer, but on closer inspection the barn appears to be a set prop that might blow down in a stiff wind.

For a pair of wannabe pop classicists, Cardinal's cardinal sin is the failure to provide anything approaching a whistleable melody.

Your appreciation for this fascinating, frustrating album will ultimately depend on your tolerance for Doseone's unique voice – a strangled croon that threatens to turn milk.

Intrepid it ain’t, but sometimes the straightforward approach has its rewards.

Taking everything that’s brilliant about Yungblud and amplifying it, album two is Harrison at his most extreme. It’s exactly where he belongs, too. Yungblud’s never seemed more inspiring or vital as he proves himself as one of the most important rock stars around. ‘weird!’ really is wonderful.

Confusing, in a fun way.

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.

An uproarious set of rock songs that audaciously ape the styles of several of his current iPod icons.

The shift from trap beats and hip-hop delivery to purer pop suites Malone well, proving that slowing down can be a creative advantage, especially when you’re heading in the right direction.

Who Me?, then, is a weird, loveable record to file alongside Wauters’ labelmate and touring buddy Mac DeMarco.

Mura Masa has again pooled disparate guests and sounds to make a record that is somehow both steeped in a sense of curation and individual to his artistic identity.

Music as taut, spare and ominous as The Bad Seeds at their most malevolent. [21 Aug 2004, p.49]

Instead of offering a truly revealing glimpse into their relationship – as the album cover suggests – ‘I Said I Love You First’ maintains a noticeable distance between artist and listener, and leaves you feeling a little empty by the end.

Unfortunately, by making snapshot songs, he’s created a scattershot album. ‘Piss In The Wind’ plants plentiful seeds for Joji’s next direction – now, he just needs to let the good ideas grow.

Even a run of solid guest stars--Solange, Toro Y Moi and Vampire Weekend’s Ezra Koenig--can’t pump any passion into this flaccid cringe-fest.

Tearing through its 10 songs in a shade under 28 minutes, World Of Joy sounds like a band straining themselves to top a personal best. Happily, they’ve managed it.

It's bold, brash, trashy fun that will tempt Killers fans to fall in lust all over again. [19 Mar 2005, p.57]

More than anything else, there’s a feeling that Dig Out Your Soul might actually be their best album in over a decade. In other words, not quite the fabled, oft-promised “Best one since fookin’ "Definitely Maybe!"" but certainly the best one since fookin’ "...Morning Glory."

As I Am sees the piano songstress breaking free of her saccharine chains and delivering a streetwise, smoky set of real soul.

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

Sure, it’s worth making the effort if you’re already a Segall Stan or a White Fence mega fan, but beyond that? There’s little here to latch onto that’ll make your stay worthwhile.

This Is PiL is a relatively edgeless makeover, albeit infused with the progressive spirit of '79, and bolstered by what has always served Lydon well.

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

Here they're going through the motions, missionary style, with mechanical jangly pop and the wince-inducing triteness of Cosentino's lyrics.

It all just cries out for a little more oomph.

As a tribute to Antonin Artaud, The Peyote Dance captures the frightening, ambitious and surreal work of an artist who was misunderstood during his life, albeit from a spectator’s perspective.

Although they might be lacking teats, their creative juices are nevertheless overflowing.

Good Graces may not be reinventing the wheel, but it leans out of the hammock to give it a good spin.

While it captures the contrary, questing essence of Sonic Youth surer than any SY release since 'Washing Machine', it also never betrays the sluggish, arrogant lack of self-editing that made '98's 'A Thousand Leaves' so bilious and unlovable, and the band's self-released 'SYR' EPs so hit and miss.

Goswell's voice... is a rich wonder in itself; and unlike every other singer-songwriter in the world, she sounds nothing like Nick Drake! [26 Jun 2004, p.55]

It's frustrating to see them pissing around like South Park's Matt and Trey, when they can produce something as genuinely affecting and pure pop as 'Stay Forever'.

Producing an album that distorts time so each second is the temporal equivalent of War And Peace is almost a perverse triumph.

You may well be charmed by Ghost Outfit’s acidic battery; but there’s so much going on, you may have trouble remembering how their songs go.

It is hard to know whether Bloom wants us to engage with the zen-like revelations that arose from being trapped in the thudding reality of one identical day following another, or whether he is inviting us to switch off our minds, relax and float downstream. The result is an album that has the capacity to do both, but never truly perfects either.

Marcus Lambkin seems to have a thing for awful names and even worse puns. Luckily for us, as Shit Robot, his ability to craft sublime slices of electro house and muscular techno pop trumps everything else about him.

A bit less front and slightly more of her crazed, talon-nailed, plastic surgery-enhanced Bratz doll-persona would've made for a classic. [12 Nov 2005, p.41]

Call it highbrow, call it highfalutin, but with Wash The Sins, Esben are carving hulking tablets of stone boasting that intellect is nothing to be scared of.

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

Like most blasts of carefree romance, its charms may not endure--'Spun', for example, is so saccharine that it's in danger of making your teeth itch--but often in this life, the sweetest things aren't built to last forever.

The result is not unlike Lana Del Rey, but with fun instead of fatalistic gloom.

‘Say It’ recalls the airy refreshment of Vampire Weekend’s ‘Contra’ and the garage-pop fun of Jonathan Richman’s ‘Rock’N’Roll With The Modern Lovers’.

For now, Editors sound like a band in need of precisely what their name advertises.

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.

Has the pungent whiff of an album with an imminent expiry date. [12 Feb 2005, p.51]

What's extraordinary about Otherworldly--its expressive saxophone blare, heavy afro-funk workouts, hepcat proto-rapping and unyielding positive vibes--is that it feels like these dudes haven't aged a damn day.

The album itself consists of 11 tracks of unimaginative pub rock that, at best, rips off The Darkness, and at worst comes across like a bunch of teenagers in their first band.

While their debut album favoured a shadowy and mystical aesthetic, For Ever makes for a far more personal affair.

If you don't already know the Mac, treat this as your way in. You won't be coming out in a hurry.

Better known for one-off dancehall hits and dubplates, Popcaan isn’t necessarily expected to make a cohesive feature-length record, particularly not across 17 cumbersome tracks. But on ‘Great Is He’ he proves that the exuberant dancehall sound he’s known for can be tinkered with and remoulded, along with some undiscovered vulnerability.

If only because feeling sad isn't as good as feeling happy, this isn't as enjoyable as before.

The five-piece’s debut album is a mini manifesto on harnessing your own power, pooling it with your mates’ and taking on anything the world throws at you.

Despite his surprisingly palatable baritone, this remains an album you won't want to listen to more than once.

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

If you think Jack White's given 73-year-old Wanda Jackson a new lease of life, then think again; she's been kicking up a hot fuss since she ditched that Elvis fella in the mid-'50s.

The Bedlam In Goliath has its unnecessary extravagances but it’s still a grand catharsis from the forces of evil. Or, for those unwilling to allow a little imagination into their lives, just a really fucking good record.

Overall, Interpol seems cinematic, abstract and complex, but that adds up to something interesting rather than thrilling.

This is a brilliant--and brilliantly brutal--collection; pulsing dance music that, for all its heaviness and techno sensibilities, retains a glimmer of pop accessibility because it’s so well pieced together and just so much fucking fun. Viva The Prodigy.

They might be reaching into the past for inspiration, but Savages are pushing restlessly forward.

Angel Guts: Red Classroom is his third album in under a year, and superficially it resembles many of Xiu Xiu’s others by draping wracked and fragile vocals over obtuse electronics and analogue atonality.

Thankfully, this is more absurd than mawkish, made even better by the fact that Tahiti 80 are French people singing in English, and therefore do not always make sense.

Like so much of Gene's fine back catalogue, this is an album about the ways in which love can buckle you under and life can break you down, options closing in like the walls of an Indiana Jones dungeon.

What 'Drukqs' never is, of course, is boring. It's also beautifully paced. No track sounds like the one before, even though Aphex rarely strays far from the musical palate that's served him so well in the past.

As ever, the detail is dazzling: snippets of woozy orchestral dinner-jazz, wibbly-wobbly pastiches of children's TV themes... But in the fabric of the music itself, Mike and Rich seem to be running out of steam.

Where 'The Remote Part' was their 'Green'-esque lunge into the spotlight, 'Warnings/Promises' is their full-blwon 'Out Of Time' spectacular. But with less twangle, more teeth. [5 Mar 2005, p.50]

This might be their ‘reflective’ effort, but it’s classic MV.

This is an album to be held close to your heart and revered as psych-pop scripture.

Just when you think Audio Secrecy can get no more infuriating, you find the most overwrought of the ballads lodging their tunes inside the melodic part of your cranium.

The first disc here was made with several different collaborators certainly doesn't lend cohesion.

It reasserts Benson's standing as one of America's greatest songwriters.

For the most part, his rasping punk is a sexy but grotty treat.

When the energy levels fall off entirely on the maudlin piano-powered closer ‘Never Again’, Idiots' early signs of promise seem a pleasant but distant memory.

Besides ‘It Is Only You’ and ‘Here Comes The Storm’, the mountain-shouting bravado of old tracks like ‘Borders’ and ‘Put You In Your Place’ has been dampened, but TSU is an intriguing new sunrise.