Despite Cee Lo's vocal guidance (Brixton Briefcase), you almost black out from the terribleness before coming to and realising you're too good for this soulless nonsense.

It'd be hard not to draw parallels between Calvi and [...] PJ Harvey. Yet while both women ooze an elemental kind of passion, Calvi is unashamedly slicker, especially when compared to Harvey's earlier, grungier work.

Straightaway, what's so appealing about this album is the double-barrel hellfire tactic the four-piece employ on almost every song.

Girls are a band who release their intoxicating mist over time, making this mini-album a bit unsatisfying in quantity rather than quality.

Heralding the return of John Grant after the demise of his former band The Czars left him contemplating suicide, Queen...sees him back on top form and teaming up with labelmates Midlake.

A mind-tweaking knees-up in the second-chance saloon for Fox.

To immerse yourself in 'Violet Cries' is more akin to entering a Ye Olde English fairy tale than some trashy vampire fiction, like discovering a weighty, weathered tome that lies under several thick inches of dust and recounts a distant age.

It sounds very pleasant.

Surf City spend the first third of Kudos hanging out with that same apathetic throng, but then surprise with a handful of genuinely exciting moments.

Ultimately Blake isn't yet the singer-songwriter to pull this album off.

Rolling Blackouts sees them doing what The Go! Team do: flailing and yelping like meth-addicted Energiser bunnies, which, as you may have figured, is not a compliment.

After the ubiquitous presence of '80s-indebted music last year, a follow-up with little stylistic deviation isn't a thrilling proposition: Take Me Over steals a hook from fellow Australians Men At Work, adds ooh-ooh backing vocals and just about gets away with it.

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

Thankfully, on The World Is Yours the band sound more engaged than they have in some time.

The Auto-Tune and teenage love stuff don't entirely ruin a surprisingly weighty return.

So there aren't any retreads of 'DARE' or 'Clint Eastwood' but it is a stunning album from start to finish.

Ultimately Deerhoof Vs Evil isn't going to bring about any revolutions by itself. And while the people who love Deerhoof for being Deerhoof will certainly like this, it's no place to start for anyone else.

At least once they had a snappy poetic sensibility and an admirable interest in history. Unfortunately, now they are pure turgid Americana pastiche.

Kiss Each Other Clean is a surprising and majestic triumph.

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.

There are moments when Cloud Nothings sounds like your average punk-pop record, but Baldi is willing to render outside the lines with his own idiosyncratic noodlings and daubs of C86-era colour.

Newcomers might just wonder why these old dudes are ripping off Bloc Party.

The chilly Euro-house stylings may be a mite predictable but Diddy proves a generous curator, laying on blockbuster exhibits and atmospheric slow jamz alike in the greatest cast-of-millions hip-hop joint since, well, Kanye's latest.

Mine Is Yours? You can keep it, thanks.

In the end, Ritual is not a bad album. But neither is it the album it would like to think it is.

Wire have bizarrely remained a cult concern. This ought to change with the release of their 12th record, 11 clever tracks of unrelenting and witty pop.

At other times we're not sure whether we should be laughing or feeling uncomfortable; either way Ventriloquizzing is certainly no dummy's game.

Versatility is the key here: staccato beats with mellifluous melody, rich slow-jams and edgy harmonies - but woven through with Usher's own perspective. A winner.