Musically, it's really just more of the boozy, ribald, shoutalong same, but tellingly the best moments are when Hutz reins in his mentalist troubadour shtick.

Back in the Saddle (Creek) is Laura Burhenn--half of disbanded candyfloss-pop duo Georgie James--whose breathy coo glides effortlessly over the golden ‘Dusty In Memphis’ glow that lights up the first Mynabirds album.

A volatile brew of uneasy drama and emotion from a band that, on this showing, should always record live.

Pop princess turned electro muse fails to deliver.

Unless you’re hyped up on a cocktail of Sunny D and Haribo yourself, you’ll find most of this album very annoying indeed.

But rather than ending up a bombastic mess, ‘Sleep Mountain’ knows that the devil is in the detail.

Returning to psychedelia of a more modern variety after the Polaris-winning 'Andorra' saw him pegged by some as a '60s revisionist, electronic whiz Dan Snaith's latest offering is a triumph to top even that masterstroke.

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

Largely, though, Nash sounds just like herself, and that's exactly when she shines most brightly.

Whether by design or evolution, The Radio Dept’s third album fits the grand scheme of all things voguish and hazy rather perfectly--though that’s not to say they’ve made a faultless record, as ‘Clinging To A Scheme’ arguably hangs from just a few songs.

A stunning LP that, in a just world, would do for Roky what the "American Recordings" series did for Johnny Cash.

Overall, MGMT's refusal to co-operate with the listener jars with the crisp and professional production – which, despite Sonic Boom's involvement, is more Van Dyke Parks than Spacemen 3 and leaves Congratulations sitting somewhere in the middle, not complex enough for the prats, but too obscure for the jerks.

The lustiness of his Bob-cat yowl on warm and well-weathered numbers such as 'King Of Spain' makes 'The Wild Hunt' a refreshingly clean listen....Ambitious? No. Delicious? Yes.

Year... continues to follow that bombastic course, packed from start to finish with grandiose, rousing flourishes and ample proggy ballast.

Thomas’ own music is more discursive, and this solo debut (seven tracks, 60 minutes) has its whimsical, proggy longueurs.

The whole thing wafts along in a pastel anasthaesia, Dadone's vocals rubbing against barely-there songs crafted with shards of synth, glockenspiel and harmonium. Conversely, the only times Weathervanes descends into twee is where it tries too hard to be noticed.

They peddle clichés about ugly ducklings and shagging that are so offensive they make a donkey braying into a bin sound like the ripe observations of a Charlie Brooker column.

I Speak Because I Can remains a stunning performance to leave haircuts and ex-boyfriends alike trailing in its wake.

Here, Byrne's well-plotted tunes can rule, and Norm can keep himself in the background, going against his natural tendency to overstuff.

Hippies is an uncomplicated, brilliant LP about what it's like to be young, stoned and having A REALLY GOOD TIME while not coming across like you're a complete tool.

Biggest irony? A trillion bucks' worth of vocal talent can't top 'Watch This', a crunching Dave Grohl-embellished instrumental jam. Sounds like a convenient juncture to give Axl a reconciliatory ring, fella.

In the fury of these cool-crushing rushes Mi Ami are exhilarating, roaring forwards, chasing risk like Can tied to the back of a pick-up truck and dragged across the surface of the sun.

Such boyish noise has been done to death of late and, frankly, it’s been done better. More interesting is David Cox and Russell Crank’s Tiga-ish pop sensibility.

This rollicking debut album is a balance-redressing, cliché-bucking tonic.

Raymond V Raymond finds the singer in an emotional headspin, and when he channels it here he produces some of his darkest and most hypnotic soul-pop to date. But sadly there’s quite a bit of forgettable bravado babble too--hardly original.

Part II is an altogether more personal and laidback affair, concerned with romance and emotions.

After the conventional bar-band fuzz of The Catholics, ‘Nonstoperotik’ is a welcome return to the quirky experimentalism of "Frank Black" and "Teenager Of The Year."

Wooden Shjips obviously aren’t interested in the same progressive spirit as the likes of fellow travellers Oneida but they’re still damn effective at what they do.