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.