So, yes, it’s a tougher collection than the first, lacking the merciless hilarity you’d expect. But it’s also a strong step forward and one that proves they won’t disappear in the changing breeze of fashion.

A fine mix of fantasy and reality, made by a band who never run out of ideas, sung by a singer too smart to fall apart and too excited by rock’n’roll to stop being stupid.

Stay Positive not only confirms The Hold Steady’s status as one of the best rock’n’roll bands in the world, but establishes them as one of its most important too.

For an album called Melodia written by a self-confessed Beatles fanatic who once penned the gorgeous ‘Homesick’ and ‘Winning Days’, actual melodies are rare and most, like ‘Hey’ or the turgid ‘She Is Gone’, sound embryonic at best.

The only criticism is that the lyrics fail to make the impact implied by titles like ‘Feed Me, Jack; Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love’. That aside, this is an unexpected delight.

For the most part, The Stoop is a tuneful if beige Ronson-esque production, set against clever-lyrics-for-stupid-people.

Skeleton's only real weak spot: moments of genuinely inventive instrumentation and musical ambition are in abundance here, but somehow the songs feel less than the sum of their parts.

Sure, there’s a residual whiff of mediocrity here, but Carl’s clearly found something else in himself as part of this new gang, and as Dirty Pretty Things’ music grows in assurance, it appears Pete will remain a solitary man for some time yet.

For now though, this is a very fine record. Not Herculean exactly, but certainly something that NME loves.

While Hercules and Neon Neon took their dance nostalgia and turned it into something smart and new, Sam Sparro too often sounds like it's come straight out of an electro-funk generator--perfect reference points intact, but not developed or built upon or made unique.

There’s no suppressing the fact that, ironically, in loosening up and stretching their wings they’ve become a little more earthbound. Where once they conjured up the sound of, um, glaciers drifting across the surface of the moon, occasionally here it lapses into the sound of a wheelie bin being dragged across HMV’s backyard.

Songs begin fully-formed before spiralling into abstract drum loops punctuated by slicing guitars and vocal drones (‘Mess Your Hair’). At other times, the most perfect moments of Small Faces psychedelia or Velvet Underground basement pop will emerge from the most unlikely formless squalls (‘Sitting’; ‘Heart From Us All’).

Perhaps less time spent constructing solid, unremarkable riffs and more spent testing out the percussive qualities of chunks of dead rodent à la Scott might make this album actually exciting. As it is, it’s just adequate.

Itâ??s in its latter stages that Viva... truly goes stratospheric: on the magnificent orchestral pop title track, where Martin imagines himself as a deposed French king reduced to sweeping the streets; on the bruised â??Yesâ??, like Dandy Warhols and Depeche Mode lost in a desert duststorm; on the Satanic blues hymnal of single â??Violet Hillâ??.

Madonna and Perez Hilton may be fans, then, but if you’ve got even a passing interest in actually enjoying a record, don’t buy this one.

The positive to come out of this, however, is that on their third album, rather than hollering “YEEEAAHHH” or “WOOOOAAHHH” or “BAAAAYYBEEEEEE” quite a lot over the top of his bandmates’ still-exciting noise, Harvey now has something to sing about.

Adele is not yet ready to produce an album of sufficient depth to match her voice.

Overall, it’s a brash, shiny, confident record, careering along on a second wind, or as one jaunty number puts it, “the return of inspiration.”

If you look at it as a Grand Guignol of rock cheese, this album is huge fun.

Dr Alex Paterson and co are open for business again, plying their dubby squiggles, electronic bubblebaths and trippy soundbites to the next generation of cosmic travellers. It’s well worth a dip.

This retro sound is no surprise as Echo & The Bunnymen producer Hugh Jones is in control, and he infuses No Fighting In The War Room with a sneering urgency. It works, but only in spurts.

De Martino and White are on an unashamed mission to make perfect pop, but seem to have treaded the path too literally.

If there’s a criticism to be made it’s that the album’s perhaps a little one-note.

The Futureheads have defeated the machine at its own game and made a record that’s every bit as vibrant and vital as their 2004 debut.

What stops The Red Album being a great Weezer album, is--for the first time ever--Cuomo’s invitation to his bandmates to sing and write songs too.

It’s safe to say this album messes with our heads. You could do worse than let it mess with yours.

You have to wade through a lot of plaid-shirted, porch-rocking psychedelia before you get there. The patient pilgrim, though, can look forward to unearthing the widescreen Laurel Canyon-birthed wonder of 'Your Protectors' after one or two plays.

The Bake Sale is way too good for posturing.