This clash of sweetness and discordance can be irritating.

A blissful happiness pervades 'Baby I'm Bored', but then that's Evan all over.

All perfectly good stuff, technically excellent. But 'American Life' also feels like an unnecessary sequel, a 'Men In Black II', made because hell, if it ain't broke...

'Anxiety Always' is a triumph of punkish spirit, an album that embraces creeping horror like an un-comfort blanket.

As irresistible at its peak - the luscious 'Little Eyes' and a lovely interpretation of Big Star's 'Take Care' - as it is baffling at its prog-jazz edges, 'Summer Sun' is the crowbar that pries open the door into a world of left-field beauty.

The eloquence, barbarism, tenderness and sweat-drenched vitality of 'Elephant' make it the most fully-realised White Stripes album yet.

Like Eminem, Williams is desperate to give his own spin on tabloid coverage and determined to prove himself as human as the rest of us, but incapable of letting us forget he's a star. Except Eminem is the voice of a generation while Robbie Williams is just the voice of Robbie Williams, and while Eminem has Dre, Robbie has a ramshackle posse of musicians roped in to create this album's (wait for it) 'spontaneous' live sound.

While being as well-crafted, catchy and dynamic as the first one, it leaves you feeling distinctly underwhelmed, as if the band had simply reprogrammed the Pro-Tools machine that they'd made the first album on and changed the lyrics and speed of the songs a bit.

It's every ounce of Idlewild's potential fulfilled at once.

A joyous slice of orchestral prozac.

When you cover this sort of expansive, experimental territory, you're inevitably flirting with pomposity. But like Tool or Radiohead, Cave-In's progressiveness is hypnotic rather than alienating, played out with a sense of near-religious awe that's difficult to deny.

It takes a while to work out what an absolute waste of 21-year-old Londoner Naomi McLean-Daley's incredible talents this album is.

It works in the same way that Doves' 'Lost Souls' did; that is, by inviting us to bed down in its sumptuously familiar lyrical folds while offering us a warm mug of Something A Bit Different.

A raw blast of electric power that serves as a career coda, of sorts.

The funniest, most refreshing British debut in years.

Flamboyance and melancholy in equal measure, then, but 'White Noise' mainly leaves you cold.

Their all-or-nothing ambition is exhilarating, however raw the execution.

It's exhilarating, daft and triggers spontaneous hair growth better than a vat of Pantene.

'Life On Other Planets’ is about three-quarters of the great album everyone knows they can make.

It's what The Velvet Underground would've sounded like if they'd been psychopaths. With a heart.

'Mary Star Of The Sea' has that kind of miracle-working effect: a euphoric and consistent hour of genetically-tweaked stadium rock that re-establishes Billy Corgan as a great, rather than ridiculous, frontman.

Of course it's pretentious, but the blend of reading-group rock, goth showtunes and gold standard hamming from Willem Dafoe and Steve Buscemi is surprisingly compelling after a while.

Filled with both a clarity of instrumentation and thought, this is an album of undeniably mature work. And one which knows how to effect a large emotional impact without unsightly flexing of the muscles.

When The Bees hit the target, as on domestic-violence lament 'Angryman; and the glacial funk of 'Sweet Like A Champion' the ghosts of everyone from JJ Cale to Hall & Oates to the Stone Roses enter the room.

Britrock's grumpy uncle has regained his gnarled spirit here and fans will feel all the better for it.

Mostly this is Nas going back to his former role as a keen street observer, ready to dispense wisdom to up-and-coming youngbloods.

Common has just gone way, way off the hip-hop map.

Who needs anti-depressants when you have Jesus and schmaltz?