Once more, we're in a world of uptight, high-gloss grooves, wry tales of dirty old men, and, of course, terrifyingly proficient guitar solos.

But if attempting to dress ancient monuments in radical, avant-garde clothing was always going to be a hit-and-miss project, he's still succeeded for the most part in making a richly ambient, evocative record from apparently staid and stale old material.

A clearly adult, unfashionably sensitive document, all grace and understatement, experimental through what it leaves out, and the effects it plants in the background.

Gone are the ill-advised brass and bare-faced chart aspirations of 1996's awful 'Wild Mood Swings', as are the flippant pop songs that commercialised The Cure in the mid-1980s. What we are left with is the dark, dense core of Smith's psyche, and a reminder that The Cure are at their fearsome best when creating soundscapes awash with uncertainty and dread.

By any criteria an astonishing work.

Merely a decent Morphine album.

An album of impossibly adorable disco - Star Wars "ping p-p-p-ping ping" bits, cheesy synths, George Clinton (!...hmm) workouts... all delivered in a slightly unsettlingly ersatz kitschness, half-hinted ironies, indietastic samples, hip-hop phrasings and The Asian Influence seductive throughout.

Narrower in scope than 'Odelay' but more immediate in impact, it's clearly been conceived as an accompaniment to our hedonistic habit of choice, the last great party album of the millennium.

And for her second album of Amos-aping MTV-branded Lilith Fair fodder, the barmiest, prettiest pretender to Tori's throne of corporate crackpot chic deals unashamedly in that tired and trusted heavyweight heart-tugging currency: relationships.

'So ... How's Your Girl?' is precision-tooled to amuse the Beastie Boys, for sure. But it also harbours a wit and dexterity that not only represents the usual cliquey extended family, but also manages to transcend them.

'The Contino Sessions' can mean whatever you want it to. All we know is that it feels amazing. Warhol also said that everyone would be famous for 15 minutes. Death In Vegas' glory starts now.

'One Part Lullaby' lapses very slightly into generic Barlow-pop two-thirds through, then soon recovers its shimmering grandeur. Sebadoh hardliners will dismiss this record as pop fluff, but few will be listening, too busy hailing The Best Lou Barlow Album In The World... Ever

In the hands of someone less witty and schizoid, a near three-hour epic would be unforgivable, but Merritt at play is frequently magical.

'Remedy' is probably as good a dance album as anyone from these Isles has produced this decade.

A joyous, celestial celebration of sound.

In ploughing a unique furrow in pop music, he demands your enjoyment as much as your respect.

Teasing the limits of pleasure and agony, 'Black Foliage' is a messy, irritating listen. But it's worth persevering just for those odd moments of gorgeousness.

Blur's most inconsistent and infuriating statement thus far. Infuriating, because divested of four solid-gone clunkers '13' could pass muster as the best of Blur.

The absence of quirky samples and lame big beats make it all sound, right now, strangely radical.