You have to admire the way Gaga fearlessly throws herself into, say, a disco mariachi arrangement on Americano, but she should be careful: her frequently righteous tone and overindulgence in clunky Catholic metaphors threaten to mire her memorable melodies in schlocky self-help proselytizing.

Pala is a party record aiming directly at the pleasure centres – not at all a shallow pursuit.

That the songs retain their vibrancy and ambition with this new energy – more focused, less stridently theatrical – is a testament to her songwriting and enduring appeal.

Stelmanis brings a more musical sensibility to the formula, even if it's still miles away from mainstream pop.

The less experimental C'mon is confident and warm, suggesting that the band let the reverberant setting dictate the tone.

His guttural howl on The Shrine/An Argument is the only moment when Helplessness Blues snaps out of its preciousness and hints that this genre can be more than a soundtrack to brunch.

Move Like This doesn't so much rebuild the Cars' old engine as take the classic model for a cruise in the country.

The lyrics are dense with vivid imagery that could be autobiographical but may just attest to the duo's ability to create intimate moments for their listeners to enjoy.

His vulnerable warble is still intact, his lyrics remain tenderly existential (aside from, uh, Shave My Pussy), and the noisy bits just make the softer tunes all the more gutting.

The Double Cross, a slyly titled nod to their anniversary, returns to the songwriting style not of their beloved first two records, but of the equally strong One Chord, Navy and Bridges era.

It's difficult not to fall head over heels for Saadiq's hard-working showman ethic, especially when he threatens to take the party past the three-minute pop format (which he rarely does, unfortunately).

He clutches that control so tightly that the album has turned out insular and ill-conceived.

It's a remarkably controlled album that reveals layers of texture with every listen.

Considering Zeffira's vocal training and Badwan's ability to project, they could have made a boisterous entrance. Instead, hushed tones and sweet melodies lure you in and keep you listening.

Pants wraps everything effectively in a dreamy fizziness that softens some of the stranger dark edges, but he doesn't hide his increasing interest in pop song construction.

There is something especially poignant and inspired about his 12th studio album.

It's that classic Beastie Boys sound, and a reminder why they've set the gold standard for posse rap.

It's really only when you find the time to sit down and listen to it all that it starts making sense. Yes, this may require some patience, but you will be rewarded.

Over-emoting at every turn, she obliterates otherwise innocuous soul, R&B and reggae-inflected songs with gimmicky vocal histrionics, strident attempts at melisma and the kind of callow self-help lyrics that are apparently mandatory for all young pop stars nowadays.

On A Mission's song arrangement is spot on and completely avoids the awkward transitions that can dog "genre-defying" projects. A must-have.

It sounds like fun was had in Dave Grohl's garage, but this good album could've been great had they spent more time songwriting prior to plugging in and cranking up.

If you already didn't like Brown – he would classify you as a "hater" – this album's combination of lewd (Wet The Bed, No Bullshit) and saccharine (Next 2 You, Should've Kissed You) content, delivered in that gross, oozing cadence of his, will only aggravate you further.

Gesundheit's tunes have an intimate lullaby quality, like a more playful Julie Doiron, and her airy voice sends them into flight. She has amazing range, inventive melodies and vivid lyrics held steady by her plucking guitar.

Cautious listeners should be warned that this is a very dark and strange album, but wrap your head around the dissonance and general creepiness and you discover one of the more startlingly original takes on 60s rhythm and blues ever put down to disc.

You can sense that she's still a bit uncomfortable flirting with pop music, and hides the most accessible and melodic songs in the second half of the album. Then again, if you can't deal with a few dissonant free jazz horn explosions, you probably weren't going to pick up this record anyway.

Flux Outside flies by effortlessly and still leaves you with choruses you'll be singing to yourself long after the disc ends.

Under 30 minutes long, Badlands is a short burst of concentrated energy that gradually slides into less compelling instrumental murk.

Parts & Labor still do plenty of rocking out, but their tight compositions save them from overindulgence.

Nine Types Of Light is mostly mellow, slow jams and funky, upbeat love songs.

With its confident, mature and meditative approach, his debut album belies his newbie status.

Working closely with guitarist and co-producer Joe Pisapia, who co-wrote most of the album, lang has created a mature record that avoids being boring or staid.

Lyrically, the mood vacillates between confrontational and reflective, but House Of Balloons really soars when his blunt resolve collides with a more nuanced or gentle vocal delivery, creating a tension reminiscent of Aaliyah's clear-headed emotional states.

Oblique by pop standards, the album's full of raw, tightly wound energy.

This pretty solid record shouldn't disappoint existing fans. However, it's more pleasant than mind-blowing, and you notice the pretty sounds more than the songs themselves.

There's no whistling, but there are plenty of stick-in-your-head moments. At the end of the day, that's what we want from them.

Like the best singer/songwriters, Callahan is an English major's lyricist, and by deftly blending the personal, the political and the mythological, he again leaves us plenty to pore over.

By never taking her spare, mystical tunes down the typical singer/songwriter avenues, Ices sets herself apart from both the New Age and the folky acoustic guitar sets.

They do try to mix up their formula, a move that pays off when subtly employed (the reggae textures in Satellite, for instance) but fails in the big, obvious spots.

Sonically, Demons has a lot in common with Renmin Park, although this disc feels a bit more produced. It's a touching tribute, to be sure, but we wish they'd left a few more of the rough edges in this time.

Lyrically Ditto is in top form, striking a sage tone to dish out relationship advice (I Wrote The Book), console a friend (Do You Need Someone) and reprimand an ex-lover (Open Heart Surgery).

Songs like Roll Up, Hopes And Dreams and The Race best showcase his self-assured charm.

They're still making forays into metal (Crash), but most Sum fans will agree that the band just hasn't been the same since guitarist Brownsound left town.

It's dizzying, and you'll want off at times, but you'll likely ask to ride again.

Too Young To Be In Love leans less heavily on pervy wisecracks, with fantastic results.

Leave A Light On, for example, sounds an awful lot like the Rio-era ballad Save A Prayer. Unfortunately, these doppelgangers are the album's best songs, which makes you wonder why the band bothered.

It could easily stand on its own without Scott-Heron's raspy vocals, but it's the interplay between his world-weary lyrics and Smith's youthful enthusiasm that makes this an essential companion piece to the original.

He's used what could have been a tragic turn of events as fuel for a vibrant, engaging and often playful record.

It's cliched to remark on a duo's ability to sound like a full band, but the Dodos' virtuosic acoustic guitar playing and busy arrangements undeniably defy their numbers.

String sections, brushed drums and, on High Hawk Season, backing vocals that recall the Jordanaires give the album a dynamic, varied sound and make it the Mountain Goats' most surprising creation.

Less adventurous is her sex-on-the-dance-floor lyrical fixation, so it's those playful touches that set Femme Fatale apart from most cornball dance pop on the radio these days.

She almost always goes for the jugular, belting out Super Bowl Sunday-sized performances over the most laid-back of summer-afternoon soul clappers. Her voice overflows with emotion, and subtlety's in short supply.

Gucci's head-down focus on honing his signature sound is admirable, but the monosyllabic stuntin' gets old fast, and flashes of lyrical or melodic invention are scant. Disappointing coming from a man with an ice cream cone face tattoo.

They might be unreliable performers, but their studio work is forward-thinking and beautiful in an oddly satisfying, downtrodden way.

Regrets take on new meaning knowing the background, but they're also just plain fun, and no amount of misfortune can change that.

Indecision and infighting have rarely sounded this solid and inspired.

Sadly, Talk About Body has the flat, dated electro-pop sound of Le Tigre, who are still a few years away from needing a rebirth.

Different Gear, Still Speeding is rife with the catchy, strum-intensive songs and nasal John Lennon impression the band was first known for.

Though his unmatched guitar prowess often overshadows his other tools, Several Shades Of Why highlights his startling talent as a songwriter.

For those seduced by that album's gorgeous dream pop, Passive Aggressive serves as a comprehensive refresher course in the Swedish band's satisfying back catalogue.

Oddly, Lasers is Fiasco's most commercial-sounding album – but think of it as club music with a conscience.

While the minimal production and closely miked vocals on her debut emphasized the pop hooks and her fragile voice, Li and producer Bjorn Yttling (Peter, Bjorn & John) give listeners a more all-encompassing, if familiar, sound on Wounded Rhymes, nestling her vocals amidst girl-group harmonies, psych organ and shambolic percussion.

They're clearly aiming for epic but more often accomplish exhausting. It's admirable to see a band unselfconscious enough to present such unapologetically maudlin balladry (in a good way), but there's only so much of it you can take in one sitting.

Adele's husky, powerful voice is what keeps you listening, but here's hoping she experiences something besides betrayal before writing her next record.

Williams is more observational than personal throughout Blessed, looking upon her downtrodden characters with sympathy and compassion.

Collapse is a genuine return to form for the band, blowing away anything else they've done for more than a decade.

Despite their brevity, the songs are repetitive, wanky and almost impossible to differentiate. They make you yearn for the days before genre cross-pollination.

To Rock's credit, his touches don't actually get in the way of the songs, and hopefully his tweaks are just what Sexsmith needs to garner the support he deserves.

RAA's secret weapon has always been the expert drumming of Paul Banwatt, and here he's given more of a chance to shine.

Shapeshifting may sound very contemporary, but it's not in the least derivative.

Whether howling eerily over a low, rhythmic pulse or riding a huge riff, Calvi's sensuous presence brings much-needed sexual heat to today's tepid rock 'n' roll landscape.

What sets Yuck apart is their excellent songwriting. It takes hooks to pull off songs like these, even if they're buried under piles of grunge, and Yuck have hooks in scores.

Bands in need of a catchy pop sound with a light edge should visit Chris Walla in Portland. The Death Cab for Cutie guitarist and producer can seemingly get this result from any artist he works with, including Michael Benjamin Lerner, aka Telekinesis.

If this were purely an experimental electronic album, we'd overlook the lack of hooks, but even as such it's not particularly impressive.

While it took a little while for the magic to finally get laid down to tape, the results are worth the wait.

Yes, many of the chainsaw bass lines on this comp will be derided by some as knuckleheaded "brostep," but those bangers are balanced by enough forward-thinking productions that anyone new to the genre can get a fairly accurate snapshot of the style at this point in time.

While their spacious, mostly instrumental music makes good use of dynamics (and reaches ear-bleeding volumes during live shows), they mark their label switch from Matador to Sub Pop with a lightness (as in absence of darkness, not bereft of weight) that's refreshing.

The production on this unfocused album is, as usual, nothing mind-blowing. Still, Skinner has an insightful charm and a lyrical gift that makes this a respectable send-off.

While these new recordings aren't that different from the original versions, their stripped-down arrangements highlight the strong songwriting, not to mention the musicianship of everyone involved.

Blake's songs are built around a single typically melancholic lyric and melody that he works over, kind of like an R&B singer, while gradually switching stylistic gears.

They're the kinds of songs that make you want to run into the street and scream to the universe that life is beautiful and magical, which is a pretty nice feeling as long as you can stop worrying about whether people think you're crazy.

Mixed so its songs blend together, Tao is such a cohesive record that when the second track, Pure Radio Cosplay, is reprised midway through, it seems like the end of an intense musical detour rather than a simple replaying of the song.

While a couple of catchy turns of phrase compensate for some elementary rhymes, there aren't enough hooks to make the songs memorable.

The record's emotional centre hits toward the end, so stick around for Your Moon, a cathartic downer backed by processed strings and 808 claps.

Girls continue to bypass fads by making timeless music about the universal themes of love, heartache and drugs.

Strangely enchanting.

The shoegaze genre usually plays better in a live context, yet Ghost Blonde is a relatively immersive record. You need to crank the volume to hear the vocals, but it's the guitars that provide the hooks anyway.

A sample-heavy hodgepodge of indie rock, hip-hop, garage rock and mature instrumentals fills out the rest of this joyous album whose almost wistful title track near the end brings everything together in the most satisfying way.

It doesn't sound quite the same coming out of a pair of headphones as it does, say, from the bathroom at Sneaky Dee's, but even on record it's sure to quicken your pulse by a few beats.

It's Cut Copy's most textured and rhythmically complex record, and also irresistible in its emotional simplicity.

Continually developing and evolving, the Ex sound as vibrant as ever, and Catch My Shoe has an enviably timeless feel.

The biggest flaw: the band attempts to cram too many ideas into a song (Cleaning Out The Rooms), particularly in the album's second half.

On their fifth album, the Get Up Kids sound like a band who resent what made them popular in the first place.

It's a solid album with strong production and songwriting, but it won't blow any minds.

Jon King's vocals sound especially diminished, a reality underscored by the occasional electronic manipulation, while the cluttered mix overcompensates for repetitive songwriting. Without the vitality of youth, Gang of Four risk drowning in the sea of bands they inspired.

There can be a thin line between ambitious and pretentious, but this record dodges the latter gracefully.

For fans of mid-tempo 90s R&B hungry from something new, Keyshia Cole is about as close as it gets to Real Love.

This is his first time as producer, and you could argue that he neutered the band's crunch to a degree. But it fits with the album's mature mood.

Gorgeous fuzz guitar leads and glam rock glitter dominate, offset by soft layered harmonies and dreamy textures.