Though rather generic--grainy emoting; overwrought lyrics; crisp guitar-driven pop--at least Mould can claim that he virtually invented this stuff.

As its title implies, though, Strawberry Jam is strange: luxurious and fractious, wistful and atonal.

The band's contributions are low points on this 16-track epic, but Oberst proves as iconoclastic as ever.

Eight years later, no longer so wide-eyed, the Norwegian duo sound more pedestrian, though 'Royksopp Forever' proves they haven't lost their sense of fun.

The Grammy-winner has a worthy reputation--and, yes, songs namecheck Katrina, Obama et al--but there's also a playful, reflective quality as Chapman looks back at the way music has shaped her life.

Embryonic is certainly not without charm, but its title gives the game away. Largely, it's the sound of a band seeking inspiration rather than finding it.

Their second LP is all candy-coloured dreamscapes. Lily remains a spikier proposition.

There's a fine songwriter somewhere inside frontman Liam Fray--but first he has to bust his way out of a genre that the world has long ago left behind.

There's no stand-out to match 'Tiny Tears' or 'Marbles' but Stuart Staples's crumpled voice and the distinctively intricate arrangements summon Lee Hazlewood's tear-flecked, bruised spirit.

The first LP for nigh on a decade from Tjinder Singh and co feels like rummaging through rock's dressing-up box on a wet afternoon.

An eclectic, at times explicit, exploration of love, loss and lust, it's the work of a skilled songwriter comfortable in his own skin and canon.

He and producer Rick Rubin deliver a well-judged acoustic set whose songs mix war weariness with hope and loss.

Their sixth album (and the first on their own label) is their most self-assured set yet, veering from sparkling glam to funky New Orleans boogie by way of early Nineties shoegazing.

When they rock out they are truly bruising, but, happily, their music is now underpinned with a new-found serenity.

Here Malkmus dispenses with the electronic curiosities that blighted his 2005 solo album Face the Truth and adopts a more polished version of the old indie-rock of soaring guitar solos and oblique lyrics.

His serious moments are as hard to comprehend as a Chuckle Brother tackling a eulogy: you know he must feel emotion because he is a human being, but you are constantly expecting the arrival, stage right, of a pantomime cow.

Merritt's lyrical dark wit chimes nicely with the books' macabre surrealism.

Their sixth collection is broad, bouncy and almost entirely forgettable.

Then, six songs into a characterless album, one on which ambience takes precedence over tunes, 3D and Daddy G unveil three stunning numbers that compare with anything in their back catalogue.

The follow-up adheres to a winning formula: this is sunny pop in a Sixties vein. But why don't they try something reckless?

With Uncle Dysfunktional there's no faulting the band's ambition - the music veers from country to samba to electronica - and Ryder's lascivious drawl and surreal wordplay remain intact.

It's Chrissie Hynde reinvestigating her roots with some rockabilly and a Dylan vibe.

MPLSound could be a thank-you note to those Parade-era purists patient enough to have stuck around.

Between the odd pretty guitar motif ('She's Too Much') and marching drum roll ('The Valley') the pile-driving beatwork and rapping cameos only highlight the fact that the weakest element here is Duran themselves.

Although looser, Draw the Line doesn't reinvent the Gray wheel.

He's back on his own terms, those of the earnest hyper-intelligent bookworm who won the plaudits of Jay-Z and 50 Cent, and sounding a lot more comfortable, with 'Hostile Gospel' and 'Say Something' re-staking a claim for the hip hop high ground over beats that are soulful and sonically coherent.

This odd and occasionally lovely concoction might just redeem Iggy from that insurance ignominy.

Unquestionably, it would have been better still had the songs been layered with a little less sugar.

Convening at the point where Iron and Wine meet Panda Bear, it's dreamy and chock-full of ideas.

The happy-in-love rockers are doggedly inessential, but ballads such as 'The Knowing' and 'Plan to Marry' redress the balance beautifully.

Despite high points --the powerful 'Longest Days'; the romping 'My Sweet Love'; the brooding 'John Cockers'--most of these 14 songs struggle to leave a lasting impression.

They hail from sunny Sydney, but this solid second set cements the Bells firmly in rock's melancholia tradition, echoing the Bunnymen and Tindersticks.

Elixer is at least a more pleasant listen; ignore the Prince mystique and it's a collection of reasonably well-turned pop ballads.

The Fife songsmith breathes new life into traditional songs cribbed from versions by the likes of Anne Briggs and Nic Jones.

Asleep in the Bread Aisle is promising, if unspectacular.

From the full-on Nintendo Wii panic-attack of 'Alice Practice' to the breezy, off-kilter electro-pop of 'Crimewave' and 'Air War', this sumptuously squelchy 16-track debut already feels like a Greatest Hits.

Minor mis-steps are a fair trade-off for an album that doesn't simply doff its cap in tribute.

A record on which electronics and a grown-up wistfulness meet in a charming, comfortable manner.

World-weary and introspective, frequently discordant, this is the sound of a man pondering where it all went wrong.

They undoubtedly still see sounds others only dream of, but sometimes that vision is a little clouded.

Although still flying the party flag, their hectic mash-up of house, disco and hedonism is no longer quite so thrilling, even with help from Santigold.

With a unique Backstreet Boys meets Bon Jovi production sheen, every track holds its own.

Only My Chemical Romance are funnier, albeit by accident.

Like a silly holiday cocktail with umbrellas and sparklers, there is much to enjoy about Paris Hilton, albeit for one mad Med fortnight only.

It proves a warm, agreeable affair, though likely to disappoint anyone expecting creative sparks.

Her new album lays into her ex-husband with devilish choruses and potent hooks.

On their charming debut, the four-piece fulfil their promise of being the edgy, sexually voracious Ace of Bass.

Ultimately, its a fun teen party album. Just don't call it girl power.

Brave, but forgettable.

If the naivity and high-pitched voice don't grate, chances are the shifting soundscapes will still leave you charmed.

Mostly, Jon McLure's against Bad Stuff and in favour of Good Stuff, as well as being dead keen on 90s sounding dance-rock.

Not only does it sound like two very different acts but March, fashioned with a funeral band from Mexico, is far less absorbing than the synth-pop of Holland, whose five twinkly tracks contain a joie de vivre absent from its stodgy, reverential sister set.

It's a much cleaner, subtle, more uplifting sound, but one which, ultimately, is a little devoid of personality.

Despite the speed at which it came together, the album sounds as polished. But sometimes you wish he would reach beyond his grab-bag of influences and push out something with shocks-a-mighty.

What the 22-year-old does with his whimsical art rock influences is less predictable; the arrangements take the songs in odd directions, piquing interest even when the genre experiments drag.

Now working below the corporate radar, the venerable producer's sound is thinner, but still effective, especially given the presence of old stagers like Redman, whose rhymes ('When I run out of ink I kill another octopus ') are as addictive as the retro backdrop.

Barnes pushes their ninth album to sometimes unlistenable extremes and although it has its moments--'Touched Something's Hollow' is a beauty--the pleasures to be gained from this sexual experiment are few.

Hurricane shatters the illusion, and flattens the force of nature known as Grace Jones into something quite humdrum.

It's often quite wonderful, occasionally pretty woeful, but endearingly frantic and chaotic.

The first disc contains all the major American radio hits, but at no small price. It's all craft and very little heart. Disc two, then, comes as welcome respite.

Those hoping to be converted are likely still to doubt the 'voice of a generation' tag.

It's been four long years since the Banshees' last live release. But now we have a CD of brand new material from the high priestess of punk herself. And she doesn't disappoint.

They fail to develop their retro psychedelia influences, and use fairground organs and cutesy strings as lazy shorthand for dreamy nostalgia. The result is a pleasant record that's lacking in personality.

Their foppish indieboy spin on classic folk-rock is, more often than not, perfectly listenable. But you can't help but wonder, between all the gleeful strums and wizened howls, whether they possess the inner torment to carry off such worldly material.

Some (Hawkwind's 'Hurry on Sundown') work by highlighting a different, tougher side of Vetiver. But too many others, including a version of Loudon Wainwright's 'Swimming Song', drift pleasantly by without the tension that characterises the best of Vetiver's own work.

Though the guitarist has flirted with folk before (notably on 2001's "Crow Sit on Blood Tree") never has he done so with such inventiveness or, as 'Look Into the Light' and 'In the Morning' illustrate, such charm.

Now they sound less like they're playing to their strengths and more like they're admitting their limitations; they'll keep trying to move your hips because they know they'll never win your heart. Tonight is fine, but will you still love them tomorrow?

Although they are more focused on Ten Silver Drops, they also sound more reined-in and less idiosyncratic.

Underproduced by Nick Cave producer Nick Launay, results are less the Smiths' heroic jangle than something from the muddier end of John Peel's Festive 50 circa 1987. Fans of "real indie" will be thrilled.

The Michigan singer-songwriter is now best known for providing the Raconteurs with tunes and his fourth solo album adds a splash of their heaviness to his trademark Beatles-indebted pop.

Stereophonics deserve doughty, workmanlike praise: they're a safe pair of hands, and this record does exactly what it promises. There are worse crimes.

The first album by the B-52's in 16 years sees the Georgia trash-pop veterans keep dull maturity at bay with 11 paeans to partying, space, deviant sex and sly protest politics .

If you can fight through the toxic stench of cod-reggae that envelops the opening track, this 15-strong San Franciscan jug band have certainly got something.

The concept of LA as a 'Sunblessed City of Angels' is trite, co-opting another's song for the theme tune lazy, and much of what follows resembles a Beach Boys tribute band.

This is a record that's more intriguing than entertaining. Cocker's warmth and wit are in short supply, as is the sweeter side of his melodic gifts.

Like a futuristic remake of "The Wicker Man," it is all splintered beats and frosty light-night soul, and at best, as on 'Pity Dance,' quite remarkable.

Femi's new album suffers in comparison to Seun's – while the tracks are fairly enjoyable, Femi's lyrics are the usual worthy but clunking stuff.

Like its physical namesake, The Sea is capable of being dull and flat, but at its most winning it provides glimpses of a new horizon shining beyond the riptides of pain and sorrow.

Nat Bed's second has nothing as catchy as 'Unwritten', the tunes are on the airy-fairy side of breezy, and the lyrics on the naff side of plain. But 'Smell the Roses' is a turbulent little pop symphony, and 'When You Know You Know' is sinuous soul that speaks well of her extended sojourn in LA studios.

His post-Pete Doherty project evinces dreary futility: he thinks he's Morrissey, but he sounds more like Sandi Thom.

There are great finds--'Man Who Couldn't Cry'--but some bones are best unpolished.

Continues where 2007's sprightly comeback album "Beyond" left off.

It's not a huge departure for the Southern songbirds but proves them to be magisterial practitioners of the dark blues-rock arts.

So many of these 11 songs are variations on the title track's closing line ('Look at that old photograph, is that really you?') that this sentimental journey becomes one of just a few too many miles.

The fit is often clumsy, over-laden with strings, backing voices and metronomic beats, but there are enough stand-outs to keep our Joss in airplay.

Yes, there's plenty of God and glitz. But the purity of that voice is still brilliantly captivating.

There's too much jokey bluster, and little ground is broken, but this is an entertaining diversion.

This is sexier than it should be by rights.

Maxwell's voice is so unusually rich and supple that at best, as on the mercurial 'Bad Habits,' you cannot help but disregard his fondness for cliche.

A heavier take on their gothic moan-rock.

Closer to the big production of Have You Fed the Fish? than 2004's more acoustic-led One Plus One is One, it's also the most obvious manifestation of his longstanding Springsteen obsession.

Its gravelly tones are certainly no thing of beauty, but when married to the right song Faithfull can still emote, still deliver. There's plenty of plain wrong material, though.

Finally, the sequel to Break Like The Wind...

Refashioning 60s pop for today's pilled-up generation? Not such a bad idea, as it happens, even if it is a bit Spiritualized.

Those with the patience for deft songwriting willl want to wait for her.

Lyrically absurd, musically turbo-fuelled.

While the rhymes are frustratingly clunky at times ('What came first, the Chicken Nugget or the Egg McMuffin?'), her charisma ensures the result is rarely less than compelling.

His orchestral Kanye-meets-Nas muse lacks originality.