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

So where do you go when you've been a backing singer for the Pussycat Dolls? Not straight to the scrapheap but kooky la-la land, it transpires here.

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.

Mostly, it works well. Intriguingly, Gabriel fares better with more recent material.

Black's more soft-centred approach has since lagged behind, though this idiosyncrantic debut should help him make up ground.

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.

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.

For the most part, Reality... swings between the mawkish strings and piano overproduction which Williams has seemed overly attached to ever since 1998's Bond-inspired 'Millennium,' and flashes of genuine pop frivolity, for which he likely has producer Trevor Horn to thank.

A handful of upbeat numbers–-including an unexpected foray into frothy high-speed electro–-pull Leona back from the brink of boring, while 'I Got You' is an impressive distant relative of 'Bleeding Love.'

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 gear changes on this particular autobahn are swift and sometimes a little clunky.

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.

Rick Rubin produces; a mixed blessing.

All shuffling beats and pub wisdom, it's same again for Brown's latest.

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.

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

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.

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

Sixth album Truelove's Gutter is his best, thanks to easing back on the twanging guitar and ads for his native Sheffield in favour of more universally minded tunes, the finest of which, the 10-minute Remorse Code, edges into ambient territory.

Their debut is built from old Chapterhouse records.

Think Scott Walker punching a side of beef, and know that here's another who's wandered off the path of teen pop success to find a world that's far more interesting (if far from easy listening).

Daffy girl pop with just the teensiest bit of attitude, enough retro influences and the odd acceptable ballad.

Now comes the first album of new material for 35 years, and although never quite reaching the innocent glory of late 60s Mutantes, Haih or Amortecedor is still brimming with vitality and ideas.

Very modern, even if her pleasing sound never pushes real boundaries.

It's the sound of the summer! If summer for you means a fake tan and drinking WKD for a week in the Med with the likes of Kelly Rowland and Will.I.Am popping up as guests with your fave.

The Senegalese seer is joined by a polyglot cast: the future's calling.

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.

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

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

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

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

The kind of album that sounds like it should be No 1 in Germany, which, of course, it was recently.

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.

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.

North London outfit from the same school (literally) as Cajun Dance Party, earning high marks for their winsome indie tunes.

Yes, he's still plugging away, swapping the frenetic disco of 2008's "Last Night" for a more cultured sound.

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

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.

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

Their seventh album remembers to add tunes, and is thus less baffling than before.

Still sounding like an evening in your company will encompass discussions of Yves Klein and Lindsay Lohan? Check, check, check. But still cool.

A heavier take on their gothic moan-rock.

All of which leads you to conclude that in their struggle to position themselves, Kasabian are trying too hard to be all things to all men.

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

Several of the songs seem embryonic, lacking direction and resolution, while Nutini's voice--as stevedore-gruff as Blunt's is officer-class posh--can be a deal-breaker on certain songs

This is sexier than it should be by rights.

Montreal 's Tiga Sontag has always nodded to the genre's 80s origins but keeps it fresh by drawing from rave past and present.

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.

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.

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

Ideology aside, this is a diverse album that retains her trademark dirty electro but on collaborations with Simian Mobile Disco still delights.

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

Moments of delight, such as 'Thinking About You,' are few, though 'Boots and Sand', about Yusuf being refused entry to the US, labours hard to inject levity.

The album's surfaces gleam, but its flower-power proselytising never quite dispels the notion of Empire of the Sun as MGMT copyists with pretensions.

They might be no longer going through the motions, but those moves seem awfully familiar.

Asleep in the Bread Aisle is promising, if unspectacular.

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.

Their second full album creates psychedelic intensity by combining the insistent rhythms of early 70s German bands with a fearsomely primitive garage sound.

Cure-sampling single So Human proves ingenious, Jigsaw effectively swaps swearing for singing and Britney songwriter Dr Luke earns his keep. Alas, though, the backchat of Let's Be Mates proves as edifying as the top deck of the 43 bus.

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.

While a faithful stab at synth pop, there's nothing on the Swedes' fifth album to match 'Young Folks' and, though more coherent, it lacks the eclecticism that made 2006's "Writer's Block" so appealing.

A New Tide is a respectable affair reminiscent of the Beta Band at best (Airstream Driver) and David Gray at its coffee-table worst, courtesy of vocalist Ian Ball's folksy bleat.

There's an OK cover of Tommy James and the Shondells' 'Crimson and Clover,' but mostly this album's where Prince has stuck his fill3r.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

It's anthemic ('Tell Me it's Not Over') and slushy ('Hurts Too Much'), but it might just work.

Invaders Must Die lacks their freshness and like all supposed returns "to form" it might prove they can compete with the present generation but, ultimately, it's more facelift than rejuvenation.

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.

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?

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

A vessel that can't help but feel a little under-populated by comparison to N.A.S.A.'s "The Spirit of Apollo."

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

Reflections on love, life and 'the wife' abound as horns parp Ronson-ly. But only Sixties cover 'I'm Alive' soars.

But OutKast's "Speakerboxxx/The Love Below" aside, it's debatable whether there has been call for a double album since "Sign O' the Times" in 1987, and this is clearly another case for the prosecution.

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.

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.

Certainly the LA punk mob have a free-spirited approach to life – as rebellious and American as the Stooges or Jack Kerouac – and every bit as compelling.

The new arrangements don't add lustre to every track; Hawley's own 'Coles Corner' was so expertly crooned the first time that it feels unnecessary here. But more incongruous reworkings, including a version of the Human League's 'Louise', fare better and Christie's voice is engaging throughout.

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

Out of Control is more of a lucky dip, with scintillating trinkets and humdrum knick-knacks.

Brave, but forgettable.

What Smith sees in goth-metal is a mystery but, sure enough, the final third of 4:13 Dream is studded with the sort of big-haired, suffocating fluff ('The Scream', 'It's Over') that has blighted his band's reputation in recent years. A shame because, at best, when they reconcile themselves to the fact that they are essentially a pop act, albeit one whose dark side is more pronounced than most, the Cure are as thrilling now as they were in the Eighties.

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

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.

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

It's a more varied listen but also markedly lesser in impact.

After nine albums the Nashville oddball's parade of styles has dissolved into ambient noodling.

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

Beautiful yet detached, the music often bursts into life but more frequently simply drifts, all too willing to fall hypnotised under its own spell.

Loyalty to Loyalty, an improvement on 2006's filler-heavy debut, is a sincere, if preachy, advertisement for integrity over image.

On the one hand, it's riotously good fun; on the other, it's a bit naff.

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.

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.

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.