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

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.

His orchestral Kanye-meets-Nas muse lacks originality.

This is sexier than it should be by rights.

Detractors will complain that there's nothing to rival the brutal impact of his earlier recordings, but only towards the end does the new-found positivism grate.

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

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.

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).

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

KD's first album of new material in eight years doesn't disappoint.

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.

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

The angry funk of 'Down in Mississippi' proves too good to last, but only 'We Shall Not Be Moved' is (predictably) dull.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

At times it feels like someone's watered down the acid Kool-Aid, but with shining technicolour romps such as 'Bullets,' the sun is an optional extra this summer.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

There's more fear and loathing on Ben Drew's first album than in a year's worth of Daily Mail headlines.

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

Jayceon Taylor's eagerness to live down to a cartoon sketch of what a rapper should be is in danger of obscuring his very real talent.

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.

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

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.

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.

As standout lead single 'American Boy' (on which she raps with West) shows, this could be one of the most unlikely comebacks of 2008.

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

Lyrically absurd, musically turbo-fuelled.

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.

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

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

The third album by Polar Bear suggests that this is a band running out of ideas.

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

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

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.

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

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.

Their debut is built from old Chapterhouse records.

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.

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

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.

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

As ever, this most eloquent of rappers is stronger on zingers than philosophical coherence. But his dismal taste in beats strands his poetry in a sea of mediocrity.

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.

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

It sounds like creepy supper club music.

Echoes, Silence, Patience & Grace sticks to what it's good at: undemanding arena rock that's just--just--leftfield enough not to jar alongside Grohl's previous incarnation.

Their second reunion carries the listener a good third of the way into this punningly titled fourth album. Trouble is, the second two-thirds are a very long slog indeed.

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.

Teenager is as flat as the Mojave Desert, and, like a fusty pastel sweater bought as a birthday present, it's cosy yet bland.

The remainder of their fourth album, however, has a familiar Midwestern chug, and is a gorgeous confection of girl-group soft rock and country-tinged balladeering.

Versatile but erratic, then, though Joe's emotional honesty is never in doubt.

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.

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

There are exceptions, notably Tortoise, Aphex Twin and Björk songs, while Lisa Germano's 'Slide' is magnificent, mainly thanks to Adem's eerie, cracked delivery.

The album occasionally misfires... but there's still sass and creativity here.

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?

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.

It's still a career high, but B'Day could have been released at any point in the last three-and-a-half years and, in a year which has given us tracks like Justin Timberlake's 'SexyBack', it already sounds stale.

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.

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.

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

Rick Rubin produces; a mixed blessing.

Brave, but forgettable.

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.

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.

While James Dean Bradfield's melodic gifts shine through on occasion, particularly on first single 'Your Love Alone is Not Enough', this is a pedestrian retread of former glories.

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.

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

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.

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

There's a tasteful shimmer over all the tracks.

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.

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