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.