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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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).

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

While Gilmour is in good voice, the unvarying pace is ultimately grating.

He performs everything (from drum'n'bass to hip hop beats) on his guitar, leading him to be dubbed a 'one-man Timbaland band'. A true percussive original.

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

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.

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

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

There is little here to delineate her above her far less interesting contemporaries, Fergie and Nelly Furtado, both of whom have presented fresher minted records this year.

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.

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.

While his lyrics sometimes verge on the platitudinous, musically, this is his most arresting solo set, thanks in no small part to the John Barry-esque strings.

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

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

Their debut is built from old Chapterhouse records.

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

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.

Rick Rubin produces; a mixed blessing.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

All this Eighties-shaped over-production means Red suffers from the same problem as bedevils the BBC's 1981-set Ashes to Ashes: too much effort has gone into quirky nostalgic jiggery-pokery and not enough into credible plot.

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.

This, his band's 20th album, won't reinvent the wheel, but tracks such as 'The Time is Right' rank among the most evil-sounding in the canon.

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

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

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.

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

Word-heavy, tune-light songs don't help... Worse, O'Connor's delicate voice can be heard puffing, straining and - horrors - singing flat!

Lewis's voice is impressively elastic throughout but lacks any grit or style.

Vocally, a combination of steel and fragility is required, but Campbell can be frustratingly hesitant, often tending towards the limp side of haunting or ethereal.

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

Their McFly-like soulless pop-rock is unlistenable tosh.

X is merely a slightly above average collection of tracks.

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.

Brett Anderson has reached a creative menopause.

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.

A frustrating set with glimpses of gorgeousness.

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.

For fans only.

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

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.

Fast Man/Raider Man is sluggish country rock.

Fans looking for an air-guitar gurning masterclass may be disappointed.

Shorn of his camp finery, not to mention his preferred subject matter - androgynous boys from suburbia kissing under nuclear skies - his voice, still an acquired taste, proves ill-suited to introspection.

Somewhere between Ennio Morricone, Talk Talk and late-period Massive Attack, it is atmospheric, if relentlessly bleak, with the exception of cult director Abel Ferrara's imitation of Bob Dylan on 'Open Up Your Eyes'.

When they're not apeing War-era U2 ('Crystal Ball') they're apeing Achtung Baby-era U2 ('Is It Any Wonder?'). Otherwise they plod along, piano clip-clopping under all the electronic fuss, in thrall to their own pseudo-profundity.

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

It sounds like creepy supper club music.

Though the songs are all praises to the Creator (or His prophet), there is little sense of joy.

Proficient and predictably salacious.

Shadow's head scratching choice of singers detract from the potency of his fluid beats.

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.

Frontman Pete Murphy overdoes the drama, leaving little space for the songs to breathe, while his colleagues fail to access the mystique that at their peak, in the early Eighties, served to distinguish them from goth's also-rans.

Predictably, it's not among the quintet's finest hours.

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

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

A messy car crash of a record.

Costa's sophomore album is every bit as anaemic as the Johnson connection suggests.

An absolute howler.

An album so overblown yet inspiration-free as to be worthy of national shame.

What an astronomically bad parallel universe. Queen's star is dead.

It reeks of a band with ideas above their station.

A brave new direction it isn't.

Yell Fire! offers little bar platitudes over a bed of reggae-lite and tepid bluezak.