This kind of electro-glam was acceptable in the Eighties, and Hourglass proves that it still is.

The production is glossed to within an inch of its life, the mood is cheerfully upbeat--or 'festive' as Carey might put it herself--and the entire confection rings out with bold, sassy, brutally executed intent.

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 .

A brave, if samey, affair, System is undoubtedly sincere.

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.

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.

Its hedonistic groove carries everything before it, and reminds you that 'rock'n'roll' doesn't just signify a sound (and fury), it signifies an attitude towards risk taking.

Crucially, Sam's Town sounds like a complete collection, with a far better strike rate than its predecessor.

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

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

They appear to have set out to make the world's trendiest record, and succeeded. The tracklist on their album of terrific party songs commands a kind of double double-take.

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

The synth-punk shout-pop of this boy/girl duo was cobbled together in a Salford arts complex for a budget of zero pence. And--in a totally great way--it sounds like it.

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.

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.

The band... haven't leapt off in a new direction but have capitalised on the tension between Oundsworth's spiralling, just-about-to-fall-over vocals and the driving, zealous music that stops him from metaphorically sailing away into the ether.

This is a daring, crisp modern soul album rich in ideas and star quality.

The dreamy 'Cold Desert' is the perfect maudlin end to this short, sharp, 42-minute, no-filler album, revelling in every miserable blues-rocker cliché as Matthew's guitar goes all shoegazey and then briefly threatens to turn the whole thing into a 'Purple Rain' wig-out.

Their joyous hooks ensure Donkey is as fun as its predecessor.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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