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.