There are great finds--'Man Who Couldn't Cry'--but some bones are best unpolished.

Trumpeter Mathias Eick has a sound that gently beckons and, like softly spoken conversation, you instinctively lean forward to catch every gesture. One you'll listen to on repeat to fathom its subtle meanings.

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

London Zoo provides the perfect showcase for its colourful menagerie of MCs and singers. And the Bug's no-nonsense clank and grind production fosters a rare intensity of focus on this album's higher purpose, which is to take the eloquence of Linton Kwesi Johnson and Michael Smith's Eighties dub-poetry, and blast it into digital hyperspace.

If hippie leanings and a penchant for image-dense, nature-inspired poesy make Oberst a kindred spirit to Devendra Banhart and Joanna Newsom, he can also be hard-nosed.

It remains extraordinary this ability to jump from Tom Lehrer to early Tom Waits.

Scars on Broadway offers up the tastiest smorgasbord of bite-sized pop-metal delicacies since the last time Cheap Trick recorded a Queens of the Stone Age tribute album.

Mason's latest solo guise is endearingly odd. Who else, after all, would dream of welding Tubeway Army to lubricious RB and house and pull it off?

They're not quite back to those heady 'Connected' days, but the Stereos still have a mesmeric knack of making music bounce like a rubber ball.

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

Such an eclectic, ambitious record might be expected to sound disparate, desperate even, but instead it's a set of distinctive, strangely addictive songs.

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

The Florida band's music is pleasingly random, too. One minute they're new romantics or dour indie kids, then, before youve had a chance to draw breath, they're apeing the Ronettes.

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.

Reliability is the Hold Steady's calling card, and on Stay Positive they don't stray far from the tried-and-tested combination of orthodox guitar rock and gritty, observational lyrics.

At 35 minutes long, Object 47 is the perfect length: short, to the point, and boasting some of Wire's most vital music.

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.

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.

Beck, at last, is back.

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

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.

This marvellously fluid third album seamlessly integrates big names Terry Hall and Martina Topley-Bird into Leilas close-knit cadre of vocal helpmeets

His post-Pete Doherty project evinces dreary futility: he thinks he's Morrissey, but he sounds more like Sandi Thom.

The hipper-than-thou trappings mean people are talking about H&LA, but it is the record itself which is a deft delight.

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

Med sud I eyrum ... is a beautiful collection that blows Sigur Rós beyond the place they come from, geographically and musically.

It's an album likely to confound and alienate, but its nooks are home to a rugged kookiness that no one but RZA could pull off.

One of the most exciting things about White Denim is the way they balance unfettered extravagance with constructive constriction.