Creating such a tightly-knit record is a simple style a myriad of singer-songwriters have lived by, and in that sense Diaper Island feels just as uncompromising, if in a different way, as the equally miserable Blood on the Tracks.

A distinct spirit? Always. Forging new ground? Only in the minds of marketing execs.

These songs all sound like Gaga, but they're more abrasive, less focused, and that's not a good thing.

Like Radiohead and Panda Bear before Bon Iver this year, it's not a problem that Vernon hasn't created music in the same style of the last successful album: the problem is that he isn't able to make that creative jump to a new aesthetic, or direction, successfully at all.

For better or for worse, Torches is a product of the here and now, and who can be mad at Foster the People for seizing it for all its worth? Get it while it lasts, boys.

Sennett's overwhelming perfectionism, his pursuit for the ideal pop song, is just as likely to submerge him in soft rock cliches and painfully obtuse lyricism as it is likely to lead him to an aces country-rock tune that sounds like the best song Fleetwood Mac never made.

Kane may have been better served to load up on his under-rated guitar nous, which too fleetingly beguiles on this ultimately promising solo offering.

I Am Very Far is certainly a more enthralling listen than The Stand Ins was; though it may lack some of the emotional impact of Down the River of Golden Dreams, or especially Black Sheep Boy, the album remains a welcomed addition into the work of a band who commands great quality-control.

Augustana sound bored and weather-beaten to death on their self-titled, and if this is how the true Augustana sounds, then it's fair to say that they're far and away past their prime and could consider calling it quits.

Those songs are products of an ambition that hasn't quite been tamed, but on the majority of Goblin, Tyler genuinely uses his creative freedom to create the fantastic.

The experimentation found on Life Fantastic, for the most part, works rather well within the gypsy circus that is Man Man but even at its best it makes one wonder what it could have sounded like without the meds.

Remember what I said about this band being capable of a classic? Well 'Simple Math' is their first. Just a shame about Simple Math.

It's an album you appreciate not because you have to, but because you want to.

It's not often that a songwriter comes along that not only gives his listeners a chance to view the inner workings of his soul, but is also able to express his own situation so clearly and in a way that resounds so personally to everyone in earshot.

In the glutton of pretty records, With Our Heads in the Clouds and Our Hearts in the Fields presents itself as a merely a needle in the haystack; the likelihood is that it will be lost in the mix, not good enough to be remember, but also not bad enough to be singled-out.

So once more, the Dodos feel fresh, a little bit more thoughtful, and every bit as happy to get us tangled up in ourselves. Of course there's color to No Color. It's just this time there's black and white and grey as well- colors they've never used before.

One where the sum of its parts are greater than the whole. Only including ten tracks, This Modern Glitch is as inconsistent as ever, and could actually be hindered by having less bullets to spray around the target.

So it comes as no surprise that the harmonic progression does not cadence as the listener might expect; the ear wants one more chord, but Pecknold and his backup singers simply end. There's nothing more to say.

Both for Dulli as an artist, and me as a fan, the borders may be wider but the thrill remains the same - this is dark, cynical, sexy, and genuinely moving with it, and that's a combination potent enough to make this an outside bet for rock album of the year.

Soulful and bluesy in a way that still acknowledges the existence of the various strains of cutting-edge electronic music emanating from the UK, Mirrorwriting is one of 2011's most assured and confident debuts.

So it's hard to know how to peg Vaccine, ultimately--it's both a brave move and a safe one, both a shock and something you could have seen coming. What's not in doubt, though, is that it's a very good album.

The Taking is the sound of a man with no corporate or musical responsibility simply doing what sounds and feels right.

This is good because Letlive know their strengths here, hooks and Butler, push both ahead to the front, and come out with the best eleven tracks of their career thus far, easily.

Matilda expands on the palette considerably, shooting off on several tangents without muddying the overall aesthetic at all. It's harder to get into than Stateless, but once this sinks in properly, it's even better.

Be it progression or passion for art, it is the key unifying force behind TV On The Radio, and it's not here.

Solid and relatively consistent, Hope is better than a "finding their feet" experiment, yet that is ultimately what it is.

It's still a decent addition to Atmosphere's discography, but if you're expecting something on the level of GodLovesUgly or When Life Gives You Lemons..., you may want to look elsewhere first.

Tomboy is every bit as good as it promised to be, and more.

Wasting Light isn't a masterpiece, nor does it see Grohl really reinventing the wheel as far as the band's sound goes, but it's clearly painted from a broader pallette of colours and it's clearly their first consistently good set of songs.

The end result is that even when stumbling across an interesting idea, Francis botches it by coming off as childish, attention-seeking and occasionally repulsive.

If you get past this wall of noise, only bothering to burden Share the Joy for a freaky sixteen seconds, you'll find a record contained within its little motto, the noise dropped, the joy shared tenfold, the delightful "Dance (If You Wanna)" circling our heads, encouraging us with a smile.

The end result is that The Unforgiving is easily Within Temptation's most ambitious record, an album that benefits from an increased energy level and strong songwriting in order to deliver a collection of the band's strongest songs to date.

Despite being a free mixtape, House of Balloons feels like a true album, a true labor of love (and pain and hardship and everything else), more genuine than more prominent R&B stars, but perhaps that is due to The Weeknd's anonymity.

Ultimately, Killing Time is another solid collection of songs from Bayside... Yet another base hit, but still no game-winning home run.

By combining these previously worked on sounds in new ways Thursday have created an album that is not only new and unique, but also unmistakably their own.

Blood Pressures is the band's most coherent, consistent work to date, an album painted in gritty black-and-white blues and Mosshart's sexy, venomous vocals.

The ONE… doesn't feel like work for G-Side, rather it feels like a first love, a record that gives a hundred percent to garner every compliment it earns: flowing, smart, sexy, and even global to those who hear it and its grand tone.

There's little that goes out of its way for your attention but the elegance and restraint is exactly what gives most of the songs, like "It's Hard To Get Around The Wind" with the preceding "Even if you know which way it's gonna blow" line, their colour.

It's as colorful as it sounds, and it makes for an album where one can never quite know what to expect next.

John knows what he does best and that's exactly he delivers, every damn time like clockwork.

Revolting, messy, lazy, and undeniably Sum 41, Screaming Bloody Murder is a dead band moaning in its grave. Any highlights here more or less just belong to other, better bands, or even Sum 41 themselves from the past.

The production is solid and his voice retains that smooth edge that still carries with it the slightest sense of vulnerability.

Many listeners will hear Emery's heaviest album to date, while others will find it their catchiest. Some may enjoy the gradual come down after the initial blast, while the rest will believe it lacks cohesion.

It is more of the same: overproduced, generic disney channel beats by names no one knows, derivative choruses and melodies that obviously sound manufactured by a tie-wielding Atlantic executive, and lyricism that fails at even being anthemic for parties.

The problem with Something To Die For is that it's an album built to succeed on the strength of its hooks and not its songwriting.

The Golden Age of Knowhere is the perfect party album since it has something for everyone. And while it will most likely work better in a live setting, it still makes for one hell of an excellent record.

It is sad to finally see the unpredictable hero of lyricism finally write an album that is only good. I'll still be listening to this album for weeks, I just hope it stays as consistent as the man's other work has throughout my life.

The band sounds fresh from their rest, aren't trying to be something they're not again, and most importantly, they sound young and sincere. Welcome back, Yellowcard.

All in all, Scurrilous succeeds at all levels. It takes the tediousness out of technicality, and injects more hooks than a tackle box into the Protest the Hero formula.

Femme Fatale, after all, is a flawed album, with lyrics that barely clear the level of a Ke$ha and a maturity level to match. But it's a pop album that's supposed to make you dance, and when it comes to that, there's not a star out there that can match Ms. Spears.

Angles ends in a horribly frustrating manner, with none of the assurance of "Take it or Leave It" or "Red Light." No, Angles, even in ending with its strongest song, dies the way it lived: in sheer ambiguity.

The two-edged sword concerning Welcome Home Armageddon is that it is far from perfect. That room for improvement factor is exciting, but instead of looking too far into the future, listeners should just be pleased that Funeral For A Friend are out of oblivion and once more cause for some deep conversation.

No matter which extreme you believe it to favor, Endgame sees Rise Against as fiery, passionate and motivated as ever, when it comes to their wide-reaching social commentary.

Obviously, Atlantic did not rape Lupe into releasing a soulless, automated, corporate record. The real irony is that Lupe's fans demanded this garbage be released.

They're not really revolutionary because there's nothing that ambitious in them. Rather they're content being a light Dinosaur Jr., making pleasant, noisy indie rock with tambourines and static that's more an aural treat than a mental stimulant.

The group have harked back to the more memorable songs in their canon, but this can be interpreted as largely derivative in some quarters.

It's safe to say that Darkest Hour are not as good as they used to be--sorry, fans, but The Eternal Return and The Human Romance are both indicators of that. But the band have certainly got their bearings back this year and have made the best album that they possibly could have without Kris Norris.

While an interesting concept, neither CD contains enough strong material to match up to either of her previous releases, and at times, the constant barrage of R&B cliches and adult-contemporary production make it sound like Beyonce is rapidly transforming from hot, hip pop goddess to your standard bored diva.

There's a sense of detachment when I listen to this record that's weirdly hard to explain, and it's certainly hard to shake. As it is, anyways, Port Entropy's still vastly enjoyable on a surface-level; this certainly counts for something.

It's hard to find any real faults with Eisley's latest album, The Valley.

One listen to this album though and you come to realise that its Noel's absence that has made it.

Dom's sound has enough edge to satisfy the critics and enough energy to satisfy everyone else, but for what it's worth, this is the kind of album you don't have to think about for even a moment; sit back, sing a long, play it in the background, it doesn't matter. Just enjoy.

Filled with fun, catchy, bright & bouncy hooks, they redefined the art of being a guilty pleasure into being a shameful delight!

It's Barwick's most evocative instrument, one that sparkly piano notes can only help fill the room for, and one with which she diminishes too many comparisons to Panda Bear and other leftfield pop musicians.

Each of Hecker's layers are shards, something incomplete, but with just enough shards, a fragmented, disturbed image is formed, and that is the result of Ravedeath, 1972.

No, The King of Limbs is not a world-beating album, and it was never meant to be; it's an album about Radiohead trying to iron out their own creases and fix their own flaws, and judged on those terms, it's another success.

There are times when the idea of experimentation can become too much to bear.

Music that is this desolate and isolated is rarely as rewarding as Little Joy which is what makes it one of the most successful records of the year.

This is war poetry at its finest and will keep you coming back for many repeat listens. Its influence on any listener, impressionable or otherwise, should be a positive one.

The flow of Times of Grace's debut is so jagged and stop-start.

It's not that it's post-rock-by-numbers, although at times it really is, but more so that it doesn't even sound like there are painters behind the palette.

Keely has stated in interviews that it's this kind of record that he grew up listening to and wanted to emulate, and maybe that's why Tao of the Dead ends up being the most focused Trail of Dead effort in years rather than a space-rock sham.

Because this album sticks so memorably, so unwaveringly brightly, it's useless to resist it. The only thing to do is love, and so I do.

It's excellent, to be honest. Jay-Z sounds relaxed and comfortable in his legacy on the mic: he's not feeling as pressed to perform as he did on Kingdom Come, and the MC just lets his talent flow effortlessly.

Mission Bell isn't anywhere near a disaster, but it's also nowhere close to being a great album. Whatever it is Amos Lee went off in search of at the beginning of this album, he should have kept looking for it.

It works from top to bottom, to take songs from, and it fits the Go! Team canon with assumed confidence.

The World Is Yours won't set the world alight with insightful lyrics or experimentation, but that isn't what we've signed up for. This is an LP that just does not let up from the get go.

Strictly speaking, it's a Gorillaz album in name only. You could commend Albarn on one hand, but then slap him with the other; the use of a 'rolling studio' and the latest in technology is inspired, but it ultimately represents the downfall of the album.

There's a give and take at work on Mine Is Yours, one that fans of their earlier work will either love or hate.

This is a triumphantly singular album that explores a space that only this band could have made.

It's just we know there's more to this guy than this sluggish, lifeless material.

Overall, Ritual is too much of the same.

The end result is a tepid, lifeless album devoid of everything that we've come to expect from them in this part of their career, leaving only the most traditional aspects of their sound intact.

Most of III/IV come off as what you'd expect; a massive talent messing around in the studio and crafting some perfectly serviceable rock tunes.

There is nothing overblown about the album, there's no sense of superiority here. This is the proof that Cudi fell from grace but was able to gracefully climb out of that dark place with a desire to be better, not just for himself, but for us.

Women occupy a unique place in the indie rock spectrum. Their songs and makeup can put them nowhere else –- Public Strain would be a Deerhunter album if it weren't for that sneer in its lip- and yet their music is completely singular.

Thankfully, the thrills don't stop with the summer's hit single.

It's this underdog story that emphasizes just why Body Talk is such a revelation; it is the musical peak of an artist who has always had a bigger picture for what pop could sound like.

It's totally different from everything he's done while still being perfectly, irrevocably Kanye.

Danger Days definitely isn't worth it. If nothing else, it makes me interested to see where they'll go from here, but I find it saddening that the most likely future for them seems to be a breakup after this uninspired mess of an album.

Disambiguation clearly shows that Underoath are still very much the same well oiled machine that brought us Define the Great Line back in 2006 when they firmly established themselves as the kings of the scene, even if that title is somewhat constricting and misleading as their music transcends its given tags and connects with their fanbase at a deeper level, regardless of belief structure.

They sound fresher and more relevant than they have done in years, even eclipsing the latter records of Bergsman's time with the band.

Nothing is just what it brazenly titles itself as – an empty record, one lacking the sometimes questionable but more often than not intriguing experimentation and oddball weirdness that might not have made their earlier records great, but at least made them interesting.

Small Craft is an attempt to puncture that bubble, but doesn't quite do it; but, hopefully, if Eno's focus is still there, the next one should. I'm at least optimistic that it will.

In refining the band's sound and style so effectively, The Fire is ultimately a resounding success which meets its objectives.

As a whole, Cardiology is an attempt to leave behind the band's failed newer sound and return to their pop-punk roots.

Swift still prefers to write about her own broken love stories, the production is still a glossy pop-rock with only the faintest of country tinge to harken back to her roots, and Swift herself is still as dead-to-rights honest as she's always been.

Shimmering psychedelic post-punk to get lost into.