They may talk it up as a brave new step forward, but their first album in over eight years can't really be viewed as other than a retrograde move for Jane's Addiction.

The songs are mostly just nondescript airwave fodder, clogging up the aether for months to come.

As usual with Sawhney, it's typically eclectic, and surprisingly effective.

Earth Division finds Mogwai in unusually calm and engaging mood, its four tracks for the most part eschewing their trademark surging post-rock in favour of a lighter, more reflective approach.

Shorty here offers an explosive blend of funk, blues and jazz.

It's hardly groundbreaking stuff, but McCartney undeniably has an ear for melody.

Henry's stubbled delivery pitched somewhere between Randy Newman and Tom Waits as he negotiates the galumphing waltz "Strung" and the ramshackle cakewalk groove "Sticks & Stones", which best exemplifies the album's mythopoeic blues mode.

Due to the choice of material, the arrangements lean heavily towards the dramatic and angst-ridden--well, it is Peter Gabriel--with the sole recourse to mellow calm reserved for the undulating strings of "The Nest That Sailed the Sky".

Merritt's main problem may be that his baritone croon makes him sound cynical even when he's baring his heart, an impression only partly undercut by his occasional ukulele strum.

Most are dully baffling.

There's barely a shred of truly memorable content here.

The only reliably engaging elements of the compositions are the wonderful choral arrangements that provide most of the mortar connecting Björk's voice to the instrumental parts.

Scott's overly melodramatic delivery sometimes gets in the way of the words, although his arrangements are for the most part respectful and apt.

It's the communal sentiment underlying such ostensibly personal heartache that gives Williams's songs much of their power, that draws the listener in as an emotional fellow-traveller.

Their 14th studio album finds the Indigo Girls operating as powerfully as at any time in their career, on a set of uncommonly strong songs performed with the kind of typically understated Nashville polish that affords their signature harmonies the full spotlight.

Feist here cements her position as the poster-girl for intimate US indie rock, with songs that peel back the skin of the human condition.

It's the same throughout, London relying on charm over content. But, in fairness, he makes it more fun than most.

While imparting a palpable sense of immediacy to the performances, there are some tracks that could do with more work.

Seven years on from Satan's Circus, Death in Vegas' prime mover Richard Fearless doesn't seem to have moved on at all.

There's a pronounced shortfall of his usual joyous eclecticism here, with many pieces settling for basic repetitive sequences; some sound like little more than extended intros.

If it's not quite the landmark that was Wilco (the album), it's not far behind, as absorbing as any you'll hear this year.

Here, they find unsuspected connections between disparate sounds.

He's a bona fide hitmaker with a colossal YouTube following, working in the argot and style of his own generation

It's a more considered and persuasive analysis than most of his younger, grimier peers can offer.

Meg Baird, formerly the frontperson of Philadelphia-based psychedelic folk-rockers Espers, is left a little exposed on her own solo album.

Despite the propulsive energy sustained throughout, some tracks lack focus.

The Jayhawks release their most insipid, uninspired album in years.

As on the splendid West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum, Kasabian talk a good fight with Velociraptor--and if the results don't quite bear out the bluster, that's probably more a reflection of the excellence of its predecessor than a measure of its own shortcomings.

The sad fact about supergroups is that they are rarely the result of any musical imperative. This is painfully confirmed on the debut offering from the alliance of Mick Jagger, Dave Stewart, Joss Stone, Damian Marley and A R Rahman, on which the assembled talents cast around for a style of their own without ever unearthing the natural chemistry on which great bands rely.

Cropper's needle-sharp guitar fills best demonstrate the immense debt the MGs man owes to the 5 Royales songwriter and guitarist Lowman Pauling.

Beneath the bluster it's pretty dull fare, the brittle rock-funk beats and brusque guitar riffs carrying songs that pay eager lip-service to energy and activity but actually offer a series of fairly empty experiences.

It's Wretch's determination to find success by finding his own voice that's most impressive here.

The Old Magic is stuffed with the kind of retro-styled standards that will doubtless be mined by generations of Nashville crooners to come, performed here in unassuming arrangements that try not to get in the way of the songs.

The result is a series of half-formed, indifferently performed tracks on which even gifted guitarist Hugh Harris struggles to locate the inspired touches that made Konk so impressive.

For her third album as St. Vincent, Annie Clark has jettisoned the baroque string and woodwind arrangements that marked 2009's Actor, in favour of more direct, guitar-based settings.

Laura Marling continues to impress on her third outing, though the transatlantic influences are becoming more apparent.

It's a relief to report that Pull Up Some Dust And Sit Down is his best effort by far since Chavez Ravine.

It's all tastefully arranged.

The cycling, Wendy Carlos-style synth figures of "Searching For Heaven" offer brief respite, but hardly enough to rescue an album promising far more than it delivers.

["A Little Bit Of Everything"] is a thoughtful, mature conclusion to an album that seems to summarise one of the more welcoming trends in American rock

The skirling electric guitars have been replaced by acoustic instruments which, allied to the ageless, weary but unbowed character of Ibrahim Ag Alhabib's voice, enhances further the bluesy nature of their music.

It's business as usual, but with diminishing returns, on I'm With You--the result, perhaps, of sticking with the producer Rick Rubin for six albums.

There's a profound valedictory tone about it, as songwriters such as Jakob Dylan and Paul Westerberg craft material custom-built for Campbell's situation.

The engaging mood is further enhanced by Condon's baffling but beautiful lyrics.

They now dart in yet another direction, devising a shuffling indie-dance style that recalls variously the infectious syncopations of Talking Heads, the baggy grooves of Happy Mondays and the campfire psychedelia of Animal Collective, but somehow manages to sound homogenously all of a piece.

The ponderous rocker "How Long Can These Streets Be Empty?" shows up the limitations of a voice better suited to pop and soul.

CSS's La Liberacion offers a much more serviceable blend of their original X-Ray Spex-style doughty amateurism with their slicker, sleeker electropop self.

These are some of the most engaging songs he's written, with beguiling melodies wrapped around typically gnomic lyrics, and little undue instrumental indulgence.

It's pleasant enough, but sometimes the words do rather get in the way.

Thea Gilmore's 70th birthday tribute takes the form of re-recording her favourite Dylan album in its entirety, triggered by her acclaimed 2002 cover of "I Dreamed I Saw St Augustine", which sustains its solemnity despite the inclusion of congas.

The Shjips' mesmeric approach reaches its apogee on "Flight", whose rolling groove is streaked with cascading contrails of echoey, double-tracked space-guitar.

Watch the Throne is more notable for its general lack of impact. Neither as compulsively neurotic as Eminem, as languidly characterful as Snoop Dogg, nor as furiously articulate as Nas, the raps here represent a pretty mediocre, cardboard kind of throne, truth be told.

Thankfully, the further Wilson gets from his heroes, the better he gets.

Alongside some so-so newer material, this latest set revisits earlier triumphs in JD's new style, which owes more to MOR jazz than rock or country. It's not as successful as his 2009 comeback If The World Was You, being something of a halfway house.

The UK edition of their debut has three extra tracks recorded in a church, which damps things even further. But there is still much to enjoy here.

With Dan Auerbach from The Black Keys co-producing, Olive has captured the flavour of 1960s Brit-blues on the cusp of spreading into druggier, more exploratory areas.

His symphonic-soul innovations here would map out the course of much 1970s soul music, while his use of multi-layered vocals – the happy result of an engineer accidentally running two vocal takes in the same mix – added an extra element to Gaye's vocal armoury which he would use extensively throughout the rest of his career.

The most pungent aroma rising from Juju's avant-jazz dub-trance grooves is that of a funkier Mahavishnu Orchestra.

Strident guitars and harmonies tug one's sleeve, eager for attention they don't merit, while the lyrics seem to be about nothing.

Moreover, Newman never sounds more quintessentially Newman than when experienced, as here, alone at the piano, with the lyrical intricacies and ironies of his songs dependent on just his laconic delivery and trenchant accompaniment for their effect.

An impressive debut, albeit one light on lyrical depth.

Recorded over six days in Nashville with Dave Stewart, the debut release on Joss Stone's own label is, she claims, the first on which she has exerted total creative freedom.

The narrow range of Nevins's voice limits its character somewhat, but is still compelling when combined with her mountain fiddle on a song such as "Wood and Stone", whose crisp swamp-funk country backbeat brings pep to its message of tradition and heritage.

She's surely destined to become one of the voices of the year, while her accomplices' subtle confections of minimal electro throbs and stripped-back beats has an alluring simplicity that's like a refreshing, palate-cleansing sorbet.

Behind the whippy synth flourishes and propulsive stompbeats that snag one's interest, the lazy charmlessness of the duo's rhyming quickly grows tiresome, a situation unalleviated by the occasional appearance of a Busta Rhymes or Calvin Harris. Fun in extremely small doses.

There's a pervasive haunted sense of loss and melancholy that links these 16 tracks together, giving Dedication a depth and elegance not often found in more dance-focused dubstep.

Twenty-five years ago, Lifes Rich Pageant found R.E.M. metamorphosing from what was effectively a turbo-charged folk-rock cult indie outfit into a proper rock band capable of filling stadia.

Switching smoothly between contemporary classical orchestrations, big-band jazz and operatic chorale, the results are frequently breathtaking in their audacity.

At its best, it has a radiant, marvellous sound.

Whether The Horrors will willingly pursue that same trajectory to its logical conclusion seems doubtful, but for now Skying finds them breaking free of old bindings, eyes set on the wild blue yonder.

Dave Alvin's latest album may be his best yet, its tales of the flipside of the American Dream set to gritty blues riffs that speak of long months on the road.

Guitarist Vieux Farka Toure here seeks to extend his Malian musical heritage beyond the country's borders, by collaborating with American musicians on several tracks--though never obscuring the native essence of his style.

Throughout, the sound is brittle and strident, like space-rock-candy, with Deborah Harry's allure buried far too deeply in the crowded mix to be particularly effective.

On her new album, Pint of Blood – which, lest we forget, is very nearly an armful – Jolie Holland adopts a new, looser working method which isn't entirely to her advantage.

Themes of lust, power politics and rebellion are smuggled in via unusual locutions, de-synchronous beats and treated sample-loops – interesting stuff, though occasionally one yearns for a decent tune.

Away from his favourite theme, Wiley struggles to bring interest or insight to his workaday observations, and while many of his grimey "eskibeat" grooves have an infectious, spartan quality about them, it's likely that in future they'll be more profitably employed behind other wordsmiths.

Whether it's the involvement of Coldplay's Guy Berryman in the production, or simply their shift to a major label, on You & I The Pierces have lost much of what made 2007's Thirteen Tales of Love and Revenge so beguiling.

This tribute compilation ranges far and wide accordingly.

It's all delivered with their usual panache, though at times the emphasis on utility leaves one yearning for a little of their more psychedelic extremity.

Overall, the weaknesses far outnumber the strengths. Not, of course, that that will prevent huge sales figures for 4: because those numbers, ultimately, are what it's all about.

Judging by The Light Of The Sun, she's expending precious little energy on songwriting and recording, allowing her natural inclination to extemporise far too free a rein.

On this, Gillian Welch's fifth album, the familiar blending of traditional sounds and moods with modern sensibilities is effortlessly sustained through songs like the mordant "The Way It Goes" ("Betsy Johnson bought the farm, stuck a needle in her arm, that's the way that it goes").

[It] features sleek R&B versions of mostly traditional gospel and blues numbers, some bookended with fragments of the originals, alongside interesting covers of things like Dylan's "Shot of Love".

What a couple of charmers.

Originally planned as the second half of a double-album, Lupercalia is his most approachable effort.

Paul Simon's ruminations here on love, age and encroaching mortality have a valedictory flavour about them.

With the striking falsetto of Peter Silberman dominating their songs, The Antlers may be America's equivalent of Wild Beasts.

Unlike previous Vetiver albums, for The Errant Charm, songwriter Andy Cabic entered the studio with vague ideas rather than finished songs, and it shows.

As on A&M's albums, he's captured the trio's charm and lightness of spirit within infectious grooves built around Sam's cyclical acoustic guitar riffs, with the individual raps supported by their warm, uplifting harmonies.

Circuital opens with a gong and orchestral fanfare, appropriately so for what may be My Morning Jacket's best album.

The overall impression is of someone trying to disguise their true emotions with comic bluster: in that sense, ironically, it's a more macho album than Humbug, despite its lighter touch.

Clearly, these New York math-rockers have yet to learn the values of de- cluttering, with most of these dozen pieces involving furious industry to no great advantage.

Is there nothing they can't do?

Whatever their origin [his guitars], he manages to wrestle compelling riffs from them.

Hip young American male/female duo Cults look to classic 1960s pop history for the 11 bite-sized pop nuggets of this impressive debut.

There's an ease and comfort about the songs that suggests they fell into place naturally, rather than suffering endless alterations; and the band seem content to let them breathe and take on a life of their own, rather than freight them with unnecessary adornment.

Musically, she strays a little too far from her folkie comfort-zone, with varied results

there's ultimately nothing distinctive here to grab the imagination. The singer has obviously modelled his every inflection on Bono, and the guitarist likewise over-employs Edge-style arpeggiated riffs; but they lack U2's broader ambition and sense of purpose.