What feels right (or at least absolutely right now) about Metric is the perfect balance, every element in its place and in service of a set of sinuous, hook-laden, elegantly crafted pop songs.

We are in the presence of mad, brilliant, soulful genius and there is no choice but to surrender.

Twenty-six years after their last album, 58-year-old Rowland and his roughly reassembled crew have made a record that manages to combine fresh new stories with the heart and nervous energy of classic Dexys.

When you rouse yourself from Gardot's dream, it can be hard to recall any individual song, but the reverie is beautiful.

It is not reinventing the pop wheel but everything is done with an appealing combination of taste and passion.

The album has to be judged a late-period triumph, even if I am not entirely convinced The Voice's avuncular judge is quite as deep as the material demands.

The playing is lovely, lilting and delicate.

In the past decade, it seems Jones has made a sneaky transition from dinner party backdrop to David Lynch soundtrack.

It's a cleverly constructed, well-written and cohesive piece of work - albeit possibly, at 13 tracks, two songs too long.

The fifth album by Great Lake Swimmers, called New Wild Everywhere, is melodic and graceful.

It seems churlish to complain about songwriting and production as madly ambitious as this – filled with nuance and detail, sweeping and dizzy in its self-absorption, it builds at moments to an operatic grandeur.

The music is an acquired taste but Tales From The Barrel House is certainly a modern musical artisan at work.

This is a hugely impressive introduction to a dynamic, arresting talent.

From its raucous, raw-edged opening salvo to the softer, weirder, ruminative closing tracks, Blunderbuss crackles with life and energy, hauling roots rock out of the dusty museum and into the dazzling light of the modern day.

The excellent Sara Watkins joins on fiddle, guitar and vocals for an eclectic mix of songs.

[Even] if Alabama Shakes do nothing original, they strike classic poses with real guts.

Mixing up elements of rock, pop, blues, jazz, soul and funk, each song finds its way into a supple groove and just bounces around there as though Amadou's guitar strings and Mariam's vocal chords were made of musical elastic.

It's an introspective work - family breakdowns, fractured romances and his own restless, addictive character pour forth in a variety of low-key yet lush arrangements featuring sombre brass accents.

Sometimes [the strings'] swell threatens to overwhelm the quirkiness, but in the best things, such as Skies are Rare, they work perfectly together.

Sonically speaking, Weller seriously kicks it.

Madonna's infinite varieties have certainly staled.

There is nothing particularly daring about the album but it's classy and enjoyable.

Paul Griffith (drums); Amanda Shires (violins/vocals and a gifted songwriter with her own album Lightning Strikes just out); Chad Staehly (keyboards); Jason Isbell (guitars) and Mick Utley (vocals) add the expertly jaunty sound to Snider's ironic and enjoyably dark lyrics.

In short, if you're stuck in a traffic jam, this is a record which will make you want to open the sunroof.

He's made the kind of record that every kid rummaging through boxes of Seventies vinyl at the car boot sale hopes to find. One that lovingly reassembles a 21st-century impression of that era's warm autumnal hues and tactile textures.

You have to be in the mood for Young Man In America but, when you are, you'll be rewarded by an absorbing album.

Their once-ebullient anthems have been replaced by a collection of mid-tempo, uninspiringly ponderous tracks.

An extraordinary debut from a new British-based band who combine a gipsy swagger with tremulous sensitivity and gothic rock drama.

Wrecking Ball may be his angriest and most overtly political collection, yet the fury is contained in some of his most uplifting and celebratory music, so you can never be quite sure if he has come to raise the flag or to burn it.

She's made her best, most accessible record for years.

They know how to knock a tune together and have delivered a pop party album thrillingly in tune with contemporary listening habits.

Beautifully nuanced collage of soulfully rocking flavours.

Chopped and diced from a variety of sources, it packs a lyrical punch, but nothing here transcends his internet hit.

It sounds like a romantic gift to his new wife and a sentimental salute to his own childhood--a minor gem from a major talent.

It's real music for grown-ups.

Neither lets down an album that features songs by some of country music's finest lyricists.

Sing In My Meadow is unsettling, interesting and, when it works, very affecting.

It is, in short, and as we might have expected, a work of genius.

Inevitably, 51 minutes of melodrama becomes draining. But it captures Del Rey's mystique perfectly.

[Houghton's] first album of idiosyncratic banjo pop has been worth the wait.

Does it succeed in his aim? Triumphantly. With bells on. Tinker bells, even.

It's hardly a novel idea to cover these songs, but Isaak's versions succeed through skilful arrangement, vibrant recording (mostly at Sun) and above all some remarkable vocal performances.

This is a record Guy Clark can surely be proud to have as a tribute.

There's a nourishing warmth in their bittersweet laments.

It's wholly derivative, yet the tuneful, instantly gratifying choruses often trump one's desire to play spot the influence.

If progress is their aim, then this is fine proof of how a softly-softly approach is often best.

Her worthier sentiments are balanced by maturing wit, self-awareness and the distinctive snap'n'slap of her funky guitar grooves.

What meets at this particular crossroads is good old-fashioned blues, soul-stirring gospel and a funky, Hammond-organ-soaked sound.

Their bluesy approach doesn't draw anything truly rich and strange from their vintage Cambodian material.

The covers of their favourite maverick songwriters more than matches for the originals.

[It's] orchestrally enhanced, romantic balladry of fair beauty.

The music is astounding, threading erudite raps through ghetto soul jams and panoramic orchestral interludes.

Its low-budget weirdness will have you laughing into the new year.

Psychic Life is fully in touch with such early-Eighties weirdness, but is also fresh, approachable and thoroughly spellbinding.

Each track has a timeless quality, as suited to a Seventies mid-west saloon as a students' indie disco.

For now Birdy remains a novelty. Her rich, malleable vocals suggest, however, that she won't be caged for long.

There are good things here, but nothing especially new.

It's a pleasure to hear her scatting her way through moods and melodies, sketching vocals out, even when they don't work.

His pensive, personal songs often evoke nocturnal drives on dusty highways with hypnotic allure.

With the right collaborators she can conjure golden moments.

It's not an album that takes itself too seriously (one song is called I'm No Elvis Presley) but it's an upbeat romp of a CD with some fine song songs such as Black Fly.

Bush is still making music that intrudes and abducts.

Prine is extraordinary, one of the most eloquent artists of modern times and seeing where it all started, in this super CD, really is something very special.

Ilo Veyou is a magnificent, kaleidoscopic oddity, unafraid to risk ridiculousness in pursuit of the sublime, fearlessly unlike anything else you'll hear this year.

Here, leading lights of electronic music remix King Midas Sound's underrated debut album to striking effect.

The result is both silkily seductive and moodily narcissistic.

An adrenalised behemoth of a record which reasserts her position as one of pop's most compulsive pleasures.

His second album is a regression. A year on, the gaudy guitar loops and sleek hip-hop beats sound mundane.

Their sixth album, however, sticks too rigidly to the formula.

The Dreamer is occasionally powerful and moving as James ranges across memorable songs including Otis Redding's Champagne & Wine.

The results sound as if Lynch's old protégé Chris Isaak had taken a left turn into lyrical eccentricity, pulsing synths and sinister atmospherics.

The most compelling tracks take drastic liberties with the original material, deconstructing Kinshasa sound systems into industrial-tropical hoedowns that reflect postmodern London more than Africa's teeming townships.

Her overemphasised enunciation puts Boyle firmly in the Julie Andrews stage show tradition but, at her best, she rises above inoffensive background music to gently brush the emotions.

Those who loved The King Is Dead should certainly enjoy the EP--a sort of CD extras from a fine main production.

She really does sweep the listener away, spinning wild webs of sound and carrying us off to her own aural dreamland.

Reed's words dictate the musical structure. Often, Metallica simply fall in behind them in a free-form drone. Like much of Reed's late-period work, this is abstract and literary but even by his standards, Lulu is gruelling.

Smoking in Heaven is hugely enjoyable.

Great pop music with its big heart in the right place.

The wild, rattling bawlers are each distinctively turbocharged with reckless and richly textured energy, while the ballads run poignantly on their rims, leaking emotion.

High Flying Birds is the best collection of Gallagher tunes since his Morning Glory days.

Lisa Hannigan is on confident form in her second solo release since the split from Damien Rice.

It's surprisingly exhilarating stuff.

Underneath the almost soporifically smooth old-soul and country polish, Adams's ear for a delicate melody and feel for the shadowy nuances of emotion give this latest chapter beautiful depth.

It's a fully-acoustic affair (guitar, piano, upright bass, drums, etc), with a luxurious, live-combo presence and some gruff musings on time, humanity and music.

There is an avant garde boldness here that is, at times, quite amazing.

It's simply a great album from start to finish - wonderful tunes, superb musicianship, star guests and a unity of purpose about delivering a fitting tribute to the music he loves that raises this album to such a high level.

The performances are superb.

It's a fun-loving, tune-heavy indie/punk/pop romp, with girlie la-la harmonies, a none-more-cheesy organ sound, and welcome vocal echoes of Britpop femmes Elastica and new wave heroine Lene Lovich.

It's surprisingly accessible, hypnotic and beautiful if you give it time and concentration.

From the clarion call of The Hosting Of The Shee to the haunting The Faery's Last Song, the result is a fabulous feast of words and music.

It's all precisely mixed and impressively textured, but lacks Blake's more raw, emotional connection.

Business as usual, then, with few new thrills.

The album is a beauty, none the less, the care put into it confirming Williams's exalted position in the tower of song.

Nothing on this, her fourth album, rivals that hit [1234] for toe-tapping immediacy, but it is rich in atmospheric beauty.

It's an album undiminished by time, that can still make me want to throw myself around an imaginary mosh pit or curl up in a fetal ball.

A guest spot for Little Dragon's Yukimi Nagano adds spice to this unexpected feast.

His fifth album, however, finds him still in peak form, voicing socially aware hip hop and outré electro-disco, all with an eloquence which often eludes the newer generation.

It's a heart-warming who's who.