This five-part suite expertly blurs boundaries between Weber's sequenced beats and the florid, cascading melodies of the carillon (played expertly by Vegar Sandholt).

Yes, he's got Paul McCartney playing slurpy bass on As It Comes, and Neko Case pops up on the countrified duet Sing Me to Sleep, but there's no escaping the sound of his past. Nor any sense that it's a past that needs to be escaped from.

On Damnesia, the bare bones and glistening edges are on such clear display that even the most cheerful listener's day will be darkened by Alkaline Trio's gathering storm clouds.

This is a far from perfect album, but at its peak it’s highly mature, seasoned music. Exhaustion clearly seems to be beneficial to McRae’s unique sound.

The band’s lack of a defining musical style has proven an advantage here, as frontman Damian Kulash and co. were clearly able to explore their boundaries, unconfined by audience expectations.

There are no excursions into dubstep, no guest rappers and no raunchiness, just good clean wholesome party (as in jelly and ice-cream) fun.

Oh No I Love You is a warm affair and a slightly more together reflection of Tim than I Believe was, and the accompanying remix album with cosmic re-works by the likes of Seahawks is a bonus too. This deserves to find itself in as many homes as possible.

She's a quick-witted lyricist with a sharp eye.

Even during its less-memorable moments, this is an album that maintains its atmosphere, and Elson is an engaging narrator (although there's no trace of her Oldham roots to be heard).

Fear Factory’s slices of digital dystopia no longer sound futuristic or groundbreaking, but Mechanize is a powerful statement from a revitalized and still-relevant band.

The Road From Memphis hasn't got any of the surprise factor of Potato Hole; in fact, it's more like reacquainting yourself with an old friend. But it's a work of such high quality it doesn't really matter it's nothing new.

Consequently Familial initially seems timid, even half-hearted, but persistence reveals an album full of sweet sentiment and honest meditations.

[A] likeable, if light, follow-up.

In creating a work which pretty much unfailingly sounds like it could have been made 25 years ago, Future Islands have rejected a lot of current sonic trends--only for their sound to land fashionable-side-up anyway. The tunes are the thing, of course, and the tunes are good.

What It Means to Be Left-Handed contains more ideas than most guitar bands muster in their entire careers and will certainly consolidate Pierce's core cult audience.

It’s a genre experiment that might encourage more sceptical listeners to err on the side of caution, but if you’re willing to let yourself be swept away, then the rewards are worthwhile.

Pink Friday isn't a classic by any means, then, but when Nicki Minaj is on fire nobody in hip hop – male or female – can extinguish her bright-burning talents.

Sometimes you wish they'd let themselves go a little more, but there's much here to adore.

It seems that the band still have plenty to say, and the means to say it well.

Liquid Love is undoubtedly impressive, well-honed and slickly produced, and it’s shot through with a glowing joie de vivre. But it’s too smoothed and tidied.

Subversion of the most intelligent, insidious, inventive kind.

The Clan sounds lean, experienced and relaxed on a recommended new collection.

Flamingo will keep the fans from growing rabid while The Killers take a break, but if Flowers releases another solo album before reconvening with his colleagues, teeth might well be bared.

It's perhaps too subtle and intricate for a marketplace accustomed to being bashed about the bonce by rave-fuelled RnB – but if your palate fancies some tuneful sweetness, Youth will melt in your mouth.

Hardcore fans can, of course, simply ignore it, but they're exactly the people who might've hoped for something more. As an introduction to Pearl Jam's on-stage prowess, however, this is a tidy effort.

At times it can settle too readily into a kind of country chug, and one begins to feel stuck for too long in a dusty, last-breath pick-up on some interminable road trip. But when it is good, it is very, very good.

If this T-Bone Burnett-produced album isn't a standout, it still has plenty going for it.

It's appealing, generally engaging and all shot through with the confidence of a man who must feel he's got the hit parade Midas touch