Shoegaze drone-noise from Texas, done well but done several times before.

While it might not find itself a massive audience, fans of earthy, charismatic Americana might do well to seek it out for themselves.

For many listeners, Foxygen's influences will sound tired. But as they plunder the past, they're enjoying themselves, and the enthusiasm on this messy collection of songs is infectious.

The Gift wins at warming the heart in a time of reflection and recession, ringing subtly--via an impressively less-than-mechanical recipe--in the slushiest part of our brains.

The group's melding together of dance music, metal riffs, punk energy and vocals that sound English rather than Californian make A Flash Flood of Colour not only a compelling effort, but an appropriately named one to boot.

It's an album that envelops even as it blurs and drifts, its hooks no less insistent for their subtlety.

Four may be 2012's most exciting guitar album.

It's as if Offer, completely understandably, has pulled everything towards him a little too close. Reined everything in and hugged the songs a little too tightly.

As a tastefully populist exercise this set represents a job well done.

A slightly sinister brand of enigma is a key component of his shtick, but it's hard not to wonder what this leftfield pop talent might come up with if he were asked to produce something a bit more crisp and definite.

As it stands, The Union is a blot on neither man's legacy, just a mature bout with flashes of former glory.

If anyone asks how Heroes differs from the 65 Willie Nelson studio albums that preceded it, the happy answer is: not much. The expressive, intimate tenor, the matchless musical instinct and Willie's distinctive ringing guitar lines are just as compelling, and just as delightful, as ever.

As a transitional release, however, Night Train points to an even bigger and brighter future: it mostly sounds like a band happy to enjoy the freedom of chalking up 10 million album sales, and everyone else can take a running jump.

Simple, slightly silly but splendidly affecting, it's a telling suggestion that Arnalds will retain her endearingly obtuse edge, whatever language she favours in future.

The overriding impression of Boys and Diamonds, however, is of MIA's global smash-and-grab style of musicianship minus the bonding agent of an overarching personality.

The album's long-term problem is will it have any meaning or relevance once the election is done and dusted? Well no, probably not in thematic terms; but the scathing humour of Going to Tampa is timeless and the thunderous Guantanamo, the sort of song Springsteen must wish he'd written, will remain a classic whoever's in the Oval Office.

As step forwards (via looking backwards) go, it's brave and for the most part it works.

Nothing that features on Kaleide will come as a surprise to those familiar with Sky Larkin's debut, though it will please them.

This is an impressive debut and a solid step toward a more realised identity.

When the trio clicks it is utterly magnificent.

This music declares war: face-punching, heart-stomping, no-holds-barred conflict for your ears and mind. It's an all-out assault on pop culture and its worldly accessories.

Throughout, CTE prove that they are an alternative act that's not scared of offending mainstream sensibilities. Time to break their locks.

Take a finger to your fast-forward button, however, and without Jones' handful of mediocre performances, Rome breezes past with all the tinkling, indefinable intent of a lost Michel Gondry film score.

From its start to the jazzy electro shuffle of You're Out that rounds it off, Ultraísta is consistently involving, even if it sags in the middle with Our Song. It's set to be a cult favourite rather than sell millions of copies, but this is because it contains fascinating ideas you won't hear on most pop records.

It's a consistently intriguing album and, in the long run, may even prove more enduring than its predecessor.

Despite this motley bunch, the album's sound hasn't become a random genre gumbo.

That voice, with its hint of Gene Pitney, is a piercing, precise tool which lifts him above the laddish milieu. Ubiquity may beckon.

Strange or otherwise, this is an intriguing but confused curate's egg of an album that will probably delight as many people as it repels.