With these perfect nuggets of hormonal pop, Pete & The Pirates may not be courageous or sophisticated but they will make you want to jump around the room --even when you're empathising with Sanders' woes.

Still, despite some odd uses of language on them, tracks like Shut-In Tourist and Everything's Gonna Be Undone will undoubtedly keep fans of this enduring band more than happy.

The Oscar-winner is an understated powerhouse on her second album.

Soundgarden, Seattle natives at the epicentre of the early 1990s' plaid-and-flannel rock scene, already have one best-of to their name, 1997's A-Sides. But Telephantasm goes further, spreading itself across 24 tracks and two discs, including excellent live performances alongside commercially released singles.

There's definitely a place for We Are Born in our post-Gaga pop landscape. The album's accessible tunes might not stand up to in-depth analysis, but they stand a good chance of lighting up cheesy club nights everywhere.

Old Dog New Tricks is hardly an overhaul--the likes of Don't Know Why She Love Me but She Do ensures there's plenty here for adherents to the tried and true. But it's clear that this old dog is stretching his legs more than on any previous album.

Love & Danger takes on verbal Picasso forms with the reliable regularity that has made him a cult figure.

Cultdom seems assured at the very least, and How I Knew Her is less an album to yield all its myriad charms instantly, more one to slow-drip its way to adoration

Hercules and Love Affair have vaulted over any second album worries with a jubilant and celebratory collection of large tunes.

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.

Biasonic Hot Sauce is a mesmerising album.

It's fair to say that for every misstep there's an unexpectedly winning duet, but not enough of Jones' maturity is brought to the fore.

It's a collection that feels fresh and clean, uncomplicated by over-thinking.

As it stands, they've not only crossed over but given themselves the scope to impress even further in future.

Whereas the finest music of this ilk goes full pelt with either ideas or loins, sometimes concurrently, Business Casual is, as its title suggests, the ultimate middle ground.

Soothsayer lyricism atop sinister guitars and eldritch electronics.

Despite the clunky moments, there’s ample proof that Team Bieber know exactly what they’re doing and who they’re talking to. As you’d expect, it’s the ballads that hit the hardest.

These sky-surfing legends may have another great album in 'em yet, but for all its intermittently irie moments, Into the Future isn't it.

Full-tilt, power-pop catharsis and ecstatic blaze-of-glory euphoria – catchier than H1N1.

Serves it purpose as a ready-made playlist for your next party, but perhaps the band's oversimplifying of its sound has stripped away some of its mystique in the process.

Gravity the Seducer isn't the ultimate Ladytron album, a title which still belongs to Velocifero. It's too uncertain for that, with the slight wobbliness of someone injured learning to walk again.

Yet, something's missing. An emotional engagement, perhaps, because they sometimes seem positively embarrassed to play from the heart.

Buoyantly produced, it finds the singer leaning a little too comfortably on the conversational Georgia drawl of his baritone, and the writer coming up a little shy on the sort of detail and wordplay that lifts a cliche.

In its own right, The Fear... is an impressive piece of work. As inevitable as comparisons with their previous creations are, they shouldn’t detract from what is by anyone else’s standards a major achievement

Ambitious, and brilliant, fourth LP from the New York MC.

It's a set that does reward investigation, perhaps not with lasting love but certainly first-few-plays impressions which will last into the New Year.

Sigh No More sees four-piece Mumford and Sons strike out for equally distinctive territory, carving out a mostly winning--if nigglingly naive--debut that deserves an audience to match its impressive convictions.

Whatever the inspiration, everything adds up to 29 minutes that pack in more truth and melodies than many records twice as long. Terrific stuff from a songwriter of any age.

With 33 tracks stretching well over two hours, A Reality Tour isn’t exactly suited to single-sitting listening. It’s also far from a genuine greatest hits collection, though it certainly does feature a number of Bowie’s most-loved songs. But it is a great document of one of the world’s most inspirational recording artists.

By focusing on the sweetest of hooks amid some wonderfully retro-twanging surf guitar and licks from dusty Tijuana barrooms, it really clicks with immediate effect.... This is quite the upbeat treat.

More often than not, these reinventions are successful. They won't usurp the originals, but they're not really supposed to, and some shed new light on the well-known version.

Originality niggles aside, the vitality and wit these Oregon upstarts display on this first LP is enough to recommend them to anyone interested in hearing a quality good-time band. Hockey seem to actually give a puck, and that’s reason enough to like ‘em for now.

All things considered, Gold Dust works as an introduction to Tori Amos, though an imperfect one. It should also persuade a few lapsed fans to get reacquainted.

Every one of the 13 tracks on this album are co-writes that he's had a hand in, but all the same, a certain autobiographical tone predominates.

This is their best album for years.

It's a solid, engaging and high-calibre Biffy Clyro album. And that's no bad thing.

A serviceable but utterly derivative slice of twee electro-pop, the album quietly retreads the ground covered by Sufjan Stevens, The Postal Service and Frenchkiss labelmates Passion Pit, failing to form any identifiable shape of its own.

It's less Working For than Driving Through a nuclear-free (or otherwise) city, taking in all the myriad sights, as opposed to the unchanging view of the motorway/ autobahn.

Striding through metal, dancehall, space pop and dubstep, our multicultural mascot has littered MAYA with politicized sonic motifs: from marching drums, gunshots and modems to heavy machinery and blaring sirens. It's loud, proud, and taking no prisoners.

In Sea of Beas there is definitely a voice, and perhaps a songwriter, who still has something stunning to offer.

An album of thoroughly contagious, albeit fairly derivative, Strokes-flavoured gutter-rock.

This is electronic psychedelic-groove, flush with drama. Neither space rock nor alt-dance but flickering somewhere on the cusp of both, it should win back deserters while glamouring new converts.

At an economic 38 minutes and free of anything in the slightest bit terrible, you should welcome Head First like the first sun of spring, know it inside out by the time the band are slaying festival crowds mid-summer and possibly buying copies to give to close friends and family at Christmas.

He now presents his third compilation which, as such compilations should, demonstrates to the world that he is a man of excellent taste.

Seven albums in, Jimmy Eat World are still going strong, and Invented is an enjoyable record. But it also fails to dispel the concern that the band's well of ideas is about to run dry.

While a talented producer in his own right, here we find Chilly collaborating with Berlin dance producer Boys Noize, re-rendering the elaborate, minimalist-flavoured piano debuted on Solo Piano as louche, polished Euro-disco with one beady eye on the chill-out dollar. It is often much better than this sounds.

So they might be inserting themselves into a canon known for its critical consensus, but Palace is still a vital addition to the oeuvre, and richly deserving of the inevitable praise.

This is scintillating fare, albeit rock of a variety that can dizzy itself to the extent where a point becomes dulled by the practice--not that it matters, because the poise is so polished (when it's not drenched in feedback) that the band's directionless bombast is a most pleasing soundtrack to all and any whatever-the-weather escapades.

Ultimately, despite its makers' impressive credentials, this debut long-player is destined for the homes of listeners with more Basshunter in their collection than Burial.

Black Is Beautiful is their most immediately accessible album, but its 15 tracks (14 of which are untitled) don't sound much like hits. Like its predecessors, this set works best taken as a whole, when its unstable collage has time to establish what turns out to be a powerful atmosphere.

At least five of these songs [out of twelve] should've remained on the cutting room floor.

Polished and dependable, despite its safety there are some show-stopping pop anthems present.

Four may be 2012's most exciting guitar album.

Although there is much which doesn't automatically burn itself to the cerebral cortex, the standout sections are not found rooted in melody but in the less obvious aspects, like the siren-styled synth motifs of Goons.

If the Wu’s raw, unreconstructed side is your poison, Return Of represents a custom-made catchall, hitting robustly yet classily like a fine malt, only minus usually infuriating distillation times.

Eli's irrepressible personality shines through this varied and very appealing collection of songs, and tunes abound.

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

2:54 have delivered a collection of deeply mature and addictive tracks. In avoiding their own hype they have created something almost naively unaffected, and purely affecting.

Ultimately, God is less in the details, here, and Lonesome Dreams' success lies largely in the irrefutably vaulting sweep of the music and the ineffable air of melancholy-dented redemption which it so effectively conjures.

Casual Ladysmith fans are unlikely to be won over by these distinctions, although long-term listeners will be pleased to see the group finding fresh water at the bottom of the well.

It is, frankly, classic Eno. Holland too emerges from it well, though his contributions tend to be less immediate.

It's the dampest campfire hoedown you ever did hear.

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).

The same sort of eccentricity that sees Matt Bellamy pegged as a loveable boffin is well intact, but it's the sheer depth of the sound that drags you in like ultimate gravity. Also intact is their underlying pop instinct.

The fact that the climax comprises the closest thing to a substantial recording on the album is an indictment of a release that one suspects would not have made the stores had the Hendrix estate not wished to offer a bone to new label Sony following the end of their distribution deal with Universal.

The clutch of songs performed by make-believe bands are complemented well by a supporting cast including Blood Red Shoes, The Rolling Stones, T. Rex and The Bluetones.

By and large The Place We Ran From falls well short of the left-of-centre power and eerie intimacy of Lightbody's heroes' music.

In the end, it's a matter of taste. If you can handle a lot of wacky in your pop music, there's a lovely album here waiting for you. If not, Corinne Bailey Rae is over there.

Justin Bieber's new album not only finds him becoming an artist for adults on his own terms, but showcasing impressively distinctive tones and translating an innate charisma across many styles.

Eventually, their self-indulgence completely loses the listener. No matter how hard one might try to love this album--and one can try very hard--there's only disappointment at what could have been.

So the best songs on Hurley are immediately familiar, like an old lover's phone number you can't forget. This is great, but obviously not that great. Everybody should move on after a while.

The consistently diverting changes in style across the album are fine--the wonky 80s shoulder-pad pop of The Outsider is nothing like anything else here, for example. But over 13 songs of Sparks-voice and many similar staccato piano riffs listeners may feel bludgeoned by Marina and her slightly overbearing presence.

Ultimately though, this one is a step up, its maker beginning to lean towards representing the sentiments of the men he stands for, developing a voice currently missing in RnB.

Wasted in Jackson ticks lots of stylistic boxes, and while that shouldn't usually cause problems, overall this is an album that doesn't seem to entirely know what it wants to be.

With the constant variation found on the record--and what is probably Friden's most comfortable vocal performance of his career--they sound like a brand-new outfit, and you wouldn't bet against the Swedes gaining a whole new lease of life as a result.

Such is Sitek’s influence on the record that it takes you a little while to get to know the real Miranda. While initial listens find her songs somewhat opaque, they gradually open up to reveal their emotional depths.

Jokes are fairly hard to come by on a record chocked with sleepy, lilting stomp-alongs like these, but fortunately the gaps are filled by warmth, quality and not a little fiddle-playing.

The songs here might take a little longer to unlock than their predecessors, but none of them strike a false note.

For a record that could've gone in one of two directions, it manages the neat trick of going in both.

The man's bid for a place in the pantheon of gifted and fascinating greats is still on course.

It's neither particularly accessible nor a nostalgic feast for fans of 90s pop-punk. Instead, it seems like part of an as-yet-incomplete whole.

This is one mainstream marshmallow with an acidic coating worth a lick.

The only complaint that can be made--that several of the shorter tracks here could have been developed further, rather than left to merely loop and fade--isn't really a complaint at all, but rather anticipation for what this inventive producer will do next.

It's not easy to inject humour into songwriting but Merritt does it seamlessly, peppering sweetly sung melodies with just the right amount of acerbic lines--the cynical and the sentimental balanced beautifully.

The jaunty melodies and jagged incisors savaging them into bite-size shapes remain engaging for the full 45 minutes, proving that the loud and voiceless do not have to sound ineloquent.

One of the most rewarding albums he has made in recent years.

Downbeat words are buoyed up by light pop textures, leaning heavily for character on the fragile virtues of a voice that, while full of expression, is not designed for pop.

Monkeytown is the sound of two men working in harmony, perfectly in control of their machines. And it may just be one of the albums of the year.

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.

True, it is debatable that we need more mixes with Cockney Thug on in late 2010. But Blow Your Head proves the two tribes can still intermingle, and both are still making winning records

A joyless listen in and of itself, sure--but moreover, this is a puzzling eyesore exemplifying quite how this process of constructing and immediately normalising eccentricity can still have an appeal.

His second EP after a Young Turks-released four-tracker of 2010, does a lot with little: three tracks contain vocals, but each hits a sweet spot with incredible accuracy, doing in a few minutes what some bands take an album to deliver.

Overall this is a shiny penny of a debut, and it would be a terrible shame if Columbia's mishandling of this band resulted in it being forgotten.

This third solo album is a cracking collection, one that rings with the depth of twang comparable only to the likes of the legendary Ry Cooder.

Strange, hypnotic and utterly transcendental.... Om's teachings have always been less about finding a goal than the overwhelming richness of the journey, and, with Advaitic Songs that journey is more glorious and all-consuming than ever before.

It may only be a stopgap before the official follow-up to Jewellery, but like all the best mixtapes, it's a telling insight into its creator's unconventional mind.

Let It Break is a fine achievement, certainly, and only faulty due to some of the more by-numbers pieces within.

+ will give Sheeran's rabid fanbase a lot to love, but it'll also make him an easy target for critics hungry for new directions in pop, as it fails to really gel the man's loves of folk and rap.