Rispah is brilliant enough for the listening public to find it naturally, in their own time.

Dazzling.

It’s accomplished, mixing studied nostalgia with current concerns, but not a standout in its field.

This feels like an album by, for and about himself.

A great fifth album from the Wu-Tang rapper, but not quite another catalogue classic.

Judged objectively, Minotaur is a good if somewhat slight record, with enough quality to comfortably surpass most music likely to be released this year. But when compared to The Clientele's previous work, this is one for the completists rather than an essential purchase.

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

Beside Putrifiers II's guitar-fuelled thrills are a number of moments that find Thee Oh See's catching their winklepinkers on the pavement as they attempt to side step into more experimental, psychedelic territory.

Every Step's a Yes is a worthy partner to [Best Coast, Beach House and Wild Nothing's] records.

With the ceaselessly inventive, engagingly cocksure 180, Palma Violets have given themselves a base to build a career, should they be in it for the long haul.

It's a contented celebration of success with weed as the indisputable toasting substance of choice. The sound is bigger, with more detail, exhibiting more confidence to experiment.

The ballads don't quite work--I'm Not Blue and Russell's Ain't You Even Gonna Cry sound detached and forced, more like excerpts from a musical than songs in their own right. On the more upbeat numbers, though, she's terrific.

Alessi's Ark carries its ideas two-by-two, sails well above the current flood of increasingly desperate folk wannabes, and weaves a modest magic that is hard to pinpoint, yet even harder to resist. If Time Travel isn't quite a classic, it does enough to suggest that this 20-year-old has one in her Davy Jones' Locker.

Thea Gilmore's take on John Wesley Harding is a worthy tribute to that great album--and with a playing time of 42.23, it even gives you an extra four minutes more than the original.

James Murphy's (of LCD Soundsystem) decision to sign this shape-shifting creature to DFA Records makes perfect sense given her blend of art, electronics and mischievous humour, and while it's an undeniably alien world Rostron inhabits, it's an altogether convincing one.

There's still the charm and energy and all the qualities that made us fall in love with The Go! Team in the first place. But it's like a child who's recently learned one song: cute the first few times, but even the most lovable things eventually get tiresome.

Improving prospects aside, though, the basic deal is the same, and Cloud Nothings rattles along at a fair old clip, boasting an embarrassment of hooks delivered with unassuming, 'it's-probably-nothing-but' panache.

This is the sound of sun-stunned drift, as opposed to slacker ennui. Such a formula could make for an enervating listen, but this debut album is shot through with casually glorious melodies.

A compact and incredibly gratifying introduction to a new lo-fi talent.

This set is a welcome throwback to simpler, gentler times.

Hull is a fine lyricist, able to make everyday ruminations on relationships utterly riveting. But he's not consistently complemented by music that really matters, a couple of relatively perfunctory arrangements ensuring that Simple Math is no High Violet-matching masterpiece.

Despite being a guitarist down (Bill Ryder-Jones departed after Roots and Echoes), they've regrouped admirably and made a comeback record that strives for, and indeed almost reaches, the dizzying heights of 2002's self-titled debut.

His relaxed intonation shows a talent that doesn't need to be stretched to the limit to produce its best work.

It's a complex, winding late-night soundtrack that doesn't move too fast, but never stops to question the judgement of its own unique outsider logic.

It sounds so much more raw and harsh, more real and vulnerable.

At times, Spektor can be too cutesy... More often though, her little idiosyncrasies are charming.

Bubblegum is Clinic at their most approachable and, importantly, shows them to be sharp and direct in their more affecting statements.

If a little dominated by this trio [Champagne Life, One in a Million, Beautiful Monster] the rest of the album also develops the cool soul player theme nicely, with offers of mind sex and a considered approach in slick fusion.

If their debut sounded like they listened to nothing but the sounds in their heads and tried to recreate them, this sounds like all they've listened to over the past two years is their own records, and subsequently tried to better them. They've succeeded.

Their songs are very nearly as good as the tale behind them.

By the Horns misses Angus' gruffer harmonies offsetting Julia's wide-open heart.

It's not the album that will define Deer Tick as a force in their own right, or McCauley as a songwriter on a par with his heroes, but The Black Dirt Sessions is the best set yet from this still-rising quintet.

Daybreaker is a great album. It'll go down as one of Architects' finest works.

Three albums in, Tunstall appears undamaged, an ordinary girl you'd want to spend time with and an honest performer it's hard to dislike.

As fascinating as it is perplexing, anything but obvious, and therefore to be applauded.

It's a soulful, self-contained delight.

At times The Light of the Sun veers towards self-indulgence, and some of its ideas are not fully followed through. On the whole, however, it is a rather lovely, emotional album that provides a beguiling snapshot of the current life of Jill Scott.

Sleepy Sun aren’t above dispelling the perceptions of over indulgence, and they may always be tarred thus, but Fever at least proves there’s a renewed clarity to go with the lozenge-smooth lethargy, even if it isn’t totally clearheaded.

This is intimacy on a purely aural level, the ultimate headphones album.

There’s a solid groove to most tracks, with no digressions to the Court of the Crimson King, or democratic opportunities for weaker members of the commune to sing.

One of the essential debuts of the year so far.

As with any festive release, the magic of A Christmas Cornucopia is best captured before the actual event itself, as come December 27 it will be as welcome as yet more turkey. But such is its quality that this collection could find itself becoming as much a part of the holiday season as arguments with loved ones, keeping receipts and watching the tree lights blur as you slowly drink yourself merry.

A significant step onwards from their acoustic debut, Acrobats finds the trio developing a taste for the electric, which adds miles to their creative horizons.

Whether as the fanfare arrival of a unique new voice or the peculiar indulgence of a future cult classic, this is an album that has to be heard to be believed.

Inside the Ships will assuredly grab hold by the second listen, if not the first.

A treasure of tremendous emotional resonance and focus from the rising country singer.

Although it’s not perfect, We Will Not Harm You is a significant advance on [his] previous efforts.

There’s no better way to shut out the din than by putting this record on.

Times New Viking are just as wilfully, wonderfully lo-fi as ever, but five albums in they've finally let the listener get that little bit closer to the heart of what they do.

It's hard to pretend this is entirely cutting-edge stuff, but the 70-year-old shows no sign of softening, his production rich without bowing to commercialism, his compositions full of unexpected twists and aggression.

Unexpectedly, these star-sailors are tripping the light, fantastically.

It's difficult to ignore that a significant amount of The Family Sign emits a passing impression that Slug plucked several emotive subjects from a hat, then challenged himself to use them as a writing framework.

It’s focused, and superbly executed, but forgoes immersive longevity for determined immediacy.

Streten proves that potential mass appeal need not come at the expense of creative flair or fresh ideas.

This is an album of surprising tenderness, of intricate (and, importantly, memorable) melodies and deep emotions, and everyman ruminations on love and life that will surely connect with long-standing fans and newcomers alike.

Rather than adhering to type, Black Mountain now have a catalogue of songs that respect and rival their influences.

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).

Colour of the Trap, impressive an achievement as it is, is begging for diminishing returns.

Each song remains a steady, stellar journey to the next piercing solo until the noise removes itself after a surprisingly brief 50 minutes and suddenly there's a big gaping black hole where Moon Duo were. All that remains is to re-listen.

See You on the Moon’s mid-tempo anthems hover with a decorative shimmer that matches their wispy bedsit sentiments.

It's a delight.

If Giant Sand had released fewer great albums, Blurry Blue Mountain would sound something close to miraculous. As it is, it's a worthy addition to a catalogue which was already embarrassed with riches.

All told, this is arguably The Advisory Circle's most fully-realised set to date (accompanied by a typically eye-catching sleeve by Ghost Box's in-house designer, Julian House), exhibiting a stronger sense of (dis)place(ment) than before and, as such, constitutes the perfect entry point for anyone looking for a way into Brooks' enchanting, wistful realm.

High Places have moved on, positioning themselves on the fringes of the ongoing chillwave explosion with enough invention to outlast most of its central protagonists.

Fujiya & Miyagi are an invigorating mix of the cerebral and the visceral. In a just world, they'd be the new lords of the dancefloor.

Their sense of adventure seemingly knows no bounds, yet when, after six leisurely minutes of jazz-rock noodling, 11.11 suddenly segues into a passage of Cuban folk singing backed by a lone drummer, the strong whiff of pretension might hang rather too heavy in the air for some tastes.

Friendly Fires have already proved themselves, but this second effort is a mighty step upwards. It is another terrific, clattering celebration of an album that sounds nothing like its peers, but hopefully will be rewarded with sales to dwarf Lady Gaga's.

The conclusion, then, is clear: both as a standalone record and part of …Trail of Dead's considerable canon, Tao of the Dead will be remembered as a high point.

Beyoncé slips from flirty to fragile to fabulous, and is in terrific voice throughout, reminding us that when she opens up there's no-one else in the game.

it's disappointing that collaborative projects featuring prominent artists from these fields haven't yet delivered a worthwhile album. Marley's 2005 release Welcome to Jamrock was a step forwards, but Distant Relatives represents an accomplished attempt to go further, fusing traits with few discernable flaws.

Although the parallels with Bonobo's peers are obvious, his fourth album doesn't just sit in their shadows. Rather, it's an inspiring example of how, free of pressure and publicity, he has blossomed into something beautiful at his own pace.

It's this tightrope between bruised self-doubt and fun blasts of noise that gives Wolf's Law its emotional heft.

That such a progressive, risk-taking LP wasn't celebrated across the board for its gutsy reinventing of a band thought pigeonholed wasn't that surprising, though – this is a difficult album.

Parton's 41st studio LP sparkles with the enthusiasm of a debut.

Just occasionally the band drops hints that they might have a future beyond this loutish, two-dimensional debut.

They're relatively simple things to be sure, but they've been crafted with love and authority before being chiselled in stone so that they may yet last certain discerning metallers a lifetime.

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.

The better songs here don't quite rescue the disc, but they do suggest that LaMontagne can step outside his comfort zone when he chooses to--it's just a shame how rarely that occurs.

The Len Price 3 sound well aware that people aren’t tuning in for their Swiftian commentary, but for the fizzy fury of their cheerfully unreconstructed rock’n’roll. Pictures may well be what the doctor ordered, for those whose preferred consultant’s last name is Feelgood.

This is, generally, straightforward guitar rock with tinges of country and folk drawn from Roddy Woomble's sabbatical in New York as a folkie.

Whilst Festival Bell lacks the visionary presence that made 1969's game-changing Liege & Lief so influential, and established the group's pre-eminent position in the folk-rock firmament, this album nevertheless confirms Fairport's reputation as an ongoing repository for quality songwriting.

As with most things on this record, it's a thoroughly engaging ride.

Martin is just too instinctively amiable to muster the passionate furies that animate the best of his genre, and too quick to deflate whatever momentum he does gather with a joke.

Ecstatics proves to be only half the album it thought itself capable of being.

Everything is bound by a vocal that speaks to the soul... There are moments here, details of songs, which cause the throat to close, the eyes to widen.

A mazy, fluid, ethereal suite of chamber jazz to get properly lost in.

A cipher for good songs rather than the reasons those songs are good she may be, but there are few that do it better.

His carefree attitude skips through the different styles and beats here with a sense of fun and adventure.

An extraordinary record.

While Mala retains an inquisitive aural attitude--there in its markedly electronic palette, and its squirly, scuffly sound--there’s also limberness to this set of songs, a feeling of them all moving happily together.

If You Leave is a damaged debut, then, but the way the hues of its bruises blend into each other is wholly hypnotic. It wants to love, again, but has chosen darkness.

Peace take the past and swish it about with a bit of swagger, and the results are just dandy.

Proof positive that Tripper is, fittingly, Hella more focused than its spaced-out title or the duo's hippy slacker personal demeanours might suggest.

For all the calculated horror show element, much of King Night is very pretty and nuanced, trading in shivering beauty rather than infernal fury, with an aching world weariness running Marlatt and Holland's more lucid vocal turns. It's just a shame Donoghue has to dopily blunder in there every now and again, the dimwit henchman to his evil scientist colleagues.

There's nothing tender here; clever it may be, but too clever for its own good.

Everything adds up to an unexpected and intriguing album.

It's not exploring new musical frontiers, but Resolution is an eminently listenable heavy metal album.

It's the performances and songwriting, however, which invite most acclaim.