"Jarvis" is a collection of 13 individual songs, rather than an album with cohesive impact.

50 Cent's skills are better suited to the nagging digi-loops of inevitable smash single 'In Da Club', the steel drum roll-out of 'P.I.M.P.' and '21 Questions' - perhaps the track most like something that you might have found Tupac or Biggie at work on in their prime.

Without question, for all its eclecticism, "For Screening Purposes Only" is a dumb, disposable record that no one will listen to in 12 months' time.

Ignore The Ignorant looks for escape into the US indie underground, "Last Year's Snow", "Cheat On Me" and "Nothing" sulkier than The Cribs we've come to know, reluctantly 'pop' dismissals rather than worried cures for a mainstream malaise The Cribs apparently regard as terminal.

What some see as derivative, unoriginal bollocks others view as honesty, craft and a lack of pretension.

No one was expecting Godrich to turn this noble British pop institution into Radiohead, of course. But the glimpses of greatness are enough to leave you wishing that bottle had prevailed and more in the vein of "Too Much Rain" had resulted.

Sounds surprisingly vital.

It is modest, lucid and tender.

Listen to the B-52s first studio album in 16 years and within ten seconds it's like the 21st century never happened. They sound just the same. [...] And it's a delight.

If leaving Lost Highway was a blow to Regan's confidence you'd never know it from hearing this - he's definitely taken the right turning.

Here's the '80s revival long plotted by style journalists given an accessible alt-rock face, a deftness missing from most of the arid purveyors of sexy robot music.

It feels like the work of a man groping his way, fastidiously but uncertainly, towards the next level.

"The Evolution" is good but nowhere near dynamic or forward thinking enough to put Ciara on the A-List and fulfil her boundless ambition.

The Rakes' debut is by turns profoundly unsettling and savagely funny as each song is propelled by a seething sense of purpose.

There is a tendency, due to the slow, quiet nature of these songs and the occasionally syrupy harmonies, for them to blend together. But look beneath the surface, to the fragile emotions that inspired these songs, and The Runaway remains a moving exercise in good old fashioned catharsis, one that exposes the sad hearts of this band more than ever before.

Rockferry works as a very promising calling card.

This is Gold Panda's own record, an album of proper emotional heft that'll be enjoyed with a box of tissues, during tingling comedowns and on more discerning dancefloors.

Way more consistent than your average over-long US R&B release, whilst still being stuffed with just as many potential singles.

Playful yet touching at (almost) every turn, Write About Love may not shake any musical foundations but it certainly proves that Belle and Sebastian still can't be pigeon-holed.

His solo follow-up, though, is a more personal affair, dissecting the onset of middle-age, physical decrepitude and the end-game of marriage (he split from his wife not long after finishing this).

Whilst any fan will probably have all these tracks already, 'G Sides' acts as a nifty companion piece to the album and looks ace too.

Not only an opportunity to look back, then, but a joyous reminder that, when at his lowest, Brian Wilson stepped up and did the unthinkable.

Whether forsaken or not, Fucked Up certainly do a fine job of making the political sound personal--a victory in itself when taken with a sonic ferocity so broad in its range and wide in scope.

If not a beginning to end classic album, it's full of potential classic tracks.

This album's triumph is to simultaneously place PE in their colossal historical lineage and reinstate their utter relevance.

This time around Polly's drama school project is playing a Rock Star, and therefore this must be a Rock Record. And from the opener 'Big Exit', a simplistic, effective stomper so swathed in echo that she seems to be singing from the bottom of a pit, to the raucous semi-bonus 'This Wicked Tongue', it's just that, a back to basics special.

But its modesty is its weakness. For the last 15 years, Simon has been rejuvenating himself with challenges, with awkward collaborations and unusual idioms, testing and experimenting with his talent. With this collection of gentle, wry ballads and witty, shuffly songs he is, nearly, just coasting on it. Not that this makes 'You're The One' a bad album. It just makes it an ominous one.

The album lacks the flab of previous efforts and, where he's been guilty of hiding behind guests before, the contributions are (perhaps inadvisably in retrospect) kept to a minimum. Sadly though, the grandstanding and chest beating take their toll on both Graduation's aesthetic and the listener's patience.

This is music that sounds like it was plotted by sad psychics graduates in lab coats. It's clean, melancholic and sterile (in a totally non-derogatory sense) - full of gently undulating rhythms and melodic pulses.

"Tyrannosaurus Hives" is a good record, but one best dipped into rather than listened to in one go.

Superficially then, White Denim might, on first listen, ape the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion but unlike garage revivalists like The Hives--whose studied revivalism has all the innovative spirit of a 19th century theme park--they've kicked all the best things about red-blooded rock into exciting new shapes.

But for those who imagine a less self-consciously experimental Blur or Can perhaps jamming it out with Parliament, there's much to enjoy on this classy, cerebral but hugely accessible album.

More vintage sound than classic album, All You Need Is Now won't revive any careers, theirs or Ronson's.

Aficionados may balk at an actor trespassing on sacred ground, but even they'd have to admit, that for a white, middle-class Englishman, Hugh Laurie plays a surprisingly convincing bluesman.

It's overlong, like almost every rap album today, and it's not the sort of place to come expecting erudition or insight. But for one singular rapper unwilling and unafraid to stick to his guns, it's a deeply satisfying record.

Where 'Holy Wood' does come together and threaten to transcend its at times cliched parts is in its clarity of vision. This is a lean, visceral album that is as tripwire lithe as its maker. Manson's also remembered to write some great pop-goth tunes this time out, nowhere more so than with first single 'Disposable Teens'.

So, while this is a terrific rock record, there's still not much here that our dads didn't nod-out to at Bickershaw.

Instead of pushing any boundaries The Soft Pack have made a vigorous, enjoyable and high-energy record with a bundle of opportunities for jerky dancefloor foot stomping.

Much scruffier and far less inhibited than Coldplay, and way more compelling than Editors, Two Dancers is widescreen stuff nonetheless and an album that will carry them across more thresholds than their first.

If you're lucky enough to have the original version of 'In Search Of', you don't just own a sure-to-be-valuable collectors' classic, you also have the better album. [Review of U.S. version]

Such a ratio of misses to hits was not expected but, all things considered, this is still one of the best electronic-based albums you're going to hear this year.

As exhilarating as it all may seem on the surface, there's little here that we haven't heard before.

The truth is, however much or little you enjoy them, Radiohead are one of the few mainstream bands who try not to retrace their steps.

On this, the third eponymous Weezer record (see, they are incomparable wise-asses) and sixth in total, there are contained some of their most pronounced moments.

A collection of rootsy yet sophisticated, summery soul grooves, with the usual nods to past masters like Aretha Franklin, Roberta Flack and Glady Knight, "Stone Love" is equally at home alongside the sultry, sassy R&B of contemporaries like Lauryn Hill, Alicia Keys and Erykah Badu.

Jem’s deadpan tones sound like a slightly huskier, sluttier Beth Orton, and while nothing quite matches the beguiling "They"... she strikes the odd thimbleful of gold.

This is a great album, choc-a-bloc with great hooks, melodies and harmonies that evoke the great songwriting of the 70s.

A full-blooded, affectionate and occasionally very funny album.

The only thing wrong with this largely excellent album is knowing that will.i.am has better stuff up his sleeve.

If not musically the most creative thing to ever have been called hip-hop, “Sweat” has more than its share of head nodding struts and hands-in-the-air moments.

One of the most downcast albums of 2007.

Crucially though, what Diddy lacks in eloquence he makes up for in pop sensibility, which here keeps edgier elements the right side of radio friendly.

"X & Y" is easily Coldplay's most consistent album, albeit one that operates within restrictive boundaries of creativity.

It's not vintage and it doesn't finally deliver what the hype of "Psyence Fiction" promised, but given enough time it's an album you could learn to love.

While the wine-favouring moustache-sporting figure of Franz Nicolay is no longer a fixture, the remaining members are present and correct albeit in a somewhat more reflective mode than of yore. It suits them.

At these transcending moments, "Good News...". is elevated into excellence. But overall, there is too much Mouse that bores and not enough Mouse that roars.

Despite not being quite as smart as "Fishscale", The Big Doe Rehab certainly marks another reason (along with recent GZA shows and the release of "8 Diagrams") to suggest the Wu-Tang dynasty is going through something of a renaissance.

As enjoyable as anything this calculated can be.

Imperfect and absurdly oversized it may be, but only OutKast could have pulled off a crazy creative coup like "Idlewild".

An album that will satisfy everyone who enjoyed his debut.

If [some]songs catch a magical intangible by pairing Marshall's naked vocal with a ghost of Memphis passion, others fail to turn the same trick.

Cut out vague Shindoa track, "The Instrumental", tired Gunter Kallmann Choir-retread "Daydreamin'" and the offerings here that are marred by warbled soul harmonies - consistently added as afterthoughts to choruses - and this would be perfect.

It's when Diddy adopts the role he's really good at, the executive producer - bringing together and overseeing the real talent - for the closing stages, that "Press Play" moves from being another chaotic and bloated stab at a rap career to being something approaching a great album.

Computers & Blues doesn't match up to The Streets' visionary early promise, and there are a few songs which sound sketchy and half-hearted. But when it works, it's a reminder of what a tender, articulate and original voice Skinner has been in British pop, and how sorely he will be missed.

Despite the rousing music and the earnestness of Tom Chaplin's voice, Keane still sing passionately about not very much in particular.

Though hardly in the running for rap album of the year, there's plenty to recommend "The Naked Truth". Yet equally, there's an abundance of wearing phone skits, phoned-in guest performances and shameless fillers to get in the way.

The trio can't sustain this energy and inventiveness over the entire album.

It's that sense of humbling, childlike wonder that defines what they do with their weathered hands. And they do it as brilliantly here as they always have done, which is high praise enough.

Re-emerging after a mere eight month gestation with their second album (they're referring to it as an extended EP just to be difficult, but whatever), the only natural assumption would be that the whirlwind of inconsistency smashes on unabated. And in some respects it does, but key to this record's fortunes is a sense that first they're running out of ideas and second have chilled their bones to become less rigidly obsessed with quantity and cleverness and proving their self-worth.

It's a far bolder and more convincing album than her first, and suggests Lewis might be able to pull off an even bigger and more unexpected triumph than winning "X-Factor" and scoring an international hit.

The four Von Bondies remain terrific players, and Stollsteimer's sustained indignation is always good for a laugh. But at times, the calculated nature of it all is distracting, and you long for the harebrained rawness which made "Lack Of Communication" the best record (besides those by The White Stripes) that the Detroit revival has produced.

There is more than enough pop fuel here to maintain La Roux's unlikely momentum for a while.

More commercial - and much better - than 'Rock'n'Roll', occasionally resembling the grandstand melancholia of Coldplay, and more frequently their antecedents The Smiths and Jeff Buckley. [Review applicable to both Part 1 and Part 2]

Despite the wide range of musical styles used here, each one is absorbed into that unique Jellies sound, smoothed and polished almost beyond recognition into a sumptuous, unthreatening ambient groove with echoes of The Orb, Groove Armada and Zero 7.

There are a couple of moments where Hourglass works perfectly.

"Up At The Lake" may not be The Charlatans' finest effort, but it’s certainly good enough to suggest they could still be around for another 14 years.

"Amber"'s glow increases with each listen, but existing fans have just cause to feel forsaken.

Though there are still moments of eyeball rolling twee, the darker undertones are enough to more than keep us interested.

Proof Of Youth was made for rolling back the years and the rug, not chin-stroking contemplation. If shredded Axminster was The Go! Team's aim here, then mission well and truly accomplished.

Ultimately, it's not that XX Teens throw everything including the kitchen sink at it, but rather that they drink everything under the sink and wait to see what happens. Welcome To Good Island is that kind of experience.

It's also terrific fun, though so lightweight you might want to weigh your stereo down with bricks before pressing play.

It's flawed, but applause for adding vulnerability to their game plan, at the very least.

Buy into the notion that The Teenagers are in fact a satirical comment on the "Shockwaves Generation", and this is a dry, impeccably observed album, closer in spirit to Arab Strap than any of the nu-rave favourites.

It's one of the most exciting debuts by a young female pop artist in ages. If occasionally it veers a wee bit too much towards the cutesy-kooky.

There's a connection with the contemporary world, with the apparatus and detritus that layers 2010 up around us all, that hasn't really been seen in Sigur Ros's music before.

Alanis is back on course and heading in the right direction.

For the most part, "Lullabies To Paralyze" keeps up the high musical standard set by its predecessors.

Flamboyant, excessive and more Mikado than Micachu, you get the feeling that 'Life Is Sweet...' is an album that'll polarise people. But hey - if you don't like this one, Dev will be onto the next project tomorrow anyway.

Compared to 'Psyence Fiction''s ruthlessly cut glass exterior, this is a rounded, more human record, considerably less calculated and therefore far more approachable.

Around the world in 60 minutes, then, Mos embraces both the jet-setting film star lifestyle and a re-found love for the game, making for the Deffest jam since that label gave Jay-Z the keys.

The songs of OCD Go Go Go Girls stand-up to a certain mood--one, passed a certain age, that's usually buoyant and beer-fuelled.

It's the sound of a man who's worked out how to be good again, who finally understands his own strengths and limitations.

Perhaps the most fascinating aspects of Flesh Tone are the songs named 'Segue 1', 'Segue 2' and so on through to 'Segue 6' which are positioned to avoid gaps between songs. They're the album's most imaginative moments, and suggest that although Kelis is refining her sound to become queen of the disco, there's still dozens of ideas waiting to announce themselves.

This is a contemporary collection of eclectic modern folk songs by a bold woman who has more in common with an interesting raft of contemporaries than her mentor.

Everywhere you look on this record there is a sense of magic escaped, accompanied by the ever-tantalising presence of a great band just beneath the surface.

At its heart there is a beautiful record in there for anyone with the time and patience to find it.

When she turns from fathoming everyone else's existence to her own, and stops frantically waving her style icon credentials, the genius of hers and Mirwais' partnership is overwhelming.