This is far from being a bad album - Jay has never made one of those, nor given the impression he is capable of doing so - but it rarely rises to the levels he has consistently reached.

Evil Urges isn't a bad album by any stretch of the imagination but it still manages to fall well short of expectations when applying the benchmark set by this fine band.

A frequently astonishing album that combines bruising rock and limp-wristed flourish in almost equal measure.

No, it isn't as good as that, but getting anywhere close is proof that Damon Albarn remains a musical alchemist, turning what could easily have been crude and leaden into something that often gleams like gold.

Neither wholly satisfying nor wholly great.

We Are The Night feels bloated and ornate amongst the elegant functionalism of post-millennial club music.

A great lost album in the making.

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.

Tender and loving it might not be, but one of the albums of the year? Definitely.

This is an album rich in feminine delicacy and woodsy magic, but ultimately Campbell will remain far too fey for many.

"Once Again" remains Legend's best record. But Evolver, in all its modernity and timeliness, may well become his biggest.

It helps to pick the right tune and Dando has good taste, judging Gram Parsons ('I Just Can't Take It Anymore'), Wire ('Fragile') and Townes Van Zandt ('Waiting Around To Die') to be worthy of homage. But that's all this album is, really. Homage.

Far from Noah & The Whale lagging behind their popular folk peers, with Last Night On Earth the band are finally punching above their weight to create a sound that's altogether new and wholly theirs.

Three-part 16-minute closer 'The Lightening Strike,' at the other end of the scale, also sees them finally growing into their stadium skin, evoking Oasis, REM, Muse and, indeed, Coldplay amongst other subtleties and convincing you for once that they genuinely harbour ambition.

After coming out fighting last time round off the back of a messy, violent break-up with ex-boyfriend Chris Brown, it's nice to hear Rihanna getting back to something approaching normality on Loud.

Femme Fatale is also unevenly paced, overlong (16 tracks in its deluxe version) and burdened with filler like the generic 'I Wanna Go', which tries to find a shortcut to the dancefloor but gets lost en route. But the weaker material is outweighed by the fantastic, from the slamming, techno-tinged 'Trouble For Me' to the glorious bubblegum house of 'Up N' Down'.

"The Beautiful Lie" isn't without its merits but their appearances are few and far between.

There's simply not enough killer songs here to snare you in the same way that, say, The Rakes did on their debut.

However much electro trickery he has at his fingertips, he needs some songs first.

The monster-mash hokum can occasionally grate and Brown lacks El Wino's authoritative way with some of the more downtempo material, but there's plenty to suggest she will find a receptive audience for her passionate pop sound, overbearing quirks and all.

This is a record that proves, again, Joss Stone's considerable worth.

There are some fiendishly catchy hooks and very occasionally a real quality to some of the songwriting, enough to suggest that there are better things to come from the young trio once simply aping the already done-to-death genre du jour has finally lost its appeal.

There exists a plodding, phoned-in emotional evenness here which, for a band trading on matters of the soul, is a big problem and one that will stop them entering the arenas those strings were employed for.

She undoubtedly has a great record or two in her. This, sadly, isn't one of them.

The Ecleftic' just tries to please too many people, open up too many markets, and simply ends up diluting the sound in which it purports to be rooted.

Too many tracks sound like tired Wu cast offs saved from the studio floor to prove that he's capable of doing this in his sleep.

More dutty than rock, "Trinty" fully establishes Sean Paul as not only a dancehall great, but one of black music's brightest talents.

Stick with it, and about four spins in, the album reveals itself.

Bobby Ray has a little way to go to match his mentor's lyrical ingenuity, but as the first post-Lupe rap star he's already absorbed the most important lessons about form and function, inspiration and integrity. It's a great start.

As enjoyable as anything this calculated can be.

Nevertheless, this is still a hugely satisfying album and one that easily lends itself to total immersion, revealing its charms steadily over time.

It would be interesting to see Chase & Status explore this extra dimension further, but--for now--this is a thrilling case of cum on feel the noize.

This isn't a bad record, it's just a laboured and peculiarly joyless one, all those things that Supergrass were once the opposite of.

You've heard this album before then, but it's never sounded quite this crazed and pressed for time.

It's surely a compliment to suggest that someone as abundantly gifted as she is can do better than this enjoyable, occasionally brilliant but disappointingly generic record.

If it was 1985, they'd be the biggest band on the planet.

The formula here is for Frusciante to carve tunes out of loose, cyclical riffs, a few basic samples and drum programmes and his own parched voice. Sometimes, as on 'Remain', the effect is slightly uncomfortable... Tough that out, and get used to the demo quality throughout, and there are some decent songs on 'To Record Only Water,' endearing for their rawness and honesty.

Brandon Flowers has a horrible, honking seal bark of a voice.... Faced with this significant disadvantage, The Killers have cannily crafted a wall-of-sound songwriting style so bombastic it almost suits Flowers' sledgehammer vocals.

Dos offers proof that, while less may indeed be more, Wooden Shjips give you more of less.

If you're a fan, there's enough of what you expect from the Mac here not to disappoint.

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

Cowboy Junkies have made a 'growing older' record - there's a greater preoccupation with loss and death, reflected in a heavier, darker musical cast.

An often mediocre record, with a few peaks and an awful lot of troughs.

A stunningly bad record.

There's nothing intrinsically wrong with this album - just the airbrushed production of tracks like James Taylor's 'Don't Let Me Be Lonely' robs them of any true grit and soul they might have had. And that, in a nutshell, is the problem afflicting Clapton at the moment, making for yet another average album to add to the list.

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.

On closer inspection, it's clear Cyrus is hell-bent on stepping out of that pop princess territory--but only just.

There’s conceivably a great record still lurking inside this band but you’re going to have to wait just a bit longer to hear it.

Depending on your temperament, this translates to either the Feelgood Band Of 2006 or a horrific saccharine overdose.

Travis have always been Quite Good, sometimes a little more, rarely less. This album heads a perceived slide into insignificance off at the pass and ensures the status quo.

By letting inferior guests share his stage, Beck only reminds us what a unique and gifted individual he is.

Lower your expectations a level and there's a decent enough rock album; tight, stylistically roughed-up and actually sounding much more like The Libertines than you expect.

For all that she's miraculously clawed back here, the one thing that eludes her is the one thing that made her exceptional: her voice. Without it she's just another R&B singer, and, good as it is in places, I Look To You is just another R&B album.

Adams can undoubtedly pen this classic rawk stuff with his ears closed and, as a result, the 15 tracks here lack heart.

Should you own the band’s magnificent first three singles (collected on the “Three EPs” mini-album), it’s hard to imagine you’ll ever really need another record by this conceptually brilliant, artistic dead-end of a band.

If you’ve heard one song by The Bravery you’ve pretty much heard them all. The keyboard settings may change, as do the guitar FX pedals, but there’s a formula at work here and how much you get out of this record depends entirely on how interesting you find that formula.

If there are moments when the feted snap and snarl of yore amounts to little more than ramming generic blues licks down the audience's throat, they're tempered with moments of discovery like the lysergic 'To Be Where There's Life' and 'Falling Down' which displays an uncharacteristic lightness of touch.

This is a record that will happen to you, and when it clicks, the realisation that As I Am is a genuine classic is overwhelming.

'Pole' is so minimal it's almost naked. But, by only including the things that matter, it's deceptively atmospheric.

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.

Indulgent though it may be, it's easily his best. And despite an unfeasibly craggy production job, the rambling arrangements and recurrent references to nature and the elemental give it the feel of a dusty, long lost prog-folk curio.

A whole album as hyperactive would be exhausting, of course, but unlike the majority of indie plodders, The Feeling have real range.

One of the most downcast albums of 2007.

Despite the hilarious wordplay though, it's hard to imagine anyone returning over and over to the actual tunes, you're far better off with a DVD and its accompanying visual gags.

Instead of ending tensely and dramatically they are the final whimper and sigh of an album named after a band that have lost their way and aren't sure which direction they should be heading.

Architecture In Helsinki are hyper self-aware and they seem unable to write or perform any kind of song without imbuing it with some sense of irony or post modernism.

This is the sound of a band returning to their roots, to the dramatic Celtic infused epics of their early records.

In-between the chaos and peace, 'Drukqs' induces a whole host of emotions using acid squiggles, plucked piano strings and 80s electro-breaks.

Cannibalising a musical canvas splattered with decades of paint, little here is truly original and the quality veers throughout, as is inevitable from the recordings of one - albeit artistically ferocious - city.

Woomble’s lyrics, while literate, are never quite as clever as his supporters would like to believe.

Maroon 5 are the new Police, the new U2: a wildly exciting rock band who understand how to make great pop music that works everywhere from the bedroom and the iPod to the radio and the stadium.

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.

Quite the most lifeless and unloved record to be released by an artist of Spears' global stature.

This is pretty fluffy stuff.

At 68 minutes, "White People" outstays its welcome and the skits are lame at best... but there's still much to like here.

Its eclecticism does make for disjointed listening though, which almost distracts from their songwriting skills. But ultimately it's all so assuredly done that The Zutons make it almost impossible to not be swept along for the ride.

Orbital have once again managed to make an album that's precisely what you'd expect from them, while being neither dull nor predictable.

Where her former act just made sneering grunty fight-punk, Spinnerette have proper tunes, proper lyrics and proper choruses. Marriage to two proven master songwriters has probably helped. But whatever, it's a positive move.

Cold War Kids are perhaps the only band out there ambitious enough to tackle head-on the contradictions and heartaches of America, past and present, and to do so with this passion and intelligence.

Ultimately, on the strength of The Golden Mile, the longevity of The Peth seems, at best, questionable.

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.

Frequently, it sounds like the band have spent most of that time labouring to make their fifth album as monumental as possible. Where once they swung, however ironically, now they plod. Slowly. Ponderously. In expensive lead boots.

The psychic bruising Okereke has sustained playing the East London fame game during the past 12 months has produced self-pitying lyrics that frequently state the bleeding obvious.

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

One crucial difference is The Pierces' music has changed from something that sounded like awkward whimsy a few years ago into something middle-aged people will like; and that's basically the key to selling loads of records these days.

Swell don't look set to make any grand leaps forward either in terms of success or creativity, but that doesn't devalue their potency a single jot.

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.

'Vol. One' might have opened the band up to a wider audience but 'Vol. Two' is a far better reflection of what Everclear are all about.

This is an awesome album, almost certainly Placebo's pinnacle, although I'd love to be proved wrong.

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

It's a workmanlike and often wearisome ambition that proves the record's undoing, which leaves The Secret Machines V2.0 sounding less the stadium-psych messiahs and more like a trio of very naughty boys.

"Empire" has an almost childlike energy and determination that makes it feel strangely charming.

'Celebrity' does have it's moments. Sadly both of them are at the beginning.

And fortunately, Rickie also goes beyond the cliched songbook, choosing songs which the soaring yet contemplative voice lends itself perfectly to, and makes her own...

With its refined beats, immaculate arrangements and intelligent melodies, Spirit confirms both Lewis's international ambitions and the likelihood that she'll pull them off.

This collection of shimmering-smooth, synthesiser-led beats and lazy gangsta rap posturing isn't worthy of the once great Snoop.

Beats-wise, 'La Bella Mafia' is easily the strongest thing she's done, and it seems like Kim has raised her rapping game to match the strength of the music.

Occassionally, the songwriting does contain flashes of thoughtfulness.