The Fat Whites’ second album is, then, something of a mixed bag, but the most offensive thing about it is not the lyrical content, it’s the fact that the band doesn’t seem to have the courage of its convictions and say what it means in an intelligible manner. Their edge has been knocked off in a cloud of reverb.

Klinghoffer wisely makes no attempt to mimic Frusciante; the new boy on the block's musical talent is obvious in its own right here, and the musical partnership that has formed between the older members of the band and Klinghoffer is evident. Red Hot Chili Peppers are not quite ready to slope off yet.

Glow And Behold has its ups and downs and isn’t quite the coherent, self assured package that its predecessor was; instead it’s the sound of a band reconfiguring, trying to work out which way to go and what to do next.

While the band’s penchant for steadying, shimmering guitars and unexpected use of instruments certainly appears on VII, it’s not enough to overshadow this album’s lack of originality.

For their entire career, The Polyphonic Spree have succeeded not necessarily when they’ve sounded big, but when they’ve been the leader of the pack of the weird. Many of the tracks on Yes, It’s True suggest that the band is thankfully moving back in that direction.

Whilst this is an album that will draw comparisons to the band that made her name, it is a fine, if long overdue, solo effort.

The entire album was recorded in just five days flat. It may have been knocked off in a spare moment between Guillemots albums, but in Fly Yellow Moon Fyfe Dangerfield has made a very early contender for one of the best albums of 2010.

A very odd and somewhat unpredictable partnership, but one that is pleasantly surprising in its own way.

If this is just the start of an artistic resurgence then it'll be interesting to see what comes next. You feel that he's just getting started again.

He has spectacularly failed to make an album that has any bite.

This is a fun indie pop record that will not change anyone's lives but will get you bouncing off walls very easily.

The album works best when they pick up the pace, cranking out two minute gems like My Mind Is Like An Atom Bomb and They Kiss Like Humans, with its genuinely disconcerting backing bellows.

There’s no wild pretension and little real originality here, and it’s not going to change your life or make any critics’ Greatest Album lists, but it’s a lot of fun, and sometimes that’s all you want.

In many respects, Green’s music feels like it belongs to an era much earlier than the 21st century. Yet in a modern industry that can often seem to be dominated by formulaic performers, Liz Green remains highly relevant as that rare exception. A true original.

For anyone wanting something new, exciting, raw, intoxicating... then this isn’t for you. If, however, you know what you like, don’t like taking risks, want an easy life when it comes to spending money on music and are already a fan then you’re going to be satisfied with an album that probably ranks dead centre amongst their full catalogue.

So, an unexpected turn from our commentator on urban squalor with this dreamlike, abstract paean to Mother Nature and the great outdoors.

Considered as a whole, or even as two self-serving parts, Saturday Nights And Sunday Mornings is so generic and unenlightening that you will probably not remember hearing it within an hour or so.

Donkey is not the greatest thing since the peanut Kit-Kat, yet there's some indie-tastic fun with a hint of electro punk, a bit like The Gossip but swapping the Ditto scream for Lovefoxxx's sultry, breathily seductive whisper.

For those who have enjoyed Grubbs’ wide-ranging career and don’t mind taking a 45-minute detour into the mind of a clearly talented guitarist and singer (complete with painful violin), The Plain Where The Palace Stood is good enough to demonstrate how great Grubbs can be when he hits the mark.

All in all, it’s hard to see this appealing to anyone other Gabriel completists.

Simply put, his music seems alive, and utterly modern – despite its clear and obvious debt to The Beatles. ... This is a staggering work, a monumental achievement – and easily eclipses any of Jones’ acting to date.

Out Of Control is, generally, yet another excellent album from a group who may have risen from a lot of people's 'guilty pleasure' to becoming full-on national treasures.

While it contains a few filler songs, this is a fun album to listen to, bursting with irrepressible energy.

While a few of its tracks are below par, The Constant is a decent first effort. It doesn't put her head and shoulders above the many other female singer-songwriters kicking around at the moment, but it definitely sets her apart from them.

More than anything it's just a relief to see this rare talent back from the brink, still, as always, one step ahead of the game

Gilmore has merely rendered Fever more American market-friendly and given it a strong flavor of stateside nu-metal. It's a pattern that is just too repetitious, too anodyne and just plain insipid.

While the album is described as a myriad of styles, there’s nothing to really demonstrate this: only the reggae and reggae-related genres are consistently and tiresomely reflected.

While some of the studio tricks are a little too familiar, the band is clearly re-invigorated and, unlike like the last fractured Garbage offering, the result is a cohesive collection of sharp, aggressive songs.

It also feels like they've become a little too cosy in their favourite slippers, so that while Dive Deep is a pleasant album, it swims in familiar and safe waters.

They're heading back to form in time to conquer a festival or two - but the nature of that song does leave you wondering if Franks will just be happy to be back at all.

Throughout the entire album, you’re left wondering how Smith, who is responsible for some of the most untouchable, spontaneous punk classics of all time, could muster the audacity to purposefully sound like such a parody of his previous self.

Things start to become a bit samey three quarters of the way through the album.

Final track aside, this is as close to blissful shoegaze perfection as is possible.

It's a mature progression for a talented band who, having started out at the tender age of just 15, now seem much clearer on which direction they want to take.

Like its companion album, it’s wildly inconsistent but when Prince hits form, it’s difficult to argue with the man’s genius.

There’s little going on beneath the skin here and it’s an unfortunate if sadly inevitable fact that other significantly more talented musicians from Iceland will never attain Of Monsters And Men’s levels of popularity.

If only they worked a little harder at it, they could be so much more than indie fodder for those who find Kasabian's recent work a little too experimental.

It would appear that Tim, Tom and Richard have spent some time at the U2 School of Squillion-Selling Records, their final project sounding more expansive and dramatic than Hopes And Fears ever did.

Lightburn is on fine form throughout – vocally, he’s been compared to Morrissey for most of his career, but on Lovers Rock he’s more like a downbeat Damon Albarn.

The overall effect of Skeletons is akin to being poked and prodded by a bratty child for over half an hour.

With songs that are inspiringly teeming with originality and ideas, Courtcase 2000 is as exciting and mind expanding a record as any this year.

Overall this is an unpretentious and varied album of rave stompers, hands-up disco and sedate moments of beguiling ambience that combine to form probably his best and most cohesive album since "Play."

If Alanis lacks breadth in terms of her subject matter, and she does, she makes up for it in the rich variety of styles that have influenced each track.

This is, truly, an album worthy of obsession.

In summary, Drones is utterly bonkers and silly. And yet, it’s for the most part enjoyable.

All The Plans is full of driving piano, anthemic guitar, and a bit of swagger. They owe a huge debt to Coldplay, Ocean Colour Scene, and Oasis which, in itself, must be quite galling.

Producer Will.I.Am's contributions are, for the most part, utterly bland and lacking in bite. The sanitised R'n'B of Heaven is embarrassing with a generic construction that feels as if he went to a superstore and it took it off the shelf.

Once the irritatingly catchy melodies have passed through a love/hate relationship though, to the point where they may start to annoy, there is sadly not enough left to warrant a long lifespan for Youth.

Despite the solid highs, there’s nothing truly spectacular and the end result is rather uneven in terms of quality.

Portico have certainly succeeded in reinventing themselves, and they sound like a completely different band to Portico Quartet. The flipside of this is less positive: with their synth textures and post-dubstep influences, they don’t sound all that different from much of the pop music being made at the moment.

With only one true standout track, a handful of fillers, and little innovation or progress, it reeks of diminishing returns from start to finish.

Complete Me is a clever, well crafted and painstakingly produced pop concoction that was well worth the numerous delays.

This is a fascinating record that will initially bewilder, but rewards repeated listens.

When it hits the spot, Moby’s writing is still subtly powerful, but when it doesn’t a curious and lasting emptiness remains. This may accurately reflect the imbalances of the world, but as a musical work it ultimately feels off-kilter.

Not a bad effort, but we've come to expect more.

Yuck, however, sadly comes off after several listens as a little flat, the low points seeming all the more so for resting, as they do, in the shadows of the occasional peaks.

It’s the sound of a band who have slowly taken the time to consider how their evolution should develop, and this deliberation has borne fruit. Wildness may well have grown, but for Gengahr, something rather more long-lasting may have also taken root.

This debut is a polished effort which manages to balance both sweeping synth pop with euphoric indie anthems.

For all the humming and picking, the songs feel too similar to each other to hold interest throughout.

While this may not be his finest solo moment (that honour still belongs to his debut, "Rockin' The Suburbs"), if you want some intelligent, moving and addictive pop songs, you can't go far wrong with Mr Folds.

It’s not perfect, but it does point towards promising a future.

MGMT seem to have settled into their groove here, or more correctly their two concurrent grooves. On one hand, they seem able to produce easily digestible fuzzy pop songs slightly reminiscent of soft rock with what appears to be consummate ease; on the other, they can enter into all manner of sonic digressions with a noteworthy lightness of touch.

For better or worse, Thievery is ultimately content to stick to the script, busting out another batch of worldly background noise perfect for a post-party VIP lounge in Ibiza.

The album may revive the band's career in North America, but for many of their loyal fans it will come as a major disappointment.

Despite these quibbles, there’s a definite sense on Life By Misadventure of a major step up from Human. It’s a conscious move to move Rag’n’Bone Man up to the level of the likes of Michael Kiwanuka and Ray LaMontagne – if he carries on at this trajectory, he’ll have a career to rival them both.

For a record that veers between hit and miss, there is a certain amount of charm and vibrancy that keeps one coming back for more.

For the most part Marshall gets it spot on, but when she doesn't she only serves to highlight the quality of the originals.

He could be a genius or he could be a lunatic; either way, one of modern filmdom's most debated and alluring figures has made an arresting album that successfully translates his visual surrealism to a new medium.

[Where We Go] is far and away the most interesting, listenable yet challenging, thing on this patchy and unfocussed album.

There's just enough promise here to show that there is indeed talent beyond all the hype.

Milagres have on their hands an album that ultimately forsakes its momentum for a lack of ideas; the highs are certainly high, yet the lows eventually take over the asylum.

It[']s by no means an album for all times, and can get too repetitive for its own good, but in the right place, at the right moment not much tops it.

At the end of it all, you realise there's really nothing here.

You're left feeling like you're listening the audio equivalent of a normally classy mum dressing up in her daughter’s clothing.

A stunning debut album, one that proves the hype was more than justified.

Papa Roach have the tools to be a damn good rock band, but they'll never be one unless they change the bloody record.

There's enough humour in the words and inventiveness in the production to keep coming back to these songs, though you can only hope Wolf will sound a little less broken the next time around.

Clocking in at 41 minutes, Speak Your Mind is a slick, well-produced offering that delivers on Anne-Marie’s potential without overstaying its welcome, the best British pop debut in a while.

The trio's sixth album Mr Impossible finds Black Dice at their most accessible and most aggravating.

Although it will undoubtedly be adored by Kasabian’s fiercely loyal army of fans, to the unconverted 48:13 sounds like a band running perilously low on ideas.

Abnormally Attracted To Sin turns out to be a collection of tracks that simply doesn't work as a whole because it can't properly be listened to in one go. Pity, for somewhere in amongst it all Tori proves that she's still capable of producing a storming album.

It's a career best for T.Raumschmiere and another proud moment in the history of hard-rocking electronica.

Ultimately, Stranger Things sounds more like a band that are more comfortable with what they are doing.

There are gospel singers, there are elements of Zepplin'y mysticism, and there are swampy Cajun tinged bits, but nothing hides the fact that it's too little too late.

There is little doubt they will be soundtrack composers in the years to come, but this is their bread and butter, and makes for an extremely impressive addition to an already formidable canon.

While Leto's vocals remain as central as ever, there's only so much you can take of his constant overbearing bellowing. Love Lust Faith + Dreams was set up as a new chapter for the band. The end result just feels empty.

Ripe is a disappointingly bland affair. None of the songs have any edge to them, the tunes are predictable and the lyrics are mundane.

In Too Much Information, they’ve made easily the most interesting and eclectic album of their career--they just didn’t quite include enough of those heartwarming hooks to make it their best.

For anyone that even slightly misses the decade that saw Britpop bands pop up left, right and centre you could do a lot worse for your health than take in some Superfood.

Nothing really jumps out, and Ian Brown’s seventh album still feels weirdly unrewarding, the artist playing a contented father rather than raging at the current state of the world. That is fair enough of course, but for an artist as established and inspirational as Ian Brown has been over the decades, we surely deserve waves rather than ripples.

This album, though at times an obscure experience to the untrained ear, is at other times Royksopp-like, though never to the point of radio friendliness.

With less excessive production and better songs, this could have been an accomplished return--her voice is still there. As it is, we’re picking up some signals, but it requires some real tuning.

The record could perhaps do with more of these vocal interjections, as it's packed with mostly instrumental grooves. However what there is comes extremely well layered and with a careful structure, well thought through but also retaining the potential for improvisation and a chance to cut loose.

The Spinto Band are genuinely highly impressive musicians, they're still as creative as ever, cramming riffs and off-kilter rhythms into their songs like clothes into a brimful suitcase, but creativity isn't always synonymous with good music.

Indeed, at some worrying points, Gray sounds like he's on the point of expiring, so croaky and listless is his voice.

There is clearly potential there and The Making Of is a solid first record, but it is just one that is unlikely to live long in the memory.

For a man who was once so adept at innovation and seeking new creative paths much of Rave Age is a disappointment, the sound of a man content of tread over old ground.