Generally this is fairly accessible stuff.

It's exhilarating, daft and triggers spontaneous hair growth better than a vat of Pantene.

Too many of the 15 tracks are padding and the entire record is neutered by a production that brushes everything up to a mediocre gloss.

It’s at its best when it mixes Badu-style soul vocals and booming apocalypse bass ('The Road', 'At Night'), but there’s evidence of a lighter side in the sort of jazzy tribal stompers that Gilles Peterson would approve of (‘Ra_Light’, ‘Near The End’).

Wild Divine ain't 'Kid A', but it's hardly musical stagnation.

Though the harder of heart might not be able to swallow the rock’n’retro stylings, Invisible Girl is an ice-cool, analogue-warm winner. Make like its creators and loosen up.

No post-nu-metal. No nu-post-hardcore. Just a solid, honest, rock album.

Once again the rhyming is painfully funny, the delivery fresh, and the music catchy.

The epic emoting can feel a tad weighty towards the end, but you're left with a solid impression of who Active Child is, rather than who he wants to be.

Balf Quarry, however, sees Elisa Ambrogio and Pete Nolan emerging blinking into the sunlight as they continue to excavate the more focussed sounds of last album "Boss."

III is a fluid, inventive affair.

It may not possess the mind-blowing innovation of 1995’s ‘Clear’, but when something is as darkly gorgeous as this, it’s hard to quibble.

If you don't mind flicking the fast-forward, there's enough hot shizzle to keep you returning for more. [20 Nov 2004, p.57]

Once more, we're in a world of uptight, high-gloss grooves, wry tales of dirty old men, and, of course, terrifyingly proficient guitar solos.

We Are The Ocean's third is a record full of lean, muscular rock and sees a band who were once regarded as sub-You Me At Six also-rans, deliver an undeniably stonking LP full of catchy choruses and chunky riffs.

The likes of 'Chromakey Dreamcoat' sound like they were made on a potter's wheel rather than an iBook. [15 Oct 2005, p.36]

This return to drone primitivism might seem somewhat regressive for Gordon, as it doesn't represent anything remotely new for her as a musician or for drone music as a whole. But it is done with a pleasing malevolence.

If you enjoy using your brain rather than listening to it fizzle to the strains of Virgin Radio, then buy this.

In her music, as in her life, everything revolves around sex - but unseemly as it is for a woman of a certain age to frug bawdily alongside Damon Albarn, Marianne gets away with it.

At times throwaway, at others raw, intimate and charming, there’s plenty here you’ll want to get your mate to ask out for you.

While the only revolutions here might be the creaky cogs of the Fannies' 20-year career turning nicely, there's little denying they're still worthy of the reverence they effortlessly garner.

Just because it’s essentially heavy-metal karaoke, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy it.

Her debut LP is good, but not up to the standard its title suggests.

There's little, if any, regard for structure or convention, meaning that Mole City could be five tracks long or 50 and still happily exist in a brilliantly idiosyncratic bubble all of its own.

The Fall: quantity and quality.

There's no escaping it: Foster The People are a great pop band, and Torches pop production accentuates every handclap and harmony for maximum effect.

The album begins to lag toward the end as the slower tracks drag their heels, but it’s still an impressive debut.

This, basically, is an extremely tastefully done, soulful modern r’n’b record.

Even if this is business as usual for Xzibit, then at least business is good.

There's a squelchy warmth at the heart of 'Human After All' that's been well masked since their arrival. [19 Mar 2005, p.59]

While the Nicolas Jaar, Liars and Lindstrøm remixes add synthetic space to ‘Sleeping Ute’, ‘A Simple Answer’ and a Daft-ly disco ‘Gun-Shy’ respectively, it’s the fragile new tracks ‘Smothering Green’ (a muted, modernist Cole Porter clatter), ‘Taken Down’ (falsetto Fleet Foxes) and the two versions of ‘Everyone I Know’ (one churchy, one space-jazz meltdown renamed ‘Will Calls (Marfa Demo)’) that are the real treasures here.

This is pure Tricky; sometimes at his near-best, sometimes coasting, but always unique.

Grace is less a masterpiece than an escape, a memento of his charisma and charm more than a leap towards new horizons.

It’s a challenging, warm if understated effort destined to thunk into the indie solo album dartboard somewhere between Julian Casablancas and Duncan from Maximo Park.

This Chicago MC keeps high-concept gibberish to a minimum, packing his second album with rhymes about robots and skateboards that nonetheless roll with the sort of swagger which leaves other brainbox rappers red-faced and grasping for their inhalers.

It’s not the definitive work the self-titling might suggest but it’s sure as hell worthy of the name.

The main criticism of this record is that a few tracks are merely good, as opposed to epochal.

It's fair to say Gaslight are a band who have made people's lives immeasurably better simply by existing; American Slang won't change anyone's world and it's unfair to punish it for not, but we just hoped for… more.

It all adds up to a deeply deranged and intermittently great listen, and serves as a decent stopgap 'til the band's next album proper.

To hope for a "Running Up That Hill" or a "Wuthering Heights" would be to miss the point, and the subtle pleasures – there's enough people walking the ways Kate cleared 30 years ago. Follow her footprints off the beaten path, and you'll find some weird winter wonders.

They may never outshine M83 but Rituals at least establishes Team Ghost in their own right.

Considering the scattered legacy that feeds the roots of this album, and the other OTT keyboard abusers of our times, some foolishness is only right and proper. Fortunately, there's some belting tunes to chew on too.

Adams could clearly make use of an editor here--but you can't possibly hate an album that uses pedal-steel on every track. [24 Sep 2005, p.43]

Although inescapably discomfiting, the music’s complex textures keep the listener snared.

It's a bit cheeky, but that's Kylie, and that's pop. Where the songs are as good as 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head' it works beautifully.

What's so impressive about Xzibit is his rhyme flow, which is one of the smoothest in rap and provides a wonderful contrast to his profanity-led ghetto dwelling lyrics. With Dr Dre providing beats for three of the tracks and overseeing the whole project, Xzibit now has the perfect musical canvas to accompany his underrated skills.

Throughout their debut album London Grammar walk a fine line between haunting and boring.

The Sun Kil Moon frontman may revel in the role of indie-rock’s great white grinch, but as Sings Christmas Carols proves, he’s no more immune to the spirit of the season than his furry green counterpart was.

Manchester Orchestra are from Atlanta and play loud/quiet grunge. Nothing new then, but fans of the Pixies and Weezer will love it.

This time with their best songs since "Tell Me When" in 1995. In more ways than one, timeless.

It’s not all dark and uncomfortable, though – both the pretty ‘Save The World’ and ‘Ripe For Love II’’s arpeggio guitars balance things out nicely.

The record’s barrage of barrelling noise is linked by stuffy interludes of piano (‘Prelude III’) and strings (‘Chandelier Shiver’), meaning the quintet only narrowly avoid coming off as pretentious. But when Eva sings “I held the arrows/I pulled the strings” on calm, clear-headed highlight ‘Opalescent’, the emotional strength at the heart of Rolo Tomassi shines through.

'So ... How's Your Girl?' is precision-tooled to amuse the Beastie Boys, for sure. But it also harbours a wit and dexterity that not only represents the usual cliquey extended family, but also manages to transcend them.

As long as Braids can escape unscathed from the hype machine, this could be an amazing journey.

Dear John is more or less all about getting dumped, blending hymnal keyboards, tender strings and pained vocals.

If you really feel you need another Canadian choral indie troupe in your life, this is worth a punt.

His spectral vocals comfort like new bedsheets, lyrics straddle tranquillity and loss (‘Ghost Of My Old Dog’) and there are enough sun-over-hill-moments (‘Brand New Sun’) that hold their own against his Snowdon-high standards.

It's a tough record to get a handle on, all fidgety switches of tempo and style, but the slippery acid of 'Industry City' and woozy electronica of 'Closer 2 U' reveal the breadth of Woodhead's vision.

We’re pleased to report that her third English-sung studio effort is as nutty as ever; combining Neptunes-esque beats with flamenco, post-punk riffs, synths, Arabian strings, gongs and disco.

The Betrayed plays to their strengths in that it sounds more like the work of blue-quiffed CGI-animated ninja warriors than real people with wrinkles.

On their fifth album there's a newfound clarity in the production that provides an added dimension to their tunes.

The music itself, meanwhile, has become more brooding and lugubrious: in keeping with the old clichés Spector seem to live by, you could characterise 'Moth Boys' as their 'difficult' second album, the product of failed relationships, life on the road and more disposable income to spend on synthesizers.

Production comes from Steve Albini but here, unlike his work with (well, wouldn't you know) PJ Harvey and Slint, his less-is-more approach is the only point of weakness on an otherwise impressively dramatic record.

Inside you’ll find very little deviation from the wistful, narrative-led pop they’ve made a career from.

Somewhere between a funk soul Killers and an Interpol with lyrics that actually make sense. [11 Jun 2005, p.67]

A rather lovely music: all widescreen swell and swoop and sweet, pained harmonies, with a Flaming Lips-style skewed pop undertow. [22 Apr 2006, p.41]

Out Of View, engineered by The Horrors' Josh Hayward, is noisy, irreverent fun.

The whole album brims with the laidback confidence of someone who knows she's back on top. Britney claims it's her best work yet. She's not wrong.

If you have to buy one painfully esoteric, scrotum-tighteningly hip, show-off album this year, you may want to make it this one.

The two finest soloists from Montreal label Constellation combine here for something far greater than the sum of its parts.

End-time celebrating religious nutbars won’t be finding much eternal hope here, but for everyone else, a perfect soundtrack to the approaching void.

Each track is a treat - a sensible, lo-cholesterol treat, maybe, but still packed with oddly addictive rhymes and beats.

They’ve honed their approach to a point where they can’t really sound like anyone except themselves. Mostly, though, this is the key to the deep likeability of Stuff Like That There.

A dark, beautiful collection. [26 Aug 2006, p.43]

It's sonically peculiar, coolly melodic, relentlessly detailed and, frequently, exhilarating.

Yes, there are jokes and doo-woppy moments of light-heartedness, but this is a soupy, stoned, distressed-sounding album at odds with the Lips’ image as the world’s premier party band.

While there are clichés here that love songs struggle to escape from, I Thought I Was An Alien dumps twee cold and hard, running into pop's warm embrace.

Woolhouse mostly lives up to the dark nature of his moniker, but for brief moments he glimpses light at the end of the tunnel.

They've set themselves up nicely here, already nipping on the heels of fellow slacker extraordinaires Surfer Blood and Yuck.

After a while, the whirling atmospherics give way to the Dandys' dorkier tendencies: the jaunty chuggers, Taylor's dissolute mannerisms, the quirky little twists and tricks.

They build a monumental wall of hardcore noise on 'Egophillia', before taking a wrecking ball to it and screaming wildly into the mess. Elsewhere, there are tight grooves on ‘Disdain’ and ‘Terrible’, and the guttural riffs on 'Starved For’ offer plenty for bleeding gums to gnaw on.

Each tune is utterly lovely in its own right, but--my God--are they depressing. [7 Oct 2006, p.39]

It's business as usual on the whole.

The only problem is they always just come up short when trying to make their own version of FTP's 'Pumped Up Kicks'.

A melodic masterpiece of boldly indignant malevolent spite.

The resulting album is a heartfelt set that showcases the 42-year-old singer and pianist’s elegant style.

The result is delirious party music, which, although at times deliciously dumb, is never – as cerebral Addison Groove fan Aphex Twin would attest – stupid.

Ghostface calls upon most of the remaining Clan members, switches the formula occasionally and hey presto, yet another minor Wu-Tang classic 20 years on from their debut.

While they mainly hit a balance between shifting symphonics, subtle keys and pyroclastic guitar, sometimes--such as on "Plainclothes," a ballad/disco/punk-funk/noise jigsaw--there's just too much going on.

There are ponderous moments later on, like the uninspired ‘Teenage Disease’, but this is a band who’ve found a second wind.

The good news is that lyrically, Nas is pretty much back on form.

A modernist alt-rock chill blows through it, but Surfer Blood’s spirits stay cautiously upbeat, even indulging some Foals-y math-limbo guitar fripperies on ‘Other Desert Cities’.

The simple fact she's intent on change makes her and the rest of her career infinitely more intriguing.

Kasabian's paranoid mindset is so in tune with the zeitgeist you almost imagine singer Tom Meighan has a sell-by date stamped on the arse of his corduroy strides. [4 Sep 2004, p.71]

This is a cut above your average US alt.art-rock, most notably on ‘Stranger’, which sounds like The Strokes doing The Shins.

It's all as comfortable as a favourite battered chair, but give it a chance and you'll discover a gem of a record. [2 Jul 2005, p.64]

Sadly, TAI...'s surprise maturation isn't yet 100 per cent complete.

Save perhaps for an unusual dalliance with folk ('I'll Be Around'), little new personal ground is broken, but their songwriting chops and sound design remain cherishable.