Their clear evolution in terms of talent and ability is more than evident on songs like Firebreather and The Whaler. Between that and some pretty sweet packaging and liner notes, this is likely their best to date.

This album is well-crafted and smart.

It's true that we've come to expect a certain level of genius from this band, but when they actually exceed expectations, as they do here, it's a clear sign that Radiohead will continue to reinvent themselves and drop more jaws along the way.

It's not what anyone is hoping for from Harry, but the highlights are decent enough to keep hardcore Blondie fans satiated until she finds some collaborators worthy of her talent.

Indulging in a baroque concept that includes chanson, 60s French café swing and lush pop, he has no qualms about pushing the drama levels vocally. He warbles yearning lyrics on songs like La Banlieue, Un Dernier Verre (Pour La Route), alongside swaying accordion waltzes such as The Penalty. Best served with croissants and café au lait.

The songs are formulaic but catchy, and the production is meticulous.

As usual, this record will leave many scratching their heads, but for fans who like their music a little more complicated, this is easily one of the more interesting records out there.

Spencer Krug is blessed with an extremely creative mind, and in this album he unleashes it full-throttle. While it's less accessible than his work with Wolf Parade, this disc may still manage to overshadow his more famous band's efforts.

The result is a uniformly pleasant selection of peaceful, easy feelings that wouldn't sound out of place sandwiched between the similarly smooth tunes of Loggins & Messina, America, Gerry Rafferty and, yes, Christopher Cross.

It should all work extremely well to break Lekman beyond his current fan base of bored Sufjan Stevens fans waiting for Pitchfork to tell them what to like next.

On a disc that ultimately exhausts itself with boredom and clichés, it's just not worth it.

Convinced he's some kind of rock revivalist, he's more Bob Seger, Skynyrd and Hank Jr. than anything else here. That works in his favour for most of the album, aside from a few misses like the generically foot-stompin' 'So Hot' and the gospel-infused singalong 'Don't Tell Me U Love Me.'

Setting a song called 'Livin' In The Future' to the tune of 'Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out' indicates that Springsteen's sense of humour may be returning, but the fact that Miami Steve didn't tell him 'Girls In Their Summer Clothes' sounds a little too much like 'The Kids Are Alright' suggests it's not quite back to the good old days yet.

Songs like 'Little Bombs' and the title track are evocative of his "So Impossible" EP while also showing a definite maturity without relying on the disappointing FM-friendly electric rock that's marred the band's work in last few years.

Astbury's voice is just as deep and earnest as it ever was and comes through like gangbusters on opener Born Into This, while Billy Duffy's guitar work is still as raw and dirty as it should be--clear indicators that the whole album doesn't give itself time for ego or pointless filler.

This is the album I've been waiting nearly 10 years for them to make. Better late than never.

The slower grooves still swing hard while allowing Jones to show off more of her impressive vocal range, although it's difficult to say whether her deep funk crowd will be able to handle the shift from the typical shuffle beat barrage they've come to expect.

In real snap-music fashion, everything's repeated to death over tinny, cellphone-tailored little synthesizer riffs with snares.

The painful White Chalk is either a studio experiment gone horribly wrong or a crafty bit of career self-sabotage by a sensitive artist who'd rather make sculptures in the desert than play pop star.

Echoes sounds pretty business-as-usual.

Beam has managed to maintain some of the intimate charm of his home recordings by cleverly trading a conventional trap drum kit for hand percussion. It works wonders to make an elaborate production seem smaller and more organic while strengthening the music's rhythmic component.

Rather than the thoughtful songcraft and inspired peformances of Banhart's pre-Roberts Young God recordings, what you hear now is the zoned-out noodling of someone who foolishly believes his own genius hype.

Beyond The Neighbourhood isn't Athlete's triumph, but with far more rock moments, spacey sounds and well-placed hooks, as on the driving anthem Hurricane and the dreamy Airport Disco, they've redeemed themselves a little.

Accompanying his gruff voice with a bleary-eyed strum, he's probably more potent and alive on Serenade than many would expect.

Will.i.am has to be one of the worst rappers of all time, a fact his solo album doesn't just confirm, but stamps in red.

In Our Bedroom After The War is better than expected even as it wallows in its own broken heart.

This is a sparse, minimal and unassuming record that's unlikely to hit anyone over the head with its innovation, but Gonzalez accomplishes much while sounding like he's doing very little.

Through it all they maintain a charmingly chiming and cheery vibe that's probably the closest humans can get to making elf music.