Stereophonics deserve doughty, workmanlike praise: they're a safe pair of hands, and this record does exactly what it promises. There are worse crimes.

So where do you go when you've been a backing singer for the Pussycat Dolls? Not straight to the scrapheap but kooky la-la land, it transpires here.

The first LP for nigh on a decade from Tjinder Singh and co feels like rummaging through rock's dressing-up box on a wet afternoon.

Yet far from heralding a more obviously commercial taint, major label backing finds them ever more extreme. This album may not be quite as bleak as The Bairns, and the sound is more sophisticated, but they still sound like nobody else.

You know, deep down, that the These New Puritans set is the one that you'll be listening to in a decade, enjoying the fact that you can never quite decipher its codes, and probably being amazed at how many more commercially successful records it inspired.

Mostly, it works well. Intriguingly, Gabriel fares better with more recent material.

Black's more soft-centred approach has since lagged behind, though this idiosyncrantic debut should help him make up ground.

I wasn't sure whether to listen to the record or call Ghostbusters. But once I plumped for the former, I was somewhat shocked to discover a pop record, full of grooves, melodies and recognisable chorus type-affairs.

Something magical may well have rubbed off [while working with with Robert Wyatt], as One Life Stand not only sees them back on track, it's also their best work, paring down those past excesses and unifying them into an extraordinarily lovely whole.

I'm New Here might turn out to be a footnote rather than an American Recordings-style new chapter, but this is as striking a return as we're likely to hear all y.

Then, six songs into a characterless album, one on which ambience takes precedence over tunes, 3D and Daddy G unveil three stunning numbers that compare with anything in their back catalogue.

The result is a fifth Four Tet album which has the power to delight someone who has never listened to a Kraftwerk record all the way through, just as much as those who know their Walter from their Wendy Carlos.

Like its physical namesake, The Sea is capable of being dull and flat, but at its most winning it provides glimpses of a new horizon shining beyond the riptides of pain and sorrow.

Any fears that the zippy Afro-pop of these New York-based hipsters was a novelty--so very 2008--are quickly dispelled on this confident and completely entertaining second album.

The loose, spontaneous nature of the exercise means there's the odd dud, but there are far more hits than misses. The result? A dead concept is temporarily revived.

The music's Pharrell Williams-assisted dancefloor pop; the words entirely Shakira's. Preposterously brilliant.

For the most part, Reality... swings between the mawkish strings and piano overproduction which Williams has seemed overly attached to ever since 1998's Bond-inspired 'Millennium,' and flashes of genuine pop frivolity, for which he likely has producer Trevor Horn to thank.

A handful of upbeat numbers–-including an unexpected foray into frothy high-speed electro–-pull Leona back from the brink of boring, while 'I Got You' is an impressive distant relative of 'Bleeding Love.'

It's an effortless success, from the opener, Ruby, big on melody and plaintive harmonies, to the dream-like Bells of Harlem, moving river-slow to a brushed snare and ending this quite terrific record with a meandering coda of wistful strings.

Underproduced by Nick Cave producer Nick Launay, results are less the Smiths' heroic jangle than something from the muddier end of John Peel's Festive 50 circa 1987. Fans of "real indie" will be thrilled.

It's likely that their slabs of noise are too explosive. But for Team Biffy, their followers, this is a strength, not a failing.

It is also a sound that on this, their fifth album, seems as resistant to change as the forces of nature and while seemingly limited in palette, is as expansive as it is inventive.

Hudson Mohawke, whose debut album contrives to be both idiosyncratic and soulful. The spirits of OutKast and Prince loom large, and, along with most of the albums here, it crackles with imagination.

White Denim somehow manage to cover all points of the musical compass without ever losing their overall sense of direction.

Sometimes the rough edges have been over-smoothed: there are all kinds of strange, cheap synthesised noises buried under the layers of polish that I'd like to hear more clearly. But this is a minor gripe, for despite its dark heart, there's a real joy about this debut.

It's the best pop album about beating depression since 1983's Soul Mining by The The. Buy now, and avoid the winter rush for Prozac.

The gear changes on this particular autobahn are swift and sometimes a little clunky.

Embryonic is certainly not without charm, but its title gives the game away. Largely, it's the sound of a band seeking inspiration rather than finding it.