This is a beautiful album. Moving rather than maudlin, uplifting rather than depressing.

The live clips of the Very Best on YouTube suggest an almost chaotic stage presence, and this very easy-on-the-ear debut may inspire many imitators.

There's an intriguing synthetic wheeze lurking in the upper reaches of Jackson's vocal range. Those who feared this effect might pall over a whole album will find solace in the unexpected emotional intensity of her lower register.

All shuffling beats and pub wisdom, it's same again for Brown's latest.

His serious moments are as hard to comprehend as a Chuckle Brother tackling a eulogy: you know he must feel emotion because he is a human being, but you are constantly expecting the arrival, stage right, of a pantomime cow.

Although looser, Draw the Line doesn't reinvent the Gray wheel.

Although still flying the party flag, their hectic mash-up of house, disco and hedonism is no longer quite so thrilling, even with help from Santigold.

It's more jaunty nouveau Traveling Wilburys than folk rock summit as Bright Eyes' Conor Oberst, My Morning Jacket's Jim James and M Ward join forces.

Refashioning 60s pop for today's pilled-up generation? Not such a bad idea, as it happens, even if it is a bit Spiritualized.

Still challenging preconceptions (with son Sean and Cornelius joining the band), and tender with it, too. Easily the best LP to be released by a 76-year-old this month.

Sixth album Truelove's Gutter is his best, thanks to easing back on the twanging guitar and ads for his native Sheffield in favour of more universally minded tunes, the finest of which, the 10-minute Remorse Code, edges into ambient territory.

Their debut is built from old Chapterhouse records.

It unquestionably adds up to a pop record sharp enough to be the bratty but irresistible younger brother of Lily Allen's "It's Not Me, It's You."

Not just a dignified salute to an absent friend, but a cracking album in its own right.

The wholeheartedness with which this album hurls itself into the abyss of cod-symphonic astral pretension is to be commended.

More Stravinsky than the Saturdays, this is still way more fun than the latter.

Think Scott Walker punching a side of beef, and know that here's another who's wandered off the path of teen pop success to find a world that's far more interesting (if far from easy listening).

Daffy girl pop with just the teensiest bit of attitude, enough retro influences and the odd acceptable ballad.

The heart of Two Dancers lies in these seemingly jarring juxtapositions. The individual ingredients may be a decidedly mixed bag, but the final product is both coherent and very satisfying.

Now comes the first album of new material for 35 years, and although never quite reaching the innocent glory of late 60s Mutantes, Haih or Amortecedor is still brimming with vitality and ideas.

Forget hi-life vibes: this psychedelic trip takes you from Jo'Burg to Brooklyn and way, way beyond.

It's most beguiling when the eastern influences are to the fore.

With this second album cementing the union between Mariam Wallentin's impassioned gut-bucket vocals and Andreas Werliin's busy percussion, they are on their way to becoming the White Stripes in reverse.

Something a bit crunchier that's been boiled up with producer Josh Homme in the Mojave Desert, but with the sweetener of Alex Turner's words.

Very modern, even if her pleasing sound never pushes real boundaries.

It's the sound of the summer! If summer for you means a fake tan and drinking WKD for a week in the Med with the likes of Kelly Rowland and Will.I.Am popping up as guests with your fave.

The Senegalese seer is joined by a polyglot cast: the future's calling.

Skins have been shed, batteries recharged and the traditionally difficult second album dashed out with apparent ease.