BSP have every right to feel content. After all, the almost men of sylvan, jagged rock, the pride of Britain's bookish, bird-watching bohemia, have made an album that's deserving of their swagger. Do you like rock music? If not, here's the perfect place to start.

At its core, Cross is loud, restless, and daring. A creative tour de force, Justice have unleashed an era-defining album for the children of acid house.

Confessions... is vocally sharp and (at times) lyrically breathtaking, but it is difficult to imagine this album working without Price's involvement.

Overpowered's bubbling, sensual, and soulful glitterball gems effortlessly tap into the perennial glory of feeling lost and lonely at the disco at the end of the world.

Slime & Reason, then, is yet another gutsy work from a deeply honest artist.

Damaged is a transcendent record - poetic, mysterious, witty, wise and at times so musically grand that it changes the colour of a room and the weight of the air.

For Emma, though only nine tracks long, is as beautiful, bleak and intimate as anything 2008 is likely to throw up.

It's Not Me, It's You is a wonderful record, and, better than that, a pop album brave enough to have a go at defining the times.

Kings of Leon have spent much of the past couple of years in potentially soul-sapping support slots on extended US stadium tours by the likes of Bob Dylan, Pearl Jam and, most significantly, U2. But rather than be ground down by that experience, they've used it as the jumping-off point for a bold expansion of their own parameters.

Complex, melodramatic, ambitious, vain, beautiful and frequently magnificent - Release the Stars may not yield many chart hits, but it feels like an album that will endure.

Untrue crackles with high-tension, excitement and yearning.

It's the kind of rollicking, party-rockin' fandango which, genuinely, nobody has the spirit or wit to put together these days.

It's occasionally like a dream collaboration between Bill Hicks and New Order, with Giorgio Moroder producing.

As wonderful as it is unexpected, Dirt Farmer is a strong candidate for comeback of the year.

Largely extraordinary... They write ornate and soaring conversational love songs, full of heart, bittersweet observation and unashamed street-level Englishness.

The quality veers wildly, but every so often he hits upon a great song. 'Just As You Are' in particular sets the smoothest of melodies and a haunting cornet solo from Wyatt against the most world-weary of lyrics.

Their third album offers an advance on the ecstatic dance punk of 2003 debut "Fever to Tell" and beefy rock of 2006's "Gold Lion," boldly pushing synths centre stage while sacrificing none of their vitality.

Eighteen months touring and producing themselves at home have toughened the bands sound. And broadened it.

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.

Offend Maggie is head-spinning bliss from beginning to end, and proves that the quartet are the best prog-rock post-punk Afro-Oriental art-pop folk-jazz band in the world.

Hypnotic repetition, mysterious soundscapes and recurring lyrical codes render this debut utterly engrossing and totally essential.

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

You get the sense they don't know exactly what they're aiming for, and the resulting mish-mash of crude energy and unfocused ambition leaves the listener gloriously befuddled.

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."

Euphoric, feelgood electro-pop of the indie rather than chart-topping persuasion, with the Massachusetts quartet's debut substituting lost-boy yearning for outright hedonism.

Ultimately, there is something refreshing about MGMT's lack of cynicism and the winning way in which they fuse hippy and punk ideals.

Her new dance album – her 11th – is a brilliant collaboration with the likes of Basement Jaxx and the Scum Frog.

Here lie gorgeous tunes that are lithe enough to cope with the little bursts of sonic madness that flit around like overproduced Eighties butterflies.