Though rather generic--grainy emoting; overwrought lyrics; crisp guitar-driven pop--at least Mould can claim that he virtually invented this stuff.

As its title implies, though, Strawberry Jam is strange: luxurious and fractious, wistful and atonal.

The band's contributions are low points on this 16-track epic, but Oberst proves as iconoclastic as ever.

Eight years later, no longer so wide-eyed, the Norwegian duo sound more pedestrian, though 'Royksopp Forever' proves they haven't lost their sense of fun.

The Grammy-winner has a worthy reputation--and, yes, songs namecheck Katrina, Obama et al--but there's also a playful, reflective quality as Chapman looks back at the way music has shaped her life.

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.

Their second LP is all candy-coloured dreamscapes. Lily remains a spikier proposition.

There's a fine songwriter somewhere inside frontman Liam Fray--but first he has to bust his way out of a genre that the world has long ago left behind.

There's no stand-out to match 'Tiny Tears' or 'Marbles' but Stuart Staples's crumpled voice and the distinctively intricate arrangements summon Lee Hazlewood's tear-flecked, bruised spirit.

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.

An eclectic, at times explicit, exploration of love, loss and lust, it's the work of a skilled songwriter comfortable in his own skin and canon.

He and producer Rick Rubin deliver a well-judged acoustic set whose songs mix war weariness with hope and loss.

Their sixth album (and the first on their own label) is their most self-assured set yet, veering from sparkling glam to funky New Orleans boogie by way of early Nineties shoegazing.

When they rock out they are truly bruising, but, happily, their music is now underpinned with a new-found serenity.

Here Malkmus dispenses with the electronic curiosities that blighted his 2005 solo album Face the Truth and adopts a more polished version of the old indie-rock of soaring guitar solos and oblique lyrics.

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.

Merritt's lyrical dark wit chimes nicely with the books' macabre surrealism.

Their sixth collection is broad, bouncy and almost entirely forgettable.

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 follow-up adheres to a winning formula: this is sunny pop in a Sixties vein. But why don't they try something reckless?

With Uncle Dysfunktional there's no faulting the band's ambition - the music veers from country to samba to electronica - and Ryder's lascivious drawl and surreal wordplay remain intact.

It's Chrissie Hynde reinvestigating her roots with some rockabilly and a Dylan vibe.

MPLSound could be a thank-you note to those Parade-era purists patient enough to have stuck around.

Between the odd pretty guitar motif ('She's Too Much') and marching drum roll ('The Valley') the pile-driving beatwork and rapping cameos only highlight the fact that the weakest element here is Duran themselves.

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

He's back on his own terms, those of the earnest hyper-intelligent bookworm who won the plaudits of Jay-Z and 50 Cent, and sounding a lot more comfortable, with 'Hostile Gospel' and 'Say Something' re-staking a claim for the hip hop high ground over beats that are soulful and sonically coherent.

This odd and occasionally lovely concoction might just redeem Iggy from that insurance ignominy.

Unquestionably, it would have been better still had the songs been layered with a little less sugar.