It's about the best a studio grime album can be.

The problem is that I Created Disco goes on for nearly an hour and barely changes tack once.

There are many more interesting artists out there doing the kind of thing Jamie does with more panache and originality with voices that don't make me want to throw myself under an underground train, but they're not from Wimbledon.

It might be easy to criticise 'Those The Brokes' as a stab at busting through into the MOR mainstream, but it's fairer to see it as The Magic Numbers developing their expression while staying faithful to their core sound, and quiet charm.

This album is fucking brilliant – it made me want to cut my hair, paint the ceiling, fuck the postman and burn the disco down. So I did. Then I curled up in a corner, cried, and shat myself.

The band have colonised the rich turf at the intersection of meticulously structured mope-rock and free-flowing three-chord pop, where moments of resignation cosy up alongside twinkling hopes for the future like Winehouse to the sauce.

They've totally nailed it.

It was possible to ignore Schnauss' new age leanings previously but they're rammed home mercilessly here making too much of this album sound like Enya-period Sigur Ros.

Yes, it's the relentless energy, humour and versatility which makes this record stand out and apparently their albums are merely incidental compared to their stunning live shows.

The album is closer to the thrash end of their style then the folk, and the music reflects the anger in the songs brilliantly.

Disappointing, frustrating and exhausting, 'Astronomy For Dogs' finds a band trying too hard to cram too much into one sitting.

As White Stripes albums go, 'Icky Thump' is a goodie, and there's no resting on of laurels either.

One trick pony's they may arguably be, but they've done the same trick twice and pulled it off.

In isolation you can imagine any of these songs may have appeared over the last 10 years giving a warm comforting feel, but listened in its entirety the effect is strangely soporific, a steady morphine drip running from start to end.

The good news is that for a bunch of brats they're well in control of the complex, riddling, labyrinthine structures that go toward making the perfect pop punk songs.

Thankfully, it's even better than expected.

Anyone expecting any of the more experimental tangential qualities of the German group will be disappointed, as will anyone expecting intense lyrical workouts from Smith. Instead we have an extremely convincing whistlestop tour round current electronic music with a partially deranged, completely eccentric lexicographer raving brilliantly over the top.

There's nothing quite as immediate or fantastic as 'Disposable Teens' here, but the album on the whole is a triumph.

Well as befits such a completely uncompromising visionary/awkward pain in the arse (delete one if you can be bothered) it veers between the preposterously awful 'Genuine Lullabelle' with its bewildering spoken word passages and the awesome wire taut assault of 'Be Prepared'.

A patchy, flawed effort.

This is not just an album that can be appreciated by fans of the avant-garde, pop and rock alike but a genuine fuck you to the people claiming modern music has nowhere left to go.

Listen to this record and you realise that by comparison, Robbie Williams does actually have some soul. And if that's not a damning indictment of one of the most execrable records you're likely to hear this decade, I don't know what is.

This is classic timeless pop.

Their brilliance lies in writing the crassest, most obvious, lowbrow hooks.

As a whole, the album feels less definite, less driven, than the 'Want…' albums, which is both a strength and a weakness.

If 2004's 'A Ghost Is Born' was an experimental step too far then 'Sky Blue Sky' finds a band regressing tamely in to Dad-rock. Wilco need to rediscover that middle ground that suits them so well.

As good as 'Tio Bitar' is, it's actually a weaker album than 'Ta Det Lungt' in some respects.

As concept albums go, this one wears very thin very quickly.

One of the finest albums of the year.

This air of superiority is pervasive on 'Our Earthly Pleasures', which is a pity when you consider contemporaries such as Franz Ferdinand can do clever without it getting in the way of the fact all they're really doing is making good pop records.

It's in the vein of 'Debut' in terms of songwriting but there are a lot more samples of foghorns on this record.

The confident arrangements throughout 'No Shouts, No Calls' are the finest Electrelane have yet committed to tape.

The Sea And Cake are ultimately an infuriatingly inoffensive band.

Lyrically, it's astounding as ever.

'Everything Last Winter' is a record by a band blithely unconcerned about any perceptions of cool.

They have made this album many times before and one assumes they will make it many times again.

Akin to Bowie's 'Hunky Dory', in its senseless but brilliant eclecticism.

'Baby 81' sees a band lose focus from what made them tick in the first place.

Rabid Dinosaur Jr fans will find plenty here to enjoy.

Unassuming, unpretentious and totally listenable too, this is thirteen songs and fifty minutes that might just make her famous.

'5:55' is a welcome addition to the Gainsbourg family's musical legacy, and we can't give any higher compliment than that.

Anyone expecting something similar to his early doom-laden musings will find nothing of the sort here.

The album sees the band moving on from the Libertines-aping chord structures of their debut and pushing in new directions.

You really won't find a more interesting, intelligent or wonderful dream of an album as 'Sensuous' all year.

It feels like a mix-tape or compilation, an in-joke or doodle between the participants rather than a completed work for public consumption.

The Champs' music is so exhilaratingly, grin-inducingly, fist-shakingly wonderful you cannot help but want more. VI delivers in spades.

There isn't a bad song on this album.

'Cassadaga' is much less of a draining emotional journey for both chief player and listener alike than Bright Eyes previous work.

As with all Blonde Redhead albums, there is no real standout track to pinpoint. Instead, they've made a terrific progression from, and succeeded in the daunting task of following, 'Misery Is A Butterfly'.

There is little to recommend here.

A decade after he first set an impossibly hard act to follow, Jarvis Cocker has returned with an album that knocks not only his ageing contemporaries, but many of his descendents, for six.

Great album though this is in it's own right, the failing of 'The Endless Not' is that it just sounds like it's happy to play safe. No shocks, no surprises... and , sadly, none of what made TG arguably, together with the Sex Pistols, THEE most important force in the evolution of modern popular music.

Timbaland has revealed himself to be a crass, stupid, venal prick who is pretty much talentless outside of production for other people.

Despite occasional thrills, for all The Twilight Sad's epic ambition and admittedly accomplished sound, this is a hollow record that struggles to fully transcend its influences.

If it's house music you're after then you won't like this because this (sorry to point out the bloody obvious) is something completely different. And that, as far as we're concerned, is the whole point.

The Fall are the best new band in Britain.

Kaiser Chiefs have absolutely no talent or taste for innovation.

When the tempo is slower on certain tracks such as 'My Interpretation' and 'Any Other World' the initial comparison is unavoidably that of one to Robbie Williams or Elton John, but there is none of the dead-eyed cynicism of the former and none of the bellowing oafishness of the latter.

Dubious lyrics notwithstanding, this is exactly the kind of album that a formerly drug-addled, ludicrously randy, city-dazzled English suburban boy ought to be making when he reaches the onset of middle age.

Staunch fans won't be disappointed, but it's hard to envisage new ears pricking up on hearing 'Octopus' woeful musings.

'Sound Of Silver' is the album of the year.

This could be Modest Mouse's finest hour were it not a little long - the nuances are occasionally rather swamped by the effort of listening to the hour-long record through.

This is no mere regression into a tried and tested formula for the Duluth trio. Each of these tracks is more than their trademark guitar, bass, drum soundscapes with delicate vocals hovering above the mix.

His most poignant and accessible album yet.

Malin once more acts as skilled arbitrator between classic rock and punk, just this time around he's a little more sympathetic towards the boisterous aims of the latter.

This is a record that will so quickly get under your skin and fill your head with such a bounty of melodies that the only way to relieve the swelling is to joyously whistle them out.

'Why Bother' is a testing listen, of course, and after a while the vocals can begin to make your brain start to dissolve in minor whirlpools.

It seems - for the first time, perhaps - he's made one out of love for the artform alone rather than with the added motive of letting off a little barely-suppressed rage or feeling he has scores to settle, either with the industry or himself.

Such is the reliance on his voice to provide resonance both melodically and lyrically, there isn't a great deal else to fall back on should the listener find it objectionable.

Much of the LP's success can be put down to the completeness of the world that I'm From Barcelona create and promptly invite you into.

The Ponys are the band Black Rebel Motorcycle tried so desperately hard to be.

With 'Ten New Messages' The Rakes have pulled off the knack of being able to deliver a series of songs that are longer and deeper but equally as memorable as the spiky missives spat on their debut.

The View are a study of all the essentials of British rock & roll.

'Pocket Symphony' fails to grab in the same way that previous Air albums have and places too large an emphasis on mood, texture and composition to ever really be anything other than polite background music.

This veers between quite good and bloody rubbish with only a couple of flashes of brilliance here or there.

Gruff Rhys is one of our most imaginative and original musicians.

It's a rather sad indictment that by the end of the album you almost forget its The Stooges gainfully toiling away.

A fascinating work of collage that never gets tedious or faddy.

An absolute triumph from one of the most consistently forward looking hip hop bands in the world today.

It's inevitable having enjoyed their partnership for so long, that you occasionally feel the lack of Moffat's brutal honesty, but Middleton grows more interesting with each solo release.

If Simple Kid is too simple for you, if you always liked Supergrass but never thought they pushed their material to its astral conclusion and felt their retro musings were a little too close to the original blueprint, then this baby, is for you.

Alas, 'The Cost' is closer to the Noughties ipoddery of 'sensitive' folksters like Damien Rice or James Blunt than a Fleetwood Mac or a James Taylor.

It is a lot of fun, brilliantly produced and is the perfect winter soundtrack to plans for a summer road-trip.

It's not overestimating matters to call 'Tones of Town' a timeless masterpiece.

'A Weekend In The City'... fails because it tells us nothing new.

Moffat knows how to conduct, contort and concoct fountains of melancholia.

These songs are full to the brim with ideas and a charming naivety - but there's a major hurdle that ultimately compromises the enjoyment: the vocals.

The only disappointment is it's all probably way too leftfield for generic consumption, meaning most people won't actually get to hear it.

If there's a main criticism of this record then it's the fact that it's not entirely cohesive.

The pop album of the year.

Building on the shaky, disjointed, but strangely beautiful foundations that they first laid twelve months ago with the release of their debut, 'Some Loud Thunder' is a gloriously shambolic second album from a band that continues to sound like no one else.

A rather predictable and mundane package.

Where 'Parklife' was exuberant and almost knowingly callow, 'The Good, The Bad & The Queen' is weary, confused, almost mourning for what once was.

I usually find Shins albums grow on me slowly but surely yet after a good dozen plays I feel my faith isn't being repaid this time, and as a fan that's frustrating.

The effect of the new bleak mood lurking beneath the glimmering pop is to pare away the occasional over-cutesiness that has marred Of Montreal's work in the past and enhance the freaky psychedelic sublime of Barne's best moments.

The music on the album sounds muscular, more confident than before.

It's a more oblique successor to 1999's self-explanatory 'Tune In, Turn On, Free Tibet', and, paradoxically, their most focused effort yet.

Sonically, there's no radical steps forward here, but then standing still for Kristin Hersh is pretty much the equivalent of most people's sprinting: we could do with a few more of her.