If you were disappointed by 'Antics' then this'll make up for it, and if Interpol's last offering did agree with you then you'll spend the rest of '05 at least giving this a great big hug.

Too much is sodden with his overbearing ego.

This is music that relies entirely on feeling, and while not for everyone it is music at its most impulsively, spontaneously creative.

'Kratitude' is a far from flawless record and can be a little too hip for its own good.

Almost everything about 'Kicking The National Habit' is righteously unfashionable.

Musically there's nothing on 'Stars of CCTV' that stands out as particularly innovative or imaginative[;] it's above average modern indie fare made with gusto by people who want to make records that sound like the records they like: The Clash, The Specials, The Verve and a bunch of other bygone Britpoppers.

He lays bare pissed-off tantrums and his emotion through a burgeoning self-belief and raw musicality to create his endearingly bittersweet masterpiece.

Even on repeated listens, the search for the showy dazzle of The Killers, the lyrical tomfoolery of the Kaiser Chiefs or the sheer stadium smartness of Franz Ferdinand proves fruitless, and it becomes apparent that, in an age where indie's proving to be the stronghold of overachievers, 'Cuts Across The Land' may have missed its moment.

This is so good it makes us want to do one of those superlative deploying pull quote things that journalists often stick at the end of their reviews: this fantastic piece of work is already a strong contender for album of the year.

The lack of a linear structure results in the individual songs banging against each other logjam-style, with the unfortunate effect that 'Fab Four Suture' begins to grate.

A fabulous record.

Ten years after they first assaulted us, Mogwai remain as vital as ever.

'...Broken Seas', though understated and pretty, tingles with furtive sexual chemistry.

On 'Fox Confessor Brings The Flood' Neko's voice and sheer poetry of her song-writing make hyped also-rans like Jenny Lewis look like hot-pant wearing desperados, proving to her rivals and beyond that style and substance aren't mutually exclusive.

Yes, it's a shamelessly arch and overarching achievement, and, make no mistake, some of you out there will hate this record and want to have at it with badly corroded screwdrivers.

His most ambitious and diverse album yet.

They have a habit of getting it very right and very wrong.

'Everything Is' is as frenzied as music gets, full of the energy that only comes with youthfulness, but also tinged with a world weariness that comes with being part of a hugely disaffected and cynical generation.

But this album isn't just really gratingly saccharine, yet simultaneously bland, it's wilfully so.

A tour de force of infectious acid techno and head-rush-inducing electroclash and, as likely as not, this year's essential dance purchase.

Few albums are this evocative, and 'Leaders of the Free World' is a thing of rare beauty indeed.

The trouble is, the much-lauded braggadocio of 'Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not' is hollow.

With 'The Last Romance', a whole lot of people are at last going to fall in love with Arab Strap for the very first time.

Any number of tracks here could easily catapult them back into the consciousness of so much more than the cognoscenti.

'Down in Albion' is a truly abhorrent and occasionally upsetting record.

A gloriously accomplished and very rewarding listen.

It's Emiliana Torrini, Cat Power and Nick Drake all rolled into one, and it's soothing enough to curl up and die for.

'Destroy Rock & Roll' is exponentially more than the sum of its parts.

This is music that never quite settles; it's in perpetual motion.

Far from flawless it may be, but this is a fundamentally fabulous experience.

Their most contemporarily relevant and best album since 'Fox Base Alpha.'

Aside from one or two bore-me-ups, this is an album of understated perfection.

Compared to their offerings to date 'Amber' has the hardest edges, but it wouldn't be Clearlake if it wasn't soft in the centre.

With the ability of the participants, surely there could have been more interesting material to explore, and sadly 'The Brave And The Bold' ends up being anything but.

'For Screening Purposes Only' reeks with the all-pervading whiff of vapid irony.

To be honest this album has been down the pub all day; it doesn't care that you have to go to work in three hours time; it has just burst into your room and demanded the keys to your car and that bottle of Bombay Saphire you were saving for your birthday.

So as sturdy and rocking as 'The Indian Tower' is, it never quite lets you into its world, though if you manage to break on through they're likely to bore you to death by reading Guitarist Monthly aloud and swapping Gary Moore tablature like Pokemon cards.

Turns out what the world was waiting for really was those that saved guitars finally making a record that truly reaped the rewards of their efforts. Is this it? OH GOD YES!

While a few get close, not one remix here stands up to the original on 'Guero'.

It may surprise you, but 'One Way Ticket To Hell... And Back' doesn't suck... at all.

A joyously audacious opening salvo.

'Hypnotise' is full on, paranoid, insane, intense, terrifying, and it's telling the truth too... dangerous stuff in other words.

She might not quite have made it through the wilderness just yet, but she's chosen the most glittering road to resurrection she could find, and it's one she walks with no small smattering of style.

'Aerial' towers over the vast majority of even this year's embarrassment of riches.

Gris Gris' practice of bleeding their songs together in dissonance creates a roller coaster that renders 'For The Season' over before you've really realised it's begun.

As a headphone album, 'These Were... The Earlies' is something of a stunner.

What makes Bunyan's return such an unqualified success is that, unlike so many of those she's influenced (Patrick Wolf excluded) she doesn't come within a country mile of the briar patch of cloying kookiness.

Lyrically the record is less cringe inducing than 'Escapology' but Robbie has been let off the leash for a while in this respect, and while sometimes he can be funny, he needs people to tell him when he's being trite and just downright embarrassing.

Despite its many wondrous moments, 'Feels' is not a record for everyone.

Unlike 2002's 'Geogaddi', it's a wholly gripping journey throughout.

'Playing the Angel' is hardly the most essential Depeche Mode album ever, but it is Depeche Mode doing what they do best.

What blessed bastardry is this? It's bloody brilliant, that's what it is.

'Hey People!' dashes past in such a whippy blur that it's far from immediately apparent what on earth to make of it, although if you suspect it'd be fun going back to find out we wouldn't argue.

Though not really getting the joke can somewhat divorce the listener from proceedings, the slick, masterful production and real-life cameos from the likes of Ghostface and particularly Cee-Lo on the majestic 'Benzi Box' make up for the feeling of exclusion.

For the uninitiated, they churn out a joyless mess of badly tuned indie guitar, spasmodic jazz drumming and cutesy vocalisations, and on 'O'Malley, Former Underdog' they overlay this with irritating electronica that is reminiscent of the noise your discman makes when your mobile phone is in the same pocket.

There's no let up in Kuperus' constant yelps around the difficult end of her vocal range, and it's this that, ultimately, lets 'Gimmie Trouble' down and disappointingly makes this otherwise excellent Adult. album feel rather indulgent and immature.

The whole experience becomes rather draining after a few listens.

I defy anyone not to seep happiness through the pores of their skin once in possession of this record.

Like The Polyphonic Spree stripped of all their faux compound dwelling arse wittery, this is an unambiguous shot of serotonin straight to your head and heart.

At the end of the day this is a bit more of a grower than the last one, but is easily as good.

Where Ladytron's first two albums might have felt to some to be alienating and monochrome, like a shallow bender on champers and very nice drugs, but a shallow bender nonetheless; 'The Witching Hour' is blessed with a far greater palette of sound and sensation, and is as fine a spell as you'll succumb to all year.

'Fall Heads Roll' as a whole might not quite scale the heights of 'The Real New Fall LP', but there's no doubt that elements of it are up there with it.

The most poetic, bookish and winsome of the anticon crew, his new album as Why? sees [Wolf] creating lavish wordscapes over the deceptively straightforward folk rock music.

A little wanting.

Patchy, though when it's good (and nicked) it's very good.

There are already too many Bloodhound Gang albums in the world. This one should be recalled and recycled. Into something that's not a Bloodhound Gang album, obviously.

The Birmingham band's finest hour yet.

More than anything else, 'Cripple Crow' is an album that it sounds like it was born amidst a fun, exuberant creative process.

One of the most witty, ambitious and intelligent British guitar albums thus far in 2005.

It is undeniable that they can produce beautiful sounds with their equipment, it's just that they do not seem to be able to orchestrate it to any purpose afterwards.

On first listen 'Harmonies For The Haunted' seems slight enough to be a collection of b-sides and discarded songs from the first album.

They seem to have recaptured a lot of the elegance and urgency that characterised the increasingly seminal 'Rings Around The World'... and the songwriting, even if it is roaming mostly uncharted territory, is back towards prime potency.

'Gold And Green' is such a joyous rattlebag of a record, so untrammelled by convention and received wisdom that it tends to make Keiran Hebden's last effort sound a bit like mid 90s stoner trip hop.

It's a mastery of creating fantastic dirges, then manipulating them into slithering beasts backed by tight drums, precise guitar scratches, and Dunis' quavering vocals that rescues 'We're Animals'.

Z's leaden voice is what really makes The Like stand out.

This is a record that brattily demands total attention, and as such, will either be lauded as a bold journey, or derided as pretentious indulgence.

If there's a snag it's not that the album exactly dips - it's just there's a lack of variation of pace, meaning it can be difficult to consume in its entirety at just one sitting. But, with a little patience, it comes alive.

KW's album can only be thought of as even remotely good while we don't have a young, hungry KRS One, RZA, Rakim Allah, Gift of Gab or Ol Dirty Bastard to challenge him.

[An] irritating abomination.

The sad thing is, even at her most mainstream, Bjork's always been truly artful, but, in this case, she's merely painted a vulgar picture.

This is a rather stronger record than [Daft Punk's] on the whole, even if it likewise suffers from flaws in execution.

An assortment of evocative instrumental journeys that warm the cockles.

With clever lyrics, batshit crazy instrumentation, and several songs you'll soon be whistling on your way to juvey, Sons and Daughters should have you leering scarily from the school bus for a good long time.

It's highly unlikely that Buck 65 is ever going to become the cash cow that his paymasters probably thought he was going to be, but let's hope that he is invited to keep on presenting us with his skewed worldview; a beautiful painting seen in a shattered and blood stained mirror.

If there's a quibble, 'Honeycomb' does lack variation of pace. Though it doesn't matter when the tunes are as consistently as good as 'Sing for Joy'.

If you are the sort of person who thinks of cannabis in terms of how much you smoke a day rather than how much you smoke in a month or a year, then you are going to like this album very much indeed.

Sophomore set of the century, near enough.

You'd probably want Missy to wash her hands before she got anywhere near a real kitchen if this album is anything to go by. The perv.

[A] confusing but entertainingly eccentric package.

'Multiply' sees the flavours of Al Green, Curtis Mayfield, Prince and Sly Stone twisted into 2005 with subtly inventive touches and modern production suss.

So once you get behind the relatively unobstructive and emotive voice, what you have is the sound of NYC circa '77 pushed through the ramshackle indie filter.

A great release from a great new talent, Kano has the words and the beats to deliver.

It's a warm and welcoming experience all round, and very much the mark of a band that know exactly what they're doing even if they sound remarkably out of step with everyone else.

This bears the same relationship to pop music that wallpaper paste does to food.

'In Your Honour' is as rancid and moribund and as redundant of ideas as it is possible to be.

This album is sublime.

As with other really good bands in this genre (such as Franz Ferdinand and Interpol) it transcends being just a mere mash of influences.

There is no doubt [Martin] has talent, but there are just too many retreads, too many regurgitated ideas, and no fire, no raw anger, no big hairy bollocks.