'They Were Wrong, So We Drowned' is a remarkably assured second album, and considerably more audacious than its predecessor, but it's a far from flawless affair.

Nothing earth shattering, but enjoyable nonetheless.

It's a pleasant listen, with twice the beauty of its predecessor 'All This Sounds Gas', but while the songs are easy to appreciate, they are difficult to love.

While there is a fair fetter of kook in here – it’s hard to sing histrionically and American and have a wirbly organ thing without sounding a little trite - this desire to geek out is mixed with a warm and thoughtful structural progression that, while never breaking the gasp-o-meter, makes for a pleasing enough debut.

Admittedly, there's not exactly the strictest of divides between the two, although 'Aw C'mon' is arguably the more upbeat of the pair.

In truth, there's no good reason to only confine yourself to just one of these albums when both have charms to spare.

It feels like one of the most uncompromising and oddly impactful offerings they've produced in many years.

For someone so traditionally dancefloor-driven, there are none too many grooves here, and, even for an artist whose most famous lyric may be "la la la", there's not exactly a lot to go on in terms of substance.

‘America’s Sweetheart’ throbs, chugs, thunders, blasts, romps, rants and rocks.

They've got better stuff in them, we believe, but, meanwhile, 'The Power Out''s strictly a forty watt affair.

Lyrically, things are mainly annoying, although there are a few bits of amusing storytelling, and some interesting couplets.

Quite simply, 'Bows + Arrows' is a Great American Record, taking the qualities most admired in the last 35 years of US rock and barbecuing them together.

While the record lacks any of [Queens of the Stone Age's] belligerent twisted rock weirdness they have definitely pumped up the Good Charlotte-style teen anthem choruses.

They’re perhaps a tad unoriginal - a hint of Felix here, a spot of 'Positive Education' there, a sniff of classic Sabres Of Paradise and some 'Stakker Humanoid' round the corner ­ but hey, what’s wrong with nostalgia? Especially when it gets your hands in the air like you just don’t care.

'Apropa't' sounds as organic as a dump and as lush as a drizzly sunset.

You can smell the impotent melodic desperation a mile off.

[Delirium] is hardly the kind of record that will be everyone’s bag, but there is so much variety and so much imagination packed into it that we find ourselves recommending it despite ourselves.

One of those classy records that will sound good forever, no matter what you do with it.

'Silence Is Easy' is non-challenging "pretty pretty" music for early-ageing types who might recoil at anything without an acoustic guitar and tomtoms.

‘Margarine Eclipse’ manages to be generous in length without ever finding itself repetitive, doodles are never allowed to become noodles, understated charm is maintained throughout.

They actually sound like they've elected to live in a cocoon full of aromatic candles, a huge collection of musty records, some drugs, some books, and a collection of mid eighties Peel sessions alphabetically labelled on TDK C90s.

Not much here is too likely to blow up on the airwaves... it's too dirty, too ugly, too hard, and too Real.

Resembles nothing more than a U.S. major label executive’s idea of what dance music should sound like.

After the patchy pleasures of 'Wanderland', 'Tasty' is a huge Roman orgy of an album.

See, there're a good few cracking singles on here, but there are also occasions when her wistful classicism leads her down blind alleys.

This has little future funk, but lots of Swizz beats-styled Casio Rap and contemporary chart dancehall. Which is lame.

[A] weird, angry, frustrating album.

Someone should put Blink 182 out of their misery.

Seriously poor, lowest common denominator bullshit.

'Try This' is quite the album - most things to all people, touched by audacious greatness, and as fine an advert for imperfectionism as we could've demanded.

There is, undoubtedly, something impressive in the craft and detail of Plaid’s labours, but the whole lacks an intangible something to lodge their 'Spokes' securely in our hearts.

There are tunes galore, and ideas that some groups would do someone in for, it’s just a shame he decided to do an approximation of all his favourite bands, and didn’t try something a bit more progressive than 'Rock‘n’Roll'.

'Skull Ring' is Iggy's strongest and most consistent album since 1993's 'American Caesar'.

Most of all, though, what we find ourselves thinking of when enjoying 'The Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place' - and, rest assured, readers, it's an enjoyable experience right the way through - is the magical spangliness that elevated the Cocteau Twins from absolutely all of their more ghettoised contemporaries way back when.

The choice, folks, is all yours. Would you like The Thrills? Or would you prefer some excitement instead?

There's little of the pop sparkle that shone through the likes of 'The Modern Age' and 'Last Nite' even when - as with 'You Talk Way Too Much' - they're rewriting old material, and Julian's vocals are, to be blunt, awful, sounding uncomfortable to record and rather complacently nasal.

It's an unrelenting trip, and while Hawtin's much trumpeted spoken-word vocalisations veer perilously close to self-parody at times, 'Closer' is a stunning re-affirmation of an uncompromising musical vision.

As far as style and technique go, it's more of the same; quite literally MORE. 'Kish-Kash'? Mish-mash: Basement Jaxx make dancefloor monsters, Frankenstein's monster stylee.

Twilight listening of this ilk can teeter dangerously on the ledge of snoozedom, but anyone who can manage to drop off during this album's many unnerving and often hyperactive moments is going to have some damn weird dreams.

'Cedars' is a record of huge maturity - witty, often quite sad, occasionally perverse, but hugely charming nonetheless.

'Streetcore' shows he was still producing vital music to the end.

It’s improbably refreshing to hear musicians that were clearly weaned on Frank Zappa, Supertramp and ELO messing things up and having a laugh.

The Rapture may not quite be wholly heavenly, but they've made an album that's entirely admirable and often lovable.

Recalls the overwhelming splendour of the Go-Betweens at their finest.

This is heavy pop at its very best.

It's a bloody nice record, which may be damning them with faint praise but it's an area they've stalked out for themselves immensely likably.

Where they used to be more wild and interesting they seem to have mellowed with age.

A sprawling beast that's unexpectedly heavy on the instrumental front.

This is a record stuffed with fun and joy and magic for all the family.

This is a dog of an album, by anyone's standards, but if you play it next to 'If You're Feeling Sinister', which we did, then it is the sort of dog that shits all over the kitchen and has constant mange.

For Wu-Headz, this is the piece of the RZA puzzle we've been waiting a decade for. It's that important.

It must take a fair amount of skill and a peculiar single-mindedness to create something this consistently bland and tiresome.

A beguiling marriage of the electronic and the organic that, while perhaps short on tunes per se, bristles with engagement.

There's an abundance of softly slashing guitar, an air of sophistication writ indelibly large by its orchestration (with the string-laden weepie 'Epitaph' as probably the outstanding example), and, wrapped in Arnar's strong tones, there's more moodyness than you can shake a particularly angsty stick at.

A shining example of just how broad and brilliant electronic music can still be in the right hands.

'Fatherfucker' is one motherfucker of an album.

This is so so crap.

Obie is, underneath all Eminem's bullshit, a nice emcee, old school, so when Em gives him a beat with some soul, he comes through.

No one musical entity, or group in the world comes close to the sum of their parts.

Up there with the best debut albums of this, or any decade.

Now we see. It is all clear. DMX believes what they say in Def Jam board meetings. He actually believes that what Mr Budden and Just Blaze did earlier this year is what one should do in hip-hop right now - meaning, shout popular thug slogans over irritatingly OTT beats for an hour or so.

It is that love, devotion, and unfaltering belief that makes 'Permission To Land' such an essential listen, and such a joy to behold. It is the sound of triumph.

So, his best album since 'Scary Monsters' (ARRRRGGGHHHH!!!).

Basically, it's the album they'd always promised us they'd make; consider 'The Decline...' British Sea Power's entrance pass to the ranks of the truly mighty.

If 2002's 'High Society' found them honing their nascent pop sense then this effort finds the New York trio sounding almost too cool for their own good.

More difficult when played initially, you will find yourself becoming immersed in it, a generous reward for your initial endeavours.

An epic alt.rock symphony that takes the band’s trademark sun-kissed melodies and brass flourishes and melds them into something altogether darker and achingly beautiful. Unsurprisingly, it’s an approach that more than pays off.

His best album in over ten years.

So yeah, he's moved on a little but no, he hasn't gone soft on our perilously-leaping arses, and his personal holy trinity still seems to be the deeply unfashionable but unironically ace Van Halen, Meat Loaf and Billy Idol.

Whereas their debut album 'Good Health' saw the unlikely and frankly scary collision of Fuzazi and Rocket From The Crypt, 'The New Romance' leans resolutely on the emo-punk side.

Unfortunately a lot of the record falls a wee bit flat.

On a first listen it sounds very long. On a second listen it sounds just like the eponymous debut, with the odd anthem missing. On a third listen we have to concede there are some fine moments.

It’s like this: ‘Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers’ sounds like every record ever made, somewhere along the line.

Even for a band that crowbar "love" into as many titles as they can, you've got to admire their sauce, and, impressively, they're cramming really difficult music into affable scuzz-pop coatings.

Rancid are currently the best and most consistent and most observant rock n roll writers on the planet.

A staggering, synth-smeared beauty of a record.

There are, admittedly, times when it looks like they're just showing off.

No, it's probably not going to remap the musical landscape this time, and, arguably, it doesn't sound as ahead of its time as, say, 'Computerworld' did. BUT! 'Tour de France Soundtracks' also sounds joyously, shamelessly like no-one else at all.

'Earthquake Glue' once again posits Pollard as purveyor of stupidly breezy tunes.

It’s just a shame that after seven plays, it’s still a bit tricky to remember what any of the tunes go like.

A soothing, gentle rock'n'roll opus.

Not, perhaps, the hugest of leaps from 'The Noise Made By People', granted, but that album, fine though it was, was very much parking on specific continental territory; 'Ha Ha Sound', by contrast, feels like it wants to explore somewhere more bearingless.

Gleeful, glorious, and utterly unique.

Fiercely intelligent, heavy as fuck, powerful and utterly concise, it's a perfect reminder of the potency of great guitar music and a kick up the jacksy of rock bands everywhere. Yup, it's that damn good.

It really is like they've never been away; their glee and enthusiasm can be heard coursing through every bar.

Bugger if the Furries haven't gone and exceeded their own expectations with this, a total stonker of a new record that cannot fail to excite and delight on, oh, so many levels.

After listening to the whole of this album we'd have to admit that Pole remains as much of a mystery as ever. Only now we're not sure we're still interested in finding out much more...

There are moments of brilliance here, sure... but there are a few too many weak skits and a few too many weak tracks here to make this anything other than a mildly cool summer thang, and summer is, like totally over now.

When 'A Drug Problem That Never Existed' is at its best, briefest and most brutish, it's a cracking piece of work indeed; daft, dirty and, in many ways, devilish.

There are moments of prog rock, jazz fusion and freakydelia in this rush of ideas and if that sounds awful then don't be put off. Instead of the shambolic mess that this kinda influence normally entails Mars Volta have come strictly disciplined.

Hugely disappointing.

So there are a couple of standout tracks, and the rest falls on its arse.

So, while this might not be Tricky at his total best, it may well be the best you're likely going to get out of him.

This is Mogwai distilled to their essence, and the result is an album of huge power, emotional depth and feeling, with vocals submerged under a claustrophobic blanket of effects and guitars battling with viola, cello, violin and piano. It's just as Eno as it is S***t, and all the greater for that.

A collage of pristine party-hop that will both make the kids bounce and the purists smile.

They're simply repainting comfortable territories with even subtler strokes than ever.

While there’s no denying that Metallica have produced a huge – and welcome – blast from the past, it also represents a monolithic slab of noise that stretched over 11 songs and 75 minutes is just too dense and daunting to be truly enjoyable.

The vast bulk of this album is the sort of stuff you'd expect from an averagely talented bunch of first year music students. Who smoke way, way, way too much dope.