Accelerate isn't quite as irresistible as some people might have you believe, but you can't help feeling glad they stuck around to make it.

The follow-up to 2006's Voices of Animals and Men is a slick collection of darkly sketched Britpop that combines in-jokes and jagged pop riffs.

The Raconteurs establish a firm, emotionally charged identity of their own when White finally takes a back seat to Brendan Benson.

This is a vividly youthful album, packed with acid-sharp lyrics and neon-bold choruses, playful vocal harmonies and strikingly confident pop sounds.

The Londoner has constructed something lovable in Shine.

At 59 minutes, it feels long, but that's the price you pay for experiments such as 'The Season' and charming oddities such as 'God?,' a bit of laid-back Americana employing sleigh bells. It's easy to see why they were a bit of a sensation at SXSW.

From the sassy squeal of Here Comes the Serious Bit to the tension-cranking film noir of Round the Hairpin, Jackson's vocals are nuanced, and the band's punk past goes hand-in-hand with their pop future.

She is on fine vocal form throughout E=MC2, whether belting out massive ballads ('Thanx 4 Nothin') or layering her voice into a swooning bank of a hundred Mariahs ('I'll Be Lovin' U Long Time').

Pritchard hits new high notes and rises to the challenge of the vibrant melodies and finely tuned choruses. With guitarist Hugh Harris coming out of the shadows, the Kooks' ambitions look well within their reach.

The prevailing impression is that she has grown up and lightened up, the earnest, angsty moods replaced by an exuberant fusion of crunchy 1980s rock and noughties pop.

White purveys prickly electro-pop that is disarmingly infectious, if you can get past her yap of a voice.

The quartet are more impressive, and moving, when they try less hard.

You might wish there was more from Waits' 70s barfly period--what would Johansson have made of Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis?--but it's a measure of this album's surprising allure that you're left wanting more.

Stooges riffs and Mark Arm's dirty growl bring alive tales of lusty romance played with a timeless swagger and an infectious smirk, though the lyrics do little justice to the power of the songs.

If you're looking for evidence that Martha Wainwright has stepped from her family's shadow, you might note that it sounds like the one thing none of her relatives have had: a hit single.

Delayed and coloured by a near-fatal bout of double pneu-monia, it is his most moving record since 1997's "Ladies and Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space."

Such is the catchiness of this generally lovable record that it's easy to miss the bleak thrust of her lyrics.

The In Crowd is propelled mostly by a proliferation of 90s samples and retro arrangements - but he is inventive enough to breathe life into the nostalgia trip.

But everyone involved--Berman, his wife Cassie on bass, various Lambchop alumni--evidently delights in each song's peculiarities, and their pleasure can't help but suffuse the listener, too.

Their second track focuses on Oldham's other great theme, death, and ranks among the finest songs he has written in his 15-year career. The rest of the album is as you'd expect from his twisted majesty: expressions of human futility, belligerent solipsism and awestruck hymns to God, backed with country sounds redolent of moonlit nights, sawdust-strewn saloons and horses' hooves.

There's more captivating electro-funk where that came from: his debut album is stuffed with it, some immediate enough to match Black and Gold's success.

Some 50-odd musicians and several hundred songs down the line, the Fall's (we think) 27th album is one of their most adventurous and finest.

He breaks language down into building blocks for new metaphors, exploiting every possible semantic and phonetic loophole for humour and yanking pop culture references into startling new contexts.

Her emotion-rich songs have become tender affirmations, such as the hope-sprinkled 'Honor My Wishes.' And the needling guitar, soulful brass and gothic piano of her "punk rock R&B" are more evocative than ever.

It's one of this enigmatic artist's most satisfying albums in a long time.

An English-language debut, 'All Alright' proves as unintelligible as past forays into nonsensical Hopelandish, but 'Ara Batur,' featuring both the London Oratory Boys' Choir and the London Sinfonietta, is Sigur Rós' most satisfying epic yet--commercial, credible and glistening with glacial cool.

At times, the bloodlust in Craig Finn's growl gets too thirsty. But it's the album's closing lyric - "Man, we make our own movies" - that reveals the secret of this band's special powers.

22 Dreams is a triumph of the most unexpected kind.

Booka Shade's fixation with lighting up the brain's pleasure circuits is even more shameless than in the past, but from the transcendent riff of Control Me to the hand-claps and whirling synths that propel Charlotte, it is still irresistible.

It's pop for blaring out when the sun has its hat firmly on, and, at only 10 tracks, remains a blast throughout.

The dizzy, euphoric racket is occasionally brought earthward by lyrics that hint at darker troubles.

Almost everything here sounds like a hit waiting to happen, equipped with a tune strong enough to be heard above the hype--or the hype about the hype or the people complaining about the hype about the hype--and memorable enough to make the idea that Black Kids will be forgotten by Christmas seem a highly unlikely suggestion

Her words have the fire and focus of her greatest work as she struggles with the bitter truth that such a breathtaking talent could be so cruelly extinguished. Kevin Shields has recently been boosting demand for earplugs with his My Bloody Valentine live shows, but here he is perfectly restrained, supplying sounds and textures to a gripping, if demanding, two-hour listen.

Finn writes irresistible songs that hum with riotous melodic invention.

His latest project finds him shifting tack again, emerging with a confident blend of Detroit techno, 1980s electro, break-up ruminations and S&M fantasies.

Lyrically, Polite rarely strays far from a seducer's template, but the way in which he sells the cliche is compelling.

The LA sextet's debut album is packed with widescreen rock of very high quality – does it matter if every single element of it has been heard elsewhere?

Concept albums like this can be a mess, but this one justifies its title: it's both simple and grand.

Thompson has emerged from his parents shadows to deliver one of this year's best.

You Go I Go Too is a triumph of sound design, as impeccably crafted as a Starck chair--and as geared to comfort, too.

Moreover, as apocalyptic as his vision can be, the thrill as he pushes his sounds further outwards proves to be as seductive as it is forbidding.

Like all the best instrumental music, it's evocative stuff: the trio's multi-layered blend of vintage synths, skittering beats and crashing post-rock instrumentation keeps your mind's eye busy with images of futuristic cityscapes, gallant space troopers and, on the riotous title track, Jean Michel Jarre and Vangelis teaming up to battle Rage Against the Machine for sonic supremacy.

This is a beautiful, beautiful record.

Brave, individual and heartfelt, Intimacy offers treasure for fans old and new.

This album should continue the process, while providing a reminder that Dempsey's musical heroes are now also his admirers.

The album touches upon economic issues without dwelling on them, and it captures the spirit of the times with an unerring precision.

Lyrically, they veer between odes to suburbia, such as 'Photobooth,' and dreaming big dreams ("One day we'll live in Paris"); either way, they couldn't be more likable.

It's not a mere sampling of the contemporary piano scene, it's a real independent vision--Parks is a fast-rising star.

What makes this set successful is the choice of songs.

David Best again sensibly centres his whispered vocals upon texture rather than melody, with lyrics seemingly selected from a pool of pop-culture references by phonetic potential alone.

Head to the sinister No 7, which combines a zinging acid line with an ominous voice booming, "You are all my children now!" Nobody does it better.

The frustrated love Sheff puts into every Motown bassline, soaring brass section and uplifting chorus means the songs sound inspiring, not bleak.

This is the strongest material the band have written in 20 years.

There are definitely failings and shortcomings on display here, but they're substantially outweighed by moments when Glasvegas hit their target with a force that makes you believe they might well survive the more outrageous claims being made on their behalf.

His way with a melody is unstoppable, made all the more effective by his understated, no-frills approach to performing.

The lyric-free songs are awe-inspiring, yet accessible.

Each listen reveals more light and shade, reaffirming Skinner's position as one of Britain's truly interesting stars.

With the trusty Mick Fleetwood-John McVie rhythm section giving lots of sonic wallop, this is more than just a Mac album without the female vocalists: Buckingham seems to be rediscovering some sort of idealism.

Like strong coffee, it's not for everyone - this is an album that follows Rodgers and Hammerstein's 'What's the Use of Wond'rin' with a distressingly jaunty teen's-eye tale of abortion and Britpop--but it packs a mighty punch.

The album was Grammy-nominated, and deservedly so.

Holmes' decision to debut his own breathy, vulnerable vocals enhances the dusky intimacy: the bewitching sense of a previously elusive producer venturing something of himself.

Smarts to her, too, for making her pop sound so good that it never sounds like pastiche.

The lilting gospel chorus of 'Let the Spirit' and the doomy 'It's Me Oh Lord' find Manuva stewing in a cauldron of guilt and self-recrimination, the potent authority in his voice lending them gravity and beauty in equal measure.

This thrilling restlessness more than compensates for a lack of originality in the Portland, Oregon band's sound, which might leave fans of the Strokes and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, among many others, thinking that they're hearing nothing new.

Their determination to leave no musical stone unturned means Furr is substantially more fun than is normally expected from Dylan-loving Americans with an affection for facial hair.

Their last album was dominated by well-worn oldies and sounded too safe. But here they match their bluegrass and country roots with a fine set of their own songs.

Making use of relentless, repeated riffs, matched again chanting drum patterns and occasional guitar solos, their often lengthy songs are exhilarating, edgy and at times downright spooky.

You can go a fair distance without encountering a tune, which is less of a problem when there is something to look at. But even during the occasional longueurs, it's hard not to marvel at the ambition on display here, hard to think of anyone who would dare attempt something similar, and impossible to imagine someone else pulling it off with more aplomb.

The eighth treasure trove in Dylan's Bootleg Series of unreleased material and alternate takes further illustrates that there is no such thing as a definitive recording of a Dylan song, just a snapshot of the great man's prevailing mood.

Rochford, who leads magisterially as both drummer and prolific writer. He's a proper jazz composer, whose themes are spare, colourful and strong enough to frame and support extensive improvisation from his talented crew and guests.

Eleven-minute closer 'The Fire Is Waiting' is a sub-Mogwai damp squib, but this album reaffirms not just what Secret Machines believe in, but what they're best at--making accessible prog with shiny buttons.

'My Youth,' a desolate mediation on ageing, it's the best thing here, and there's not a hint of the dusty tracks about it.

A mish-mash, then, but one arranged with exquisite precision.

They've stripped back their epic indie in favour of ethereal rock, and the result is as complex and beautiful as you'd expect from Montreal's grand miserablists.

This album knows how to party; it rocks like a beast.

4:13 Dream is admirably taut and vibrant.

Fresh on the heels of his deliciously spooky Atlas Sound solo album, the bizarre and beguiling Bradford Cox outdid himself again on his Brooklyn-based band's third record.

Despite Jenkinson playing every instrument, including his customised six-string bass, it does sound like a group effort.

Devoid of the melodies that lurked beneath the feedback on their remarkable debut album Psychocandy, they give a flavour of what their chaotic, violent gigs must have sounded like, but if the Jesus and Mary Chain had only sounded like that, no one would have cared.

Cloaking its eclecticism with a homogenising sheen, the album's frequent changes of mood and direction dazzle.

This is a lesson in tender restraint you won't want to miss.

For every failure there is a song of such coruscating originality, it sends you reeling.

each of Convivial's nine tracks unfolds gradually--only one clocks in at under six minutes--not one moment is wasted.

This is no treasure trove, but it works well as a definitive overview.

Even if you are one of the eight million who bought their first album, Buena Vista's long-awaited follow-up is well worth checking out.

Culled from the 1,000 tapes he left behind on his death in 1992, this collection showcases an immense, eclectic talent.

This is Amadou and Mariam's album, and their Africa-pop crossover success continues.

A lot of it is slow tone-poetry, but Eick's rather mournful, puffs-of-air sound is pretty captivating.

It is the stylised, minimal music that lends the album its power, and which helps West convince as a man beset by demons and femmes fatales.

The tracklist ebbs and flows between tunes unknown to the audience, Buffalo Springfield material and songs from his teenage years (the tremulous lament for youth, Sugar Mountain), and strikes a consistently plaintive note. It's this banter with the audience, however, that leavens proceedings.

This year has bubbled and bleeped with the sound of bedroom electronica that harks back to the past, but the third album by Max Tundra--aka London producer Ben Jacobs--is the most joyful of all.

From the gently stomping reggae of Ophir Dub to the widescreen soundscape of Yeka Sub City Rockers, it's an exhilarating fusion.

His eighth LP is most compelling where these themes collide, such as on 'Punch Drunk Love,' where the salacious production meets its match in imaginative innuendos.

Human is a thoughtful, intimate work on which Norwood sings movingly about fragility and fear.

The unnervingly grown-up Alas I Cannot Swim is the result, and if it doesn't install her as the heir to the likes of Devendra Banhart, there's no hope for folk-pop.

This is a joyful, transcendent record somehow reminiscent of kids let loose in a musical sandpit. As winter rages around us, it ushers in the warmth and sets a high musical benchmark for others to match this year.

These are songs to learn and sing as loudly, messily and drunkenly as possible.

Ultraviolet certainly doesn't sound like the work of the salvation of female rap: if anything, it's at its least successful the closer it gets to straightforward hip-hop. What it sounds like is a great pop album, packed with indelible tunes and potential hit singles.