Bloodsports is effortlessly superior to its predecessor A New Morning, and averages out roughly on a level with Head Music (though more consistent in quality).

It may not be as mind blowing as FutureSex. But, frankly, what is?

Give it time and the intensity of the music--the Hagar of the title is Lloyd's great-great grandmother, who was sold into slavery--comes through.

The end result is a tense, powerful and emotive piece of work.

Memphis is a late-night delight.

[Tales from Terra Firm] ought to be the one that separates the Oxford quartet from the indie-folk bandwagon and kicks them a few steps up the ladder to being Mumfords-sized.

The occasional familiar, Carpenters-esque track aside, it makes for an exhilarating musical progression--even as his lyrical style remains unchanged.

It's on close personal terms with magnificence.

If Mala wasn't conceived as Devendra Banhart's Europhile album, it's doing a damn fine impression of one.

Effortlessly mixing traditional instrumentation with samples, this varied yet cohesive album has an angular funkiness and a soulful pop edge.

It is a lush thing that, were we writing for a certain type of women’s mag, might have us reaching for words such as "candles" and "bubble bath."

He sets his bruised but unbowed soul against a stark musical backing and rediscovers the power of keeping it simple. Beautiful.

Some might call it Kylie for hipsters, but it's quite lovely for that.

The result is an album of solid country virtue.

David Bowie's perpetual predicament is that he can't escape David Bowie's past. In that respect, he's just like the rest of us: we can't escape David Bowie's past either. The Next Day leaves you wondering why you'd ever want to.

It induces a heady sense of perpetual forward motion, whether graceful or full pelt. Stunning.

It's a bright, optimistic, emotive world, Heidi's, and well suited to the neutral "roots" pop sound which frames it.

Though some of the good-girl-gone-bad shtick has been sacrificed on the altar of go-for-it jangly pop, she's still as good as it gets when she finally opens her pipes on "Dallas".

As long as you don't ask too much of it, it's good knockabout rowdy fun.

He's not breaking any moulds--it's solid, guitar led, pop-rock--but then Marr is the man for that job.

Yorke's lyrics, consisting mainly of repeated aphorisms and clichés ("A penny for your thoughts", "I've made my bed, I'll lie in it"), don't suggest any great depth.... But the sounds, bringing in elements of tropicalia, Afro-funk and laptronica, with glitches, rainforest sounds and superb analogue-synth squelches (if anyone steals the show here, it's Godrich), mean you hardly notice.

They have now cracked out the synths, ramped up the drum machines, and found their calling in giddy, lovelorn electro-pop.

There are 36 performances, most of them evincing a spumey "aaaargh, Jim-lad" recreational vibe.

This is heartfelt, sweetly sincere and as good an album as BPB has made for some time.

Squelchy synths, down-and-dirty basslines, and vocodered vocals stay just the right side of Jamiroquai.

PTSA may never stare you in the face, but you'd be a fool to turn your back on it. It's carrying a knife.

It is absolutely beautiful.

Everything is great.