Very musical, it is, if ever so slightly coffee table.

Pretty lovable.

Occasionally the listener is carried away on the soulful cusp of Gonjasufi's scraggly voice, but more often than not they are simply overwhelmed.

Their unadorned, effects-free music remains simple and straightforward, like a rock equivalent of the Dogme school of cinema.

Only the more straightforwardly poppy numbers disappoint, with power-ballad manqué “Crescendo” a particular anomaly.

An unprecedented futuristic hybrid of dubstep, speedcore and math-rock, with lyrics which charge towards unexplored lexicographical horizons.

The second Yelle album is essential for anyone who appreciates dancefloor-friendly European synth pop.

This often sounds more like a BBC4 documentary than a pop record. And that's no bad thing.

Carry Me Back ticks all the boxes: jaunty, soulful, nostalgic without being cloying.

It's nevertheless a hugely enjoyable ride, Clarke and Gore's duelling synths creating an entirely instrumental soundtrack to the sci-fi movie playing inside your own head.

There are no standout songs but that's kind of the point: GTTW washes over you like a cooling stream on a hot day.

You know exactly what to expect: high-energy, hugely entertaining garage rock. And, with the odd exception, that's what they deliver.

For the most part this is a glorious hymn to the art of playing together, of which Lennon would surely approve.

It's the drift, eddy and thrust of the whole ensemble that tells the main story.

There are collaborations with Bobby Womack, Sheila E and George Clinton. All driven by the heavy funk bass of Collins. Which is never a bad thing.

Back to Forever moves things into the 1980s--all fist-pumping verses and “Kids-in-America”-like big choruses.

The main signifier is Peyroux's sound, now as downhome as a chicken shack and artfully haunted as a Cassandra Wilson session. Tasteful.

For the most part it works well, provided you can live with Dawn's butter-wouldn't-melt ingenue phrasing and tone.

If H&LA's 2008 debut was an ideal accompaniment to the clubland chaos, then Blue Songs is the gentlest of comedowns.

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

Tracks such as "Boiling Water" wouldn't sound out of place in a naff holiday resort. There are notable exceptions, though, such as "Fire" feat Ms Dynamite.

A genuinely empathetic production, then, which does not pull up many trees.

As always, Ladytron make the world feel a more haunted, evocative, romantic place. Faultless.

What's revealed is what's often been outshone by the originals: the sheer quality of the songwriting and vocals.

Ice on the Dune is a seamless suite of elegiac synthpop, with fairydust-flecked melodies, a perpetually peaking bass end, chord changes that reach into your heart, and fantasising falsetto vocals.

Their command of "neeeooow" noises suggests a schooling in retro rave, and their cover of the Jets' "Crush" turns the sugary original into something superbly sinister and stalker-ish.

Touching and strangely beautiful.

It sees Golightly staking her claim once again as the Brenda Lee of the Medway scene.

The upbeat tracks are as catchy as conjunctivitis.

Pervaded by children's laughter, this is a lovely departure from the Mambazo norm, as befits the quest it reflects.

The effect is softly inclusive without being entirely bland, and even if Holland's poetry doesn't ring your bell as poetry, then it certain works in this context as sound-art.

Holland sings songs of discombobulation and wonder, and all is mannered but also naturalistic.

WTR is a classy bit of radio-friendly Mercury-bait which highlights Dangerfield's development as a songwriter.

Comedown Machine is, essentially, The Strokes' 1980s album.

Though there's no smash hit leaping out, with its consistent unity of atmosphere, The Fall is the most cohesive Gorillaz album yet.

Filled with beguiling close-harmony tunes which wouldn't feel out of place on the Wicker Man soundtrack and sound like venerable trad-arrs but are actually originals.

A mature, reflective, intelligent, Americana-inflected [album].

Loud guitars are everywhere, bucked by riffing horns, and the general vibe is testosteronal and sleeveless. He is a rippingly good player.

It doesn't always hit the spot, but at least he's firing at more interesting targets than the usual renta-rapper.

With new recruit Earl Slick on guitar they've made a third reunion album filled with ramshackle glam and girl-group trash, reverberating with street-corner romanticism and hard-won wisdom.

If Elysium has a weakness, it is the absolute absence of thumping disco-pop monsters. Once you accept that, and surrender to the tranquil beauty of Chris Lowe's synth textures, you quickly realise that Neil Tennant is on top lyrical form.

Even looking backwards, Springsteen finds ways to light the road ahead.

It's a jukebox-jumpin' take on straight-up Dolly with a smile behind its eyes and a rockabillyish skip in its step.

With a little luck, and the careful choice of singles, there might be life in this party yet.

Desperately, painfully arty but worthy of your recollection.

Darwin Deez, a New York-based artist for whom the word "offbeat" seems to have been invented. Not that there are any in his music--all straight 4/4 and po-mo lyrics--but there are plenty of tunes, not a little charm and a fair old sense of humour.

Hot Cakes is a rock-solid home win from the band who still do feelgood hard rock better than anyone alive.

There’s nothing here to quite match his finest moments, but nothing stinks and that, I suppose, is the best you can expect.

The result wears the weight of its history lightly, with the exception of "The Departed", a solemn tribute to lost Stooges.

There’s less barn-floor stomp than on previous albums, but Country Mile is still rousing, with trumpet, fiddle and much--occasionally dicey--harmonising.

An unexpectedly enjoyable late addition to a formidable body of work.

In the main, she remains stylistically faithful to the originals.

It shows a musical maturity way beyond its creator's years.

As an exercise in expanded range, Shangri La is too diverse and distinct to dismiss.

This covers album maybe a joyous blast of buzzsaw pop, but you just know that the live shows will be even better.

It's sprawling, overdue and not for everyone, but at least it's not a play-it-safe comeback with the hot producer of the day.

Oasis minus the organ-grinder needn't be an entirely horrific prospect.

Singer-songwriter Emma-Lee Moss and Ash frontman Tim Wheeler, a couple in real life, join musical forces and attempt, valiantly and with not inconsiderable success, to breathe new life into that stalest of stale old genres: the Christmas song.

Throughout the exquisitely mournful Violet Cries, Rachel Davies issues Cassandra-like predictions of woe and mayhem, while Thomas Fisher's filigree guitars shimmer like sunset on a lake.

Winehouse's progression from fresh-faced ingénue to agonised diva is operatic stuff.

Black Rainbows isn't all-out kick-ass noise but, by turns, spindly and fuzzy, smooth and angular.

White Lies have just enough elegance and intrigue beneath the bluster to carry it off.

Blacc proves he’s more than capable of stepping into the spotlight for his first major-label album which features 60s soul, folk, retro pop, R’n’B and even country.

Two tracks truly warm the cockles. And if the rest is merely pleasant, hey, season of goodwill and all that.

They've enlisted non-dance musos such as Robert Fripp, Barry Adamson, Nick Zinner and Josh Homme, as well as relative young 'uns Cat's Eyes and Factory Floor, with often delicious results

With its unrelenting positivity, Yes, It's True sounds like the Flaming Lips fronted by Deepak Chopra, and valiantly courts the daytime radio play that will inevitably elude it.

Consists entirely of tasteful campfire-folk covers of seasonal classics.

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

He wisely sticks to the spoken word for much of the album, whether delivering the sinister inner monologue of a stalker or a robot-voiced attempt to advocate Transcendental Mediation.

A delicious hybrid of Portishead and Nancy Sinatra.

Ersatz GB is a fine addition to an excellent recent salvo.

Glowing Mouth is so subtly soaring it could restore words such as "atmospheric" and "portentious" to the rock lexicon.

Songwriter/producer Sergio Pizzorno opted for a more slimmed-down sound, stripping away layers of sound to allow the ideas to speak more clearly.... It’s a brave but largely successful move, as is the shift from mainly guitar-riff-based songs to ones predominantly fuelled by synthesisers.

The majority of A (clever title, in the context of Faltskog's history) consists of dignified, age appropriate ballads.

Brilliant, frustrating, thrilling and irritating. In other words, exactly what we’ve come to expect from an Edward Sharpe album.

In spirit, their third album takes them back to their origins as an independent group from Glasgow making defiantly direct music in an age of detachment.

This is another acting job, in a sense, and Laurie's faux-Southern drawl grates a little, but he's assembled a band of N'awlins old hands to add authenticity.

They're reunited with vocalist N'Dea Davenport but don't really need her, their dressing-up-to-go-out groove being the thing.

Her talent and pain are equally raw and equally audible.

This is an artist with taste and opinions of her own, not just a schedule and a fanbase to satisfy.

There is nothing not to love about it.

The eighth Marilyn Manson album features some of his finest lyrics yet and, musically, it often approaches the heyday of Holy Wood and Mechanical Animals.

It's on close personal terms with magnificence.

This has more bounce and sees Lovefoxxx & co close to their best.

What matters is that the I Monster team have cooked up a production that matches our expectations of a League LP.

The result is not, however, a revolution in his sound but a refinement.

The constant here is Arthur’s voice: genuinely soulful and able to switch from MC to Marvin at the flick of a falsetto.

They unapologetically rip into this album with a pulsating and mangled electro-pop opener called "D-Day", and rarely, if ever, lapse into giving people a poor photocopy of Parallel Lines.

This is an instantly engaging showcase of the 23-year-old Aussie’s talents--poppy without diluting her fierce-flowing charisma.

From dancefloor tracks such as "Shake It" to a lover's rock vibe on "Only Thing Missing Was You", Franti has made an eclectic, conscious album

It's deeply engrossing and rings resoundingly with cultural and historical truth.

"Yes You Do", a 1950s rock'n'roll love song updated for the synth age, is the standout track, but "Bassline" is the most typical.