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

Gentle Spirit is impressively inert.

Nonchalant no more, here they spike their sparse blues-print with humour and humanity, dub grooves and Southern gothic flavours.

“Inside the Idle Hour Club” is the comedown: woozy, wavy, lush, long. Not exactly cohesive then, but hey--it’s a trip.

An intimate, introspective album that takes tentative steps to reveal the soul behind the star.

Simultaneously the most and the least pop record of the autumn.

CocoRosie [is] squat, inventively, somewhere between Fever Ray and Joanna Newsom.

This one feels much more like a group searching for a sound together, even if the sound once belonged in a Venn diagram linking Led Zep, Deep Purple and Dio-era Sabbath. And it rocks most periodly.

Even though the album comes in at nearly 80 minutes, surprisingly it doesn’t feel too long. This is largely because it doesn’t get stuck in an Afrobeat rut.

Drake is revealed as a serious artist whose gossamer-light songs can sound painfully vulnerable, and there's more than a bit of black dog in the poems.

Just like Levi Stubbs, he can't help himself.

It's good, but you want to hear them live.

This darkly amusing, awkward yet oddly graceful return of the ostensibly dead, more than measures up.

Most of LTHS consists of thumping soul-pop reminiscent of JoBoxers or high-energy Hives-like garage rock, and even if it errs on the side of sameyness, it's rarely dull.

Tales of Us has a stately pace and woozy beauty, with cinematic orchestration of swaying strings over acoustic guitar or mossy cello.

And whaddayaknow, this ugly duckling – out of a hoodie and into a tux – turns out to have a fine white soul voice and has followed a record you couldn't bear to hear more than once with a record you'll want to play over and over.

Not a perfect debut, but one that leaves you with the feeling that we're dealing with a living, thinking artist here, not just another Brit School waxwork.

Liars revel in keeping their listeners on edge and entertained making Mess their most wickedly enjoyable album yet.

With guests such as Jack White and a surprisingly bearable Norah Jones, Rome makes a fine fist of recreating the elegance of prime 1960s Euro-pop. All good, no bad, and never ugly.

Rocky's rhymes are believable when reminiscing about growing up poor.

There are standouts aplenty and, as song rolls seamlessly into song.

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

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

It's a blast.

The music treads a gingerly path between the lighter textures of honky-tonk and a sort of indie lounge-pop. Charming.

Generation Indigo is a hugely enjoyable electro-pop album.

On record, this is a joyous burst of blissed-out world pop.

Neville almost levitates through doo-wop, soul and R&B standards.