Throughout, Fool's Gold lollop along confidently, Top's husky croon offset by Lewis Pesacov's guitar lines, like dewy spider's web.

They've retained the late-80s-Mancunian-indie-plus-surf-pop formula, and though that produced some sparkling tunes first time round, now things sound somewhat thin: each lovelorn and drear ditty seems to blend into the next.

The humour is often savage--a sprightly accordion heralds a story of damaged troops--but Cooder's aim is true. He's become a Woody Guthrie for our times.

Their second album once again combines the muscularity of 80s post-hardcore types Hüsker Dü and Dinosaur Jr with the dynamics of breezily sunny three-minute pop songs, this time to even better effect.

Sometimes they sound like an anaemic Coldplay; at others they're a sweatier version of the Shins.

It's the band's refusal to sound older, or wiser, that's integral to their charm.

Their fifth album sidesteps the rolling, electric style that's made them world-conquerors for a return to acoustic campfire camaraderie.

Guetta's trademark union of stadium trance and American R&B is represented in a glittering array of bling-encrusted collaborations (Snoop Dogg, Akon, Chris Brown) but they struggle to impose any distinctive personality on the overall mood of relentless rictus-grin-inducing euphoria.

The album has a tentative quality which is sometimes beguiling – the gently grooving "Lights Out, Words Gone", effete and insistent all at once, is a delight – but often they sound in need of more conviction.

Press-release comparisons to Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin are misplaced-Lenny Kravitz, maybe--but this is still a good album.

Gone are the meandering, proggy excesses of 2008's Real Emotional Trash, and in their place are sharper, melody-driven tracks that foreground Malkmus's distinctive oblique wit.

Fans of long standing might actually find The Rip Tide a bit too restrained now that Beirut sound more assured and less like a tipsy string quartet stumbling around an accordion factory, egged on by a hopeless romantic in his lowest register.

La Liberacion is better in its quieter moments.

The title may be misleading: if there are hearts on this stirring debut they're the blood-racing, pulse-quickening kind rather than any idly-doodled kitsch.

It's likely to appeal more to dedicated Martyn fans than newcomers but a fine tribute nonetheless.

It's better than West's last, impressive album, My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. With fantastically varied production, Watch the Throne marches hungrily forward, belying its genesis in a series of swanky hotel rooms.

Toddla proves himself better at preposterously high-energy dancehall tracks ("Badman Flu") than forays into early-90s piano-led vocal house ("Take It Back"). Good fun in small measures.

On paper, its influences--surf punk, Prince, oriental pop, minimalist dance--smack of hipster posturing, but on record, they blend beautifully.

Gentle Spirit is one of those group effort records where musicians' edges smudge and no one showboats – except, perhaps, Wilson, who occasionally reels off the kind of distant, contemplative guitar solos so lacking in aggression that they sound like they were recorded the next canyon over.

Souther sings in a mid-70s croon, tuneful but grain-free and, for a man inspired by Roy Orbison, oddly unemotional.

Forty-four years as a recording artist have not diminished Parton's sass.

You could argue retro soul and R&B are two of the decade's hegemonic sounds, but there's no vamping here. Rather, songs such as "Go On Easy" glide by in an opiated glaze, while "Strange Attracter" makes unexpectedly groovy use of the bagpipes.

Only the syrupy "I Was Here" disappoints, its corny bluster at odds with the laid-back feel of her most accomplished album yet.

They may have plenty of heart but their heads are lost in the clouds.

Ultimately, Famous First Words sets the cause of resurgent guitar rock back… ooh, a good 20 years.