A record on which electronics and a grown-up wistfulness meet in a charming, comfortable manner.

Wall of Arms is the meticulously evolved sound of a band aiming to bid to breathe life into British indie.

Far from venturing further into the polyrhythmic interior, four long tracks find him drawing closer to techno's primal pulse, until celestial finale 'Wing Body Wing' squares the Afro/Detroit circle with a single dramatic power-chord.

Underproduced by Nick Cave producer Nick Launay, results are less the Smiths' heroic jangle than something from the muddier end of John Peel's Festive 50 circa 1987. Fans of "real indie" will be thrilled.

With a unique Backstreet Boys meets Bon Jovi production sheen, every track holds its own.

At times it feels like someone's watered down the acid Kool-Aid, but with shining technicolour romps such as 'Bullets,' the sun is an optional extra this summer.

Despite high points --the powerful 'Longest Days'; the romping 'My Sweet Love'; the brooding 'John Cockers'--most of these 14 songs struggle to leave a lasting impression.

It might seem harsh but let's hope he doesn't find too much happiness in the meantime. Loneliness is proving quite the muse.

The Florida band's music is pleasingly random, too. One minute they're new romantics or dour indie kids, then, before youve had a chance to draw breath, they're apeing the Ronettes.

He and producer Rick Rubin deliver a well-judged acoustic set whose songs mix war weariness with hope and loss.

Grasslands, wind in your hair, long, dusty roads travelled - it's all evoked in Joan's fine 24th studio album, and her voice, high and flowing, low and gravelly, flows timelessly through it like a mountain stream.

It unquestionably adds up to a pop record sharp enough to be the bratty but irresistible younger brother of Lily Allen's "It's Not Me, It's You."

Entertaining and rabble-rousing, daft and deadly serious, it's a fantastic record, with almost limitless appeal.

It would be disappointing if this turned out to be the best debut album of 2007 - there's nothing particularly original here - but Hats Off to the Buskers is nonetheless a record that re-energises melodic guitar music in the most irresistible fashion, recalling the euphoric punch of Oasis' Definitely Maybe or the Strokes' Is This It as it does so.

It's the record's wholesome tracks, such as 'Young Love', a duet with folk darling Laura Marling, that prove Mystery Jets thrive in the gap between naivety and cynicism.

It's the kind of rollicking, party-rockin' fandango which, genuinely, nobody has the spirit or wit to put together these days.

Such is the balm-like propensity of her singing that the listener experiences it as a physical sensation as much as a sound. Yet as these 13 brief but perfectly formed songs rush by in 35 hectic, blissful minutes, the overall effect is galvanising rather than palliative.

Homme's ever-catchy formula remains, but the mood is uneasy and brooding, with tracks such as 'Sick, Sick, Sick' revealing a venomous new band that's finally learned to separate business and pleasure.

Despite the speed at which it came together, the album sounds as polished. But sometimes you wish he would reach beyond his grab-bag of influences and push out something with shocks-a-mighty.

There is a new-found ferocity at play.

This album is a mature and thoughtful collection of songs and a fine memorial to her father, who would have been right to be proud.

A trippy marvel.

Beware is one of the more playful entries in the Bonnie "Prince" Billy canon. It's also one of his fullest sounding records.

Some (Hawkwind's 'Hurry on Sundown') work by highlighting a different, tougher side of Vetiver. But too many others, including a version of Loudon Wainwright's 'Swimming Song', drift pleasantly by without the tension that characterises the best of Vetiver's own work.

This is a record that's more intriguing than entertaining. Cocker's warmth and wit are in short supply, as is the sweeter side of his melodic gifts.

So many of these 11 songs are variations on the title track's closing line ('Look at that old photograph, is that really you?') that this sentimental journey becomes one of just a few too many miles.

There's more fear and loathing on Ben Drew's first album than in a year's worth of Daily Mail headlines.

'Cult Status'--just one standout from their joyous debut--sounds like Primal Scream when they were trying to be the Rolling Stones. Even better is 'You Made Me Like It,' their hand-clapping, hip-swivelling calling card.