Khan is a fantastic package and a good, if not as maverick as some believe, songwriter. In a year when no one wants to sing about making a cup of tea, she's just the ticket.

All the songs here are fully realised and often the equal of those on their parent album.

Here Malkmus dispenses with the electronic curiosities that blighted his 2005 solo album Face the Truth and adopts a more polished version of the old indie-rock of soaring guitar solos and oblique lyrics.

It adds up to a light-hearted, sometimes poignant elegy for the American working man and his music.

An album packed with tuneful songs that would sound great coming out of radio speakers.

A welcome return for this premier Leicestershire combo, who specialise is substance over style.

One of the most exciting things about White Denim is the way they balance unfettered extravagance with constructive constriction.

It's likely that their slabs of noise are too explosive. But for Team Biffy, their followers, this is a strength, not a failing.

Backed with the gusto of big horns, Young's guitar is once again a thing of wonder on this track, now slashing and burning, now playing transcendent dance riffs.

Though rather generic--grainy emoting; overwrought lyrics; crisp guitar-driven pop--at least Mould can claim that he virtually invented this stuff.

Masters at building tension upon tension then gently letting it go, their cyclical instrumentals are both sorrowful and consoling.

Euphoric, feelgood electro-pop of the indie rather than chart-topping persuasion, with the Massachusetts quartet's debut substituting lost-boy yearning for outright hedonism.

The result is a flawless (post)modernisation of heartland rock that wears its lovelorn pessimism proudly on its ruffled sleeve.

One of the most surprising and magical records for which Damon Albarn has ever been responsible.

Eschewing the Incredible String Band nostalgia of Espers et al for a more complex hybrid somewhere between the Kinks at their most relaxed and the Band at their most committed, Vetiver have made a record that's as summery as a field full of butterflies.

The angry funk of 'Down in Mississippi' proves too good to last, but only 'We Shall Not Be Moved' is (predictably) dull.

Chicago's veteran alt-rockers haven't sounded this much fun in ages, their seventh album balancing their easy-going and experimental sides.

Where fellow Aussie pasticheurs the Vines get more depressing the more they manage to sound like Nirvana, listening to Wolfmother's hilarious attempt to board the long-departed cock-rock bandwagon - singing 'She's a woman, you know what I mean!' as if they have never seen a woman, let alone touched one - is actually quite fun.

Hypnotic repetition, mysterious soundscapes and recurring lyrical codes render this debut utterly engrossing and totally essential.

Continues where 2007's sprightly comeback album "Beyond" left off.

There's an intriguing synthetic wheeze lurking in the upper reaches of Jackson's vocal range. Those who feared this effect might pall over a whole album will find solace in the unexpected emotional intensity of her lower register.

It's much darker, more contemplative territory; the songs are like intimate nocturnes located somewhere between classical and soul.

And yet, as is often the case with music crafted solely in the key of strife, the result is bizarrely life-enhancing, chiefly thanks to the head-spinning fashion in which Gnarls condense 40 years of rock'n'roll into one seamless psychedelic whole.

There isn't a duff or thoughtless moment.

There's the odd jarring note but Bare Bones remains a work of high class, deep feeling and, let's not forget, magical singing.

Easy Tiger is his most rounded creation.

After nine albums the Nashville oddball's parade of styles has dissolved into ambient noodling.

A wonderful record that is flawed - that'll be those flatulent synths again - but by design.

Ultimately, there is something refreshing about MGMT's lack of cynicism and the winning way in which they fuse hippy and punk ideals.

Slime & Reason, then, is yet another gutsy work from a deeply honest artist.

The banjos and root-tootin' bass might seem overly reverential but there's something comforting in her landscapes of small-town America.

If we are going to go, the magnificently mournful title track of this EP may as well be the soundtrack.

Something a bit crunchier that's been boiled up with producer Josh Homme in the Mojave Desert, but with the sweetener of Alex Turner's words.

Although it's as uncentred as 2004's "Uh Huh Her," this album broadcasts confidence rather than confusion.

The lyrics lack focus at times but this is a winning debut.

Forget hi-life vibes: this psychedelic trip takes you from Jo'Burg to Brooklyn and way, way beyond.

Lunatico won't alienate fans by having evolved too fast, nor disappoint by excessively rehashing old themes.

Although they are more focused on Ten Silver Drops, they also sound more reined-in and less idiosyncratic.

Consolers of the Lonely is heftier than its predecessor, both in its Led Zep-go-garage wig-outs and in its cosmic balladeering.

The Pet Shop Boys' best album in over a decade, sitting neatly between their previous career highpoints of Very and Behaviour.

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.

Merritt's lyrical dark wit chimes nicely with the books' macabre surrealism.

You can't help but wonder what the results might be if she turned her lyrical flair to some subject other than doing the nasty.

Praise indeed but then these hard-nosed softies are unique and this, make no mistake, is their "Definitely Maybe," the quintessential noise-pop set of the modern age.

While the listener is largely swamped in this sense of horror and disgust--which no doubt makes the point--Gallows are also concerned with some kind of catharsis.

His third stint as the Fireman, his partnership with producer Youth, finds the pair on inspired form, ready to take risks while knocking out a track a day.

A perfectly executed debut as might be expected from a band championed in OMM53 for their mathematical precision.

Ideology aside, this is a diverse album that retains her trademark dirty electro but on collaborations with Simian Mobile Disco still delights.

Eight years later, no longer so wide-eyed, the Norwegian duo sound more pedestrian, though 'Royksopp Forever' proves they haven't lost their sense of fun.

Whether live or unplugged, though, the effect is much the same: disbelief that one band can convey this much emotion when, for all the unearthly beauty of the music, the lyrics amount to little more than gibberish.

It's Chrissie Hynde reinvestigating her roots with some rockabilly and a Dylan vibe.

Tired of her peculiar singer-songwriter pop being a fringe taste, the Russian-born New Yorker's gone for the commercial jugular, polishing her strangeness with help from ELO's Jeff Lynne among others.

It's not a huge departure for the Southern songbirds but proves them to be magisterial practitioners of the dark blues-rock arts.

This faultless debut album will delight lovers of recent records by Nouvelle Vague and Roisin Murphy.

Standards given a sensual bossa makeover

Now comes the first album of new material for 35 years, and although never quite reaching the innocent glory of late 60s Mutantes, Haih or Amortecedor is still brimming with vitality and ideas.

Jayceon Taylor's eagerness to live down to a cartoon sketch of what a rapper should be is in danger of obscuring his very real talent.

Brotherhood seems to be one for completists only. But the bonus disc, Electronic Battle Weapons 1-10, takes this into must-have territory.

Crazy Itch Radio cements Basement Jaxx reputation as Britain's gold-standard dance duo.

More Stravinsky than the Saturdays, this is still way more fun than the latter.

This is the Lips' fifth album and their slickest yet. It hurtles along with impressive momentum, its 13 songs each under three minutes long

It really shouldn't hang together but somehow does, and effortlessly so, without ever seeming gimmicky.

There's hardly any doodling or misfiring to undermine the sheer vastness of Stadium Arcadium.

So here they are, doing again what they've done before: mostly slow and sombre songs, sometimes delivered with a wary hesitancy that can be endearing but is occasionally frustrating.

Magic is a record aimed squarely at radio, stadiums, open car windows and the solar plexus of guys who don't notice passing musical fashion. Magic sounds big. And it sounds great.

This is beautifully fragile music, not disposable but built to last.

Scars on Broadway offers up the tastiest smorgasbord of bite-sized pop-metal delicacies since the last time Cheap Trick recorded a Queens of the Stone Age tribute album.

And while this all may sound suspiciously over-indulgent, the fact is these self-styled 'soft-core' rockers are fulfilling their own prophesy.

It's often quite wonderful, occasionally pretty woeful, but endearingly frantic and chaotic.

This marvellously fluid third album seamlessly integrates big names Terry Hall and Martina Topley-Bird into Leilas close-knit cadre of vocal helpmeets

This song cycle concerning Margaret, her swain William and forest queens is as dazzling as it is beautiful.