Building on the shaky, disjointed, but strangely beautiful foundations that they first laid twelve months ago with the release of their debut, 'Some Loud Thunder' is a gloriously shambolic second album from a band that continues to sound like no one else.

A rather predictable and mundane package.

Where 'Parklife' was exuberant and almost knowingly callow, 'The Good, The Bad & The Queen' is weary, confused, almost mourning for what once was.

I usually find Shins albums grow on me slowly but surely yet after a good dozen plays I feel my faith isn't being repaid this time, and as a fan that's frustrating.

The effect of the new bleak mood lurking beneath the glimmering pop is to pare away the occasional over-cutesiness that has marred Of Montreal's work in the past and enhance the freaky psychedelic sublime of Barne's best moments.

The music on the album sounds muscular, more confident than before.

It's a more oblique successor to 1999's self-explanatory 'Tune In, Turn On, Free Tibet', and, paradoxically, their most focused effort yet.

Sonically, there's no radical steps forward here, but then standing still for Kristin Hersh is pretty much the equivalent of most people's sprinting: we could do with a few more of her.

Some of this record is excellent and after all this time they can still sound like four teenagers kicking up a racket in a rehearsal room.

This album oozes wackiness.

People who hate the venality and misogyny of modern mainstream rap will find this a particularly joyless experience, but this unwavering and energising disc at least has the courage of its convictions and makes the immediate competition look like the mealy mouthed twats they are.

It's terribly important that you don't give up on this record too easily. Given just a little bit of your precious time, the album will grow into something you never expected.

'Love' is trying to be all things to all people and suffers for its lack of ruthlessness and direction.

A colourful, incomparable colossus, a work of breathtaking, staggering genius and no mistake.

This isn't really a party record, more of a reflective, late night curled up on the couch with a loved one record.

She has issued a treasure. She has floored us again.

It's hard to truly love a band that are so chameleonic that they sacrifice signature definition for adventurousness.

'Milkwhite Sheets' will come to you offering kisses, but beware the knife behind its back

'Public Warning' is a good record. It's just unfortunate that (no doubt at the behest of the major label moneymen) Sov's Stateside commitments have led to it emerging here rather bloated, feebly, and late.

'Chops' isn't wholly disastrous, but it's all too often a reminder that, for roughly his first decade onstage, Childs was an infuriatingly insular and mildly indulgent performer, and it now appears that he was able to make such genuinely fantastic records in spite of that because of the healthy influence of his band-mates.

For the first time in what seems like a long time, here is an album that is going to be deservedly huge.

His new lyrical equation seems to be rip off someone else's words, add some street slang that would have been out of date five years ago, mention some brand names, say something offensive and then shoe horn it all together.

It's sexless twaddle pure and simple, delivered by an over-contented and conceited artist with nothing left to offer the world than refried lyrics and quasi-profound meaningless phrases.

There's little that sounds really new here.

A curious, klezmer-infested charm.

'Young Machetes' is both a magnificent and important album.

They entwine eastern canticles and fuzzy finger picking and electronic trickery like no other.

The Information is as creative, tuneful and interesting as you could wish from an established artist.