A frustratingly self indulgent and inconsistent double album that pitches itself somewhere between the classic country rock of 2001's 'Gold' and the lovelorn despair of 2004's 'Love Is Hell'.

From track five onwards, they rarely put a foot wrong.

It doesn't strictly feel like a No Doubt album at all.

The album is closer to the thrash end of their style then the folk, and the music reflects the anger in the songs brilliantly.

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

More difficult when played initially, you will find yourself becoming immersed in it, a generous reward for your initial endeavours.

Whatever you're going to make of 'Heathen', you'll probably agree it's Bowie's most eclectic effort for some time - and a damn enjoyable, rockahula listening pleasure.

'Everything Is' is as frenzied as music gets, full of the energy that only comes with youthfulness, but also tinged with a world weariness that comes with being part of a hugely disaffected and cynical generation.

Alright, so there's no 'Destroy The Heart', the lyrics are uniformly unremarkable, and the odd track is even, dare we say, a touch ropey... 'Days Run Away' is still better than it's got any right to be, and a marginally heroic homecoming with it.

It may surprise you, but 'One Way Ticket To Hell... And Back' doesn't suck... at all.

A sprawling beast that's unexpectedly heavy on the instrumental front.

Listening casually is OK, as you can get by the annoying Pharrell and enjoy some of the silly retro groves. But pay any degree of actual attention and there are problems.

A rather predictable and mundane package.

So there are a couple of standout tracks, and the rest falls on its arse.

Worth the wait? Well, sort of. This is the sound of a band that has tired of its popular straitjacket ­ searching for something more real, more original, more cutting edge. But you can't forget what you've learned, can't retrace your steps or begin again afresh.

In fairness, if they'd released this in place of, say 'TNT' we'd probably have been all set to hail it as a truly delightful and conceivably seminal record. Instead, we find familiarity breeding just a touch of unexpected contempt.

It took U2 10 years to reach this level of blandness.

The Ponys are the band Black Rebel Motorcycle tried so desperately hard to be.

No great leaps of faith, no huge style shifts, just more of what we've come to love them for. But a bit more laid back and, erm, druggy? If that's at all possible.

An album that exudes both class and conviction, and it's a welcome breather from the avalanche of beautiful introspection that's come to characterise 2001.

OK, so it tails off towards the end, and there's something rather dishonest about a band so young releasing a track like '1969', but even then it's quite endearing to see them trying to build such an immediate mythology around themselves.

'Has Been' is just about as far as you could possibly get from your regular solo offering and as such arrives as one of the year's most strangely captivating albums.

This is Justin Timberlake squealing like Michael Jackson's pet monkey, a recipe for joy if ever there was one.

No less of a passion-scratched, damp-sheet-scrumple of an affair than its predecessors.

'Imperial' is an evolving and ever-involving shard of artistry by a true original on his 'Victorialand'-era form nonetheless, and that's got to be cause for celebration.

Supporters have argued that this is " a perfect comedown album". In the sense that you'll feel like you're coming down even if you haven't taken anything, yes.

Come and pay homage to the new Lounge Lizard King.

Sophomore set of the century, near enough.