Everything sounds more accomplished, more intentional than previous efforts. Most important of all, though, 'Drukqs' is an unpredictable (yet compelling) listen.

Probably the best post-punk album you'll buy all year.

Listen to this record and you realise that by comparison, Robbie Williams does actually have some soul. And if that's not a damning indictment of one of the most execrable records you're likely to hear this decade, I don't know what is.

'For Screening Purposes Only' reeks with the all-pervading whiff of vapid irony.

The overall vibe is laid-back and the production slick, with dark moments, fun bits and some cool guests. But it lacks the punch that would make it a classic, and it's all too easy to forget that it's even playing.

Alas, 'The Cost' is closer to the Noughties ipoddery of 'sensitive' folksters like Damien Rice or James Blunt than a Fleetwood Mac or a James Taylor.

There's an 80s Anglophilic feel throughout, and like the era they're paying homage to it's all very hit and miss.

An astonishingly cheeky affair, and arguably less stylistically cohesive than any Orbital album since their underrated debut

We’re filled with consternation when we first give it a whirl.... Thankfully from [track 4] on in, it gets a damn sight better.

'A Weekend In The City'... fails because it tells us nothing new.

What we're offered here is pretty much a second take on the discordant beeps, Mani-ripped basslines and lazy hip hop breaks of their first album, with the addition of some hideously nipped and tucked string samples padding out their attempted lyrical bravado.

[Delirium] is hardly the kind of record that will be everyone’s bag, but there is so much variety and so much imagination packed into it that we find ourselves recommending it despite ourselves.

It's an album that's unlikely to yield any massive hits, but like that other iconic singer songwriter, Joni Mitchell, Tori Amos has survived initial success to end up in a place where she has the space to do exactly what she likes in pretty much the only way she seems to know how.

This album is fucking brilliant – it made me want to cut my hair, paint the ceiling, fuck the postman and burn the disco down. So I did. Then I curled up in a corner, cried, and shat myself.

It might be easy to criticise 'Those The Brokes' as a stab at busting through into the MOR mainstream, but it's fairer to see it as The Magic Numbers developing their expression while staying faithful to their core sound, and quiet charm.

While there is a fair fetter of kook in here – it’s hard to sing histrionically and American and have a wirbly organ thing without sounding a little trite - this desire to geek out is mixed with a warm and thoughtful structural progression that, while never breaking the gasp-o-meter, makes for a pleasing enough debut.

This album contains unprecedented levels of female vocal annoyance.

With the ability of the participants, surely there could have been more interesting material to explore, and sadly 'The Brave And The Bold' ends up being anything but.

It is a lot of fun, brilliantly produced and is the perfect winter soundtrack to plans for a summer road-trip.

This hack-job (bish-bash-boshed out by uberproducer Stephen Street) takes all the bland, tawdry, white-bread bits from the past two Suede albums, butters them up with a smear of Bon Jovi balladeering, chews them into gloop with nicotine-stained, plastic dentures and... well, ends up flushing a once-great career straight down the in-at-number-16-out-the-next-week toilet.

Now there was nothing wrong with Stone Temple Pilots, but anyone who’d hoped for Guns‘n’Roses mark II (or III) will be very seriously disappointed. Weiland’s dry, powerful voice cancels out the music, like light cancels out dark, or Owen Wilson cancels out Ben Stiller.

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.

'Exciter' stakes a hell of a claim on bringing Depeche Mode into the 21st century.

While there’s no denying that Metallica have produced a huge – and welcome – blast from the past, it also represents a monolithic slab of noise that stretched over 11 songs and 75 minutes is just too dense and daunting to be truly enjoyable.

It's clearly touched by the hand of Brian Eno, who tries (and succeeds with) all sorts of jumpy, trippy beats.

Former admirers, be warned that 'Without Feathers' will send you into a headless, flailing flap; while any newcomers to The Stills will be left with a plump, bald turkey on their hands.

Most of this album, basically, doesn't work.

As an album, the thing seems to suffer from a lack of texture, variation, and (dare we suggest) innovation.