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.

'Iowa' is a fantastic metal record, ferocious and inventive, but their rage is that of psychotic adolescents rather than reasoning adults. You'll love it!

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.

Simply put, 'Worlds Apart' is a delicately violent piece of art.

'Victory for the Comic Muse' is the Divine Comedy's finest album since their post-Britpop Chris Evans-approved heyday.

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

The Fall are the best new band in Britain.

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

A third of this record sounds like the Cocteau Twins covering Enya, and another third sounds like a trip-hop Blind Melon... But the other third is pure Muggs.

Malin once more acts as skilled arbitrator between classic rock and punk, just this time around he's a little more sympathetic towards the boisterous aims of the latter.

An album which feels like a hand-me-down from a ghost.

The sad thing is, even at her most mainstream, Bjork's always been truly artful, but, in this case, she's merely painted a vulgar picture.

There's an abundance of softly slashing guitar, an air of sophistication writ indelibly large by its orchestration (with the string-laden weepie 'Epitaph' as probably the outstanding example), and, wrapped in Arnar's strong tones, there's more moodyness than you can shake a particularly angsty stick at.

This is an album that seethes with anger, ambition and malicious intent, and it's all the better for it.

Even if this was an instrumental album it'd be thoroughly charming.

'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.

A lesson in understatement, 'Into The Blue Again' reminds us that LaValle is the undisputed master of emitting emotion without embellishing it with perverse orchestration or all manner of multi-tracked trickery.

A joyously audacious opening salvo.

It's crude, certainly, but Ludacris has enough wit and chutzpah to elevate this above the dross.

This air of superiority is pervasive on 'Our Earthly Pleasures', which is a pity when you consider contemporaries such as Franz Ferdinand can do clever without it getting in the way of the fact all they're really doing is making good pop records.

The good news is that for a bunch of brats they're well in control of the complex, riddling, labyrinthine structures that go toward making the perfect pop punk songs.

'The Datsuns' is an album that could have been made in 1967, 1977 or 1987, but which, fortunately for them, was made in 2002.

Not even the added muscle of playaz like Kid Koala, Afrika Bambaataa, Plug 3, Prince Paul and Mike Patton manage to lift this album above the low level pastiche it seems happy to be.

What's apparent from playing this album is that almost everything they've got is a killer single.

Like Spiritualized re-scored and re-scripted by Timothy Leary, something inescapably dark, dread ridden and mesmeric lurks within these tracks.

Much of the LP's success can be put down to the completeness of the world that I'm From Barcelona create and promptly invite you into.

While a few get close, not one remix here stands up to the original on 'Guero'.

There are tunes galore, and ideas that some groups would do someone in for, it’s just a shame he decided to do an approximation of all his favourite bands, and didn’t try something a bit more progressive than 'Rock‘n’Roll'.

Minor aesthetic gripes aside though, ‘Winchester Cathedral’ is how you and I want Clinic to be.

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.

After listening to the whole of this album we'd have to admit that Pole remains as much of a mystery as ever. Only now we're not sure we're still interested in finding out much more...

It's not easy listening, it's scarcely fashionable,... and, to be frank, it's not exactly the best advert for Joel's generally estimable talents.

Such is the reliance on his voice to provide resonance both melodically and lyrically, there isn't a great deal else to fall back on should the listener find it objectionable.

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.

How deliciously perverse, and how very, very her.

It’s stripped down, tough and raw, but a world away from any gangsta pose – this is more inward facing, an attempt to expand the horizons of hip-hop, striving for a new rap language, with a free flow sprawl of image and polemic.

This is probably the most adventurous musical journey of Garnier's life.

Razorlight's debut has more hooks than a fishing rod factory, and the advantage they have over Oasis (in addition to not sounding anything like them) is that they haven't had their arses kissed enough to disappear completely up them yet.

There's no let up in Kuperus' constant yelps around the difficult end of her vocal range, and it's this that, ultimately, lets 'Gimmie Trouble' down and disappointingly makes this otherwise excellent Adult. album feel rather indulgent and immature.

Put 'Peeping Tom' on the stereo and it's as slickly dark and eminently devourable as Hip-Hop with R&B overtones can be, though whack it on the headphones and you're introduced to something infinitely superior.

With 'Ten New Messages' The Rakes have pulled off the knack of being able to deliver a series of songs that are longer and deeper but equally as memorable as the spiky missives spat on their debut.

It's a bloody nice record, which may be damning them with faint praise but it's an area they've stalked out for themselves immensely likably.

Lyrically the record is less cringe inducing than 'Escapology' but Robbie has been let off the leash for a while in this respect, and while sometimes he can be funny, he needs people to tell him when he's being trite and just downright embarrassing.

Ultimately, this is merely a straight-down-the-line rock'n'roll album.