The sole constant is the skeletal, staccato patter of peppery percussion throbbing beneath each track, the everpresent heartbeat of a project in aid of Oxfam.

One can't help wondering whether this was really the album that Noel Gallagher set out to make when he contemplated a solo career, or just the one he settled for.

They may talk it up as a brave new step forward, but their first album in over eight years can't really be viewed as other than a retrograde move for Jane's Addiction.

The songs are mostly just nondescript airwave fodder, clogging up the aether for months to come.

As usual with Sawhney, it's typically eclectic, and surprisingly effective.

Earth Division finds Mogwai in unusually calm and engaging mood, its four tracks for the most part eschewing their trademark surging post-rock in favour of a lighter, more reflective approach.

Shorty here offers an explosive blend of funk, blues and jazz.

It's hardly groundbreaking stuff, but McCartney undeniably has an ear for melody.

Henry's stubbled delivery pitched somewhere between Randy Newman and Tom Waits as he negotiates the galumphing waltz "Strung" and the ramshackle cakewalk groove "Sticks & Stones", which best exemplifies the album's mythopoeic blues mode.

Due to the choice of material, the arrangements lean heavily towards the dramatic and angst-ridden--well, it is Peter Gabriel--with the sole recourse to mellow calm reserved for the undulating strings of "The Nest That Sailed the Sky".

Merritt's main problem may be that his baritone croon makes him sound cynical even when he's baring his heart, an impression only partly undercut by his occasional ukulele strum.

Most are dully baffling.

There's barely a shred of truly memorable content here.

The only reliably engaging elements of the compositions are the wonderful choral arrangements that provide most of the mortar connecting Björk's voice to the instrumental parts.

Scott's overly melodramatic delivery sometimes gets in the way of the words, although his arrangements are for the most part respectful and apt.

It's the communal sentiment underlying such ostensibly personal heartache that gives Williams's songs much of their power, that draws the listener in as an emotional fellow-traveller.

Their 14th studio album finds the Indigo Girls operating as powerfully as at any time in their career, on a set of uncommonly strong songs performed with the kind of typically understated Nashville polish that affords their signature harmonies the full spotlight.

Feist here cements her position as the poster-girl for intimate US indie rock, with songs that peel back the skin of the human condition.

It's the same throughout, London relying on charm over content. But, in fairness, he makes it more fun than most.

While imparting a palpable sense of immediacy to the performances, there are some tracks that could do with more work.

Seven years on from Satan's Circus, Death in Vegas' prime mover Richard Fearless doesn't seem to have moved on at all.

There's a pronounced shortfall of his usual joyous eclecticism here, with many pieces settling for basic repetitive sequences; some sound like little more than extended intros.

If it's not quite the landmark that was Wilco (the album), it's not far behind, as absorbing as any you'll hear this year.

Here, they find unsuspected connections between disparate sounds.

He's a bona fide hitmaker with a colossal YouTube following, working in the argot and style of his own generation

It's a more considered and persuasive analysis than most of his younger, grimier peers can offer.

Meg Baird, formerly the frontperson of Philadelphia-based psychedelic folk-rockers Espers, is left a little exposed on her own solo album.

Despite the propulsive energy sustained throughout, some tracks lack focus.