Sonically speaking, Weller seriously kicks it.

Madonna's infinite varieties have certainly staled.

There is nothing particularly daring about the album but it's classy and enjoyable.

Paul Griffith (drums); Amanda Shires (violins/vocals and a gifted songwriter with her own album Lightning Strikes just out); Chad Staehly (keyboards); Jason Isbell (guitars) and Mick Utley (vocals) add the expertly jaunty sound to Snider's ironic and enjoyably dark lyrics.

In short, if you're stuck in a traffic jam, this is a record which will make you want to open the sunroof.

He's made the kind of record that every kid rummaging through boxes of Seventies vinyl at the car boot sale hopes to find. One that lovingly reassembles a 21st-century impression of that era's warm autumnal hues and tactile textures.

You have to be in the mood for Young Man In America but, when you are, you'll be rewarded by an absorbing album.

Their once-ebullient anthems have been replaced by a collection of mid-tempo, uninspiringly ponderous tracks.

An extraordinary debut from a new British-based band who combine a gipsy swagger with tremulous sensitivity and gothic rock drama.

Wrecking Ball may be his angriest and most overtly political collection, yet the fury is contained in some of his most uplifting and celebratory music, so you can never be quite sure if he has come to raise the flag or to burn it.

She's made her best, most accessible record for years.

They know how to knock a tune together and have delivered a pop party album thrillingly in tune with contemporary listening habits.

Beautifully nuanced collage of soulfully rocking flavours.

Chopped and diced from a variety of sources, it packs a lyrical punch, but nothing here transcends his internet hit.

It sounds like a romantic gift to his new wife and a sentimental salute to his own childhood--a minor gem from a major talent.

It's real music for grown-ups.

Neither lets down an album that features songs by some of country music's finest lyricists.

Sing In My Meadow is unsettling, interesting and, when it works, very affecting.

It is, in short, and as we might have expected, a work of genius.

Inevitably, 51 minutes of melodrama becomes draining. But it captures Del Rey's mystique perfectly.

[Houghton's] first album of idiosyncratic banjo pop has been worth the wait.

Does it succeed in his aim? Triumphantly. With bells on. Tinker bells, even.

It's hardly a novel idea to cover these songs, but Isaak's versions succeed through skilful arrangement, vibrant recording (mostly at Sun) and above all some remarkable vocal performances.

This is a record Guy Clark can surely be proud to have as a tribute.

There's a nourishing warmth in their bittersweet laments.

It's wholly derivative, yet the tuneful, instantly gratifying choruses often trump one's desire to play spot the influence.

If progress is their aim, then this is fine proof of how a softly-softly approach is often best.

Her worthier sentiments are balanced by maturing wit, self-awareness and the distinctive snap'n'slap of her funky guitar grooves.