When, after three albums, Schnitzler buggered off to pursue solo projects, the remaining pair modified the name to Cluster (musicians, eh?), began an ongoing collaboration with Michael Rother of Neu!, formed Harmonia, recorded some seriously groundbreaking electronica and Krautrock (around the time Kraftwerk were about to go global with ‘Autobahn’) and participated in some legendary ambient sessions with Brian Eno. Phew.

Kram (meaning ‘stuff’ or ‘odds and ends’), Moebius’ fourth solo effort, is an uneasy ride from the off. The aptly-named ‘Start’ begins with some synths spluttering into life and you could be forgiven for expecting some pleasantly trippy ambient offerings in the post. But that’s as far as it goes. Dieter is about to flush your head down a delectably nightmarish electro-toilet of clunks, thumps, whirrs, chatterings and clatters.

Three minutes in and it’s as if the amphibians from Paul McCartney’s famous 1980s Frog Chorus decided to spend the intervening downtime injecting liquefied MDMA into their eyeballs at a bunch of ill-advised Teutonic basement parties and have returned with a track they cobbled together one night at a questionable mate’s house. The frogs are in there but the lights are not on and they’ve eaten the bulbs..

Next up, ‘Komit’ has that wonderfully distinctive Kraftwerk taste to it as it chugs forward like an analogue train en route to a destination many miles south, deep in the Bavarian forests. The flatulent squelch of ‘Womit’ proves a spectacular beauty on headphones, all reverberating notes and cacophonies of chirruping aliens in the background, while tracks like ‘Steigert’, ‘Lauert’ and ‘Rennit’ bring Aphex Twin at his most uneasy to mind, or the generally-uneasy-anyway Autechre.

This album is full of deeply textured pieces with more going on than an entire chart top 20 in HMV. It is bold, inventive electronica – a work more of totality than of individual tracks – that often threatens to break out the abstruse melodies into fully-formed sonic birds and let them soar away.

Instead, Moebius’ brief seems to be the creation of an intense soup, full of rich ingredients, but one that makes you work to taste them all, to let yourself go, to adjust your palate, or let it be adjusted, accordingly. The timelessness of the sounds means this could have been made 30 years ago by the same man, or even 30 years in the future, testing, jarring and enthralling whilst leaving any keenly-listening canines with a hefty dose of the heebie-jeebies.

As the album (it could nearly be classed as an electronic symphony given the progression, drive, discipline and atmosphere) draws to a close we get the penultimate ‘Schwitzt’, whose ominous 8-bit horror vibe could comfortably soundtrack a film where some moody teenager must play a Nintendo Gameboy Advance in hell, ad infinitum, as the Dark Lord watches over his hunched shoulder, mocking his shortcomings when faced with Big Boss number five in Mega Man.

Concluding with ‘Markt’, Moebius does not offer any easy answers as to what you have just heard. Wicked woodland animals, soul singers, zombified percussionists and a smorgasbord of odd sounds and repetitive bangings clamber for your attention, leaving one on edge, unsure of what exactly has just happened and urging you to hit play and repeat the journey again immediately.

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Like the American bands mentioned above, Hemming has crafted a folk album which borrows heavily on folk/pop tradition yet he has imbued it with a resolutely English flavour. It’s more Paul McCartney than Brian Wilson, more Fairport Convention than The Band, yet, because of the quality of the songs, it is never once derivative. Moreover, in a feat which is a huge rehabilitative move for the instrument, Hemming has managed to smuggle the flute into at least two songs on this record. As Sir Paul McCartney knows, this is no mean feat.

One reason, perhaps, for The Sleeper’s slow-burning success is the lack of filler on the record. There are songs here which are every bit the equal of the previously mentioned singles. ‘The last of the melting snow’s’ lamenting lyrics are carried by a heartbroken and pretty melodic swing from verse to chorus, and album opener ‘Give yourself a fighting chance’ will have Badly Drawn Boy fans jumping for joy at its breathlessly easy home-spun refrain, not to mention Hemming’s oh-these-are-just-things-I-found-in-the-shed use of maracas, washboards, and the banjo. A final word on a great album: if you are a movie fan and experience an aha! moment listening to The Sleeper, it is because Hemmings wrote the incidental music for the Shane Meadows movies Dead Man’s Shoes and A Room For Romeo Brass. In fact Meadows and actor Paddy Considine used to be in The Leisure Society. Good things obviously come in threes.

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Robbie has long yearned to be seen as a visionary and an innovator, but Rudebox saw him branded a clown, an image he’d spent half his post-Take That career trying to shirk. In a further twist, he’d been broadsided by his former bandmates: the reformed Take That’s 2006 album Beautiful World easily outsold his latest, making a mockery of suggestions they could never do it alone. The most iconic popstars, however, have an uncanny ability to re-invent themselves in the public eye. Remember, Robbie Williams was, and still is, Britain’s most successful solo musician of all time – imagine if Madonna was British. And in that most Madonna-esque way, Robbie has managed to ghost back into the public consciousness with characteristic ease: nobody really noticed he was gone, but now that he’s back, he’s everywhere.

It would a bit much to call Reality Killed The Video Star a ‘comeback’, but it is at least a return to form. There’s always been a sense that Robbie’s happiest singing ballads, but his most memorable tunes have almost always come when he’s let loose and surrendered to the bombast: everyone can hum at least a few bars from ‘Let Me Entertain You’ or ‘Rock DJ,’ but who can honestly say they remember ‘Misunderstood,’ let alone own a copy? ‘She’s The One’ was the only one to really buck the trend, but only ‘Angels’ managed to be both a heart-rending ballad and ridiculously overblown, and it’s in the territory of the latter that Reality Killed The Video Star attempts to position itself.

The record was recorded with producer Trevor Horn, the man who brought us ‘Video Killed The Radio Star’ from which the album’s title was derived, and first impressions are very positive. There’s an epicness to the entire affair that couldn’t contrast more with Rudebox’s cool sterility -ironically, a quality Horn’s own music is known for. Opening track ‘Morning Sun’ demonstrates the change in focus from the off. It’s more Oasis than Gary Numan, and one of several songs that (not coincidentally) calls to mind modern-day Take That, opening with Disney-style orchestration before adding jangly guitars and ‘Penny Lane’-style trumpets. ‘Bodies’ is an even bigger shock, as Robbie tries his hand at Georgian choral singing before wisely given way to a thundering synth-bass line. ‘Do You Mind’ is a glam stomper that channels ‘Let Me Entertain You’ and Pulp’s ‘Disco 2000’without capturing the brilliance of either, while second single ‘You Know Me’ boasts the sort of subtly melodic chorus Morrissey turns out every now and then, but whose chart prospects are similarly dismal.

Like Morrissey, Robbie’s eccentricities are well-known. Britain’s answer to Jim Corr claims to have seen three UFOs and thinks the US government was behind 9/11, but his lyrics on Reality Killed The Video Star are whacky in their own, entirely complementary, way. Robbie’s never shied away from the big topics, but here he seems committed to tackling 2 or 3 per song. ‘Bodies’ takes on issues of body image and the existence of God without ever saying anything about either. ‘Difficult For Weirdos’ might just be the most ham-fisted attempt to relate to “the youth” in modern memory, with lines like “I got my eyes made up / at the bus stop / by my girlfriend” and “He is a lesbian / But that’s OK.” ‘Deceptacon’ invites the listener to “Microwave yourself today,” but his post-apocalyptic vision of the world doesn’t sound quite as menacing as he probably intended: “All over Britain / We wait for permission / To join another queue.” V For Vendetta it’s not.

The electronic elements embraced on Rudebox haven’t been entirely exorcised, though. Robbie’s appearance on the Pet Shop Boys’ 2008 single ‘She’s Madonna’ has clearly had a reciprocal effect on the singer. ‘Last Days of Disco’ pays homage to the British synth-pop boom of the mid-‘80s, sounding like a slowed-down version of the Eurythmics’ ‘Sweet Dreams’ with the airy, multi-layered vocals of the Pet Shop Boys’ Neil Tennant. ‘Difficult For Weirdos’ is even more naked in its admiration of the Pet Shop Boys, while ‘Starstruck’ appears to be some sort of reverent tribute to George Michael’s ‘Fastlove’ era. None comes close to matching Rudebox’s unfortunately overlooked ‘Lovelight,’ but neither is there anything as terrible as Rudebox – musically at least. The majority of Reality Killed The Radio Star takes place in familiar territory, a competent retread of old ground, and some new. But history may not be so kind.

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The transition from noise rock to electro is also not an unusual move in modern groups, but it usually occurs somewhere into a career, at a point when they are having a dry spell in inspiration, or, foolishly, think they can trumpet their artistic independence. None of this appears to apply to Channel One, who came gift-wrapped and fully-formed as the country’s premier techno rockers.

Sound To Light displays their wares nicely, but it did take State a few listens to get with the script. What can appear as wholly melancholic mood slowly breaks down with repeated listens to a selection of shades. Opener ‘Soubresaut’ is a pulsating mini-epic, complete with an ethereal vocal. It sounds like he’s chanting ‘are you ready’, but we could be wrong. ‘Three Stars’ begins with crackling minimalism before swelling into a wash of shoegaze guitars and cymbal crashes. Former EP track ‘These Roads’ is reinterpreted here simply as ‘Roads’, and without the club beat of yore. It’s a muted, meditative closing scene to this particular 11-act drama, and serves as a moment to reflect. After all, there’s lots to think about.

CHANNEL ONE – THESE ROADS on MUZU.

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Darker than most kiddies yarns and famously vivid, the first spin enmeshes you into a world of howls, tribal chants and jungle beats and the soundtrack treads a fine line between reeling kids into the tale and appealing to adults. It doesn’t take long to establish that this is not an extended arm of YYY’s and is a far cry from the electro sass of It’s Blitz which is no bad thing. If any comparisons must be drawn, Where The Wild Things Are is cut from a similar cloth musically as ‘Maps’ in the poignancy stakes (‘Hideaway’ or ‘Worried Shoes’).

Despite featuring a star studded personnel (The Kids) including Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ Nick Zinner and Brian Chase, Dean Fertita (The Dead Weather), a children’s choir and Bradford Cox (Deerhunter), this is very much the art rocker’s baby. Boasting Karen O’s unique mix of breathy vocals, snarls and quirky melodies, she appears noticeably comfortable in her own skin, unleashed from the expectations of the band and the constraints of success.

Although a soundtrack, many of the songs are strong enough to stand alone – ‘Heads Up’ is a catchy, well-crafted singalong while the attitude-infused chant of ‘Capsize’ bears many Karen O trademarks. The most single-worthy track contained here is ‘Building All is Love’ where the vocalist is backed by a kids choir and it surprisingly works.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget that this is a soundtrack and not a Karen O solo effort but the songs paint such a vivid portrait of what’s to come on the big screen that you’re quickly reminded of the movie at the heart of the project. More than anything, Where The Wild Things Are is a positive affirmation of Karen O’s growth as a performer in her own right and as a possible taster of what a future solo career might offer.

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Drafting in her old sparring buddy and Black Eyed Peas frontman Will.i.am would appear to be a smart move on Cole’s part, and his fingerprints are definitely apparent all over the record. It’s a weakness and a strength. It’s certainly a break away from Girls Aloud’s instantly recognisable sound which comes courtesy of Xenomania, but whether it’s a step forward or back is a matter of opinion. Opener ‘3 Words’ promises much, and almost delivers, with pulsing repetitive guitar strings building up to a brooding, mid-tempo dance number. The swirling ‘Rain on Me’ is a nice, forgettable pop number, of which there are more than one here, but it’s songs like ‘Parachute’ that showcase perhaps a far more interesting side to Cole, with her chanting over a soaring, sweet marching band sound, albeit a bit forgettably.

Similarly, ‘Happy Hour’ showcases Will.i.am’s deft hand at a catchy hook, but it’s the shambolic Winehouse-esque lyrical content that piques most interest (”I’m only good if I can have a sip/Sometimes I’m sweet and some I’m sour/But I can’t help but drink you up/’Cos you’re my happy hour”). In fact, it’s probably the song titles and lyrical content that will interest most people, hoping to catch a snippet of Cole’s apparent inner turmoil that’s made her the best-known cuckquean since Hilary Clinton. Oddly enough, it’s the upbeat numbers that bring 3 Words down, as it were. Taio Cruz’s offering ‘Stand Up’ is as faceless as anything at the top of the top 40 (and will probably be released as a single at some point), and current single ‘Fight For This Love’ couldn’t be more generic. The sampling of ‘Little Lies’ by Fleetwood Mac does nothing to lift the repetitive ‘Boy Like You’ and the inclusion of ‘Heartbreaker’ which is, to all intents and purposes, Will.i.am’s song, seems a bit patronising, too. Autotuned and over-produced to death it is, but it’s no less than we’d expect from the queen of all reality TV. Pop album of the year it isn’t, but I somehow doubt that’ll stop it selling by the skip-load. It’s unlikely anything will be able to hold back Britain’s ‘Angel of the North’ at this point.

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Immovable Feet is the second release from Land Lovers, the brainchild of Padraig Cooney. Wordy indie pop is their specialty, and Immoveable Feet is pleasingly refreshing to that end.

The eponymous ‘Immoveable Feet’ and ‘Paul Tracey Probably Knows’ showcase the inherent wit and ear for a cutesy melody that Land Lovers possess, at times echoing Belle & Sebastian and Brendan Benson in equal parts. At times it’s all a bit overly-twee, but be safe in the knowledge that they obviously know their way around a well-crafted pop tune blindfolded. Buckets of natural talent and a sprinkling of all the “right” influences will, hopefully, only continue to guide Land Lovers to all the right places.

Brian Cullen’s Love Bullets – Otherwise It WIll Be This Way Forever

Dublin 3-piece Brian Cullen’s Love Bullets follow up last summer’s Bring In Your Dead EP release with another chunk of post-punk tinged rawk in ‘Otherwise It WIll Be This Way Forever’, released on their own Cleft Palate Records.

Clearly nestling somewhere comfortably between post-punk and shoegaze, which at times veers into dirge territory, BCLB cut an unusual figure in how they utilise their quite ubiquitous and trendy influences. The eponymous opening track somehow comes off as a synth-backed early Snow Patrol, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, while ‘Killing For Company’ evokes the spirit of Hannett-era Joy Divison, segueing easily into the similarly-influenced ‘It’s Pretty Much Over Already’. There are flashes of brilliance here, particularly in vocalist Stephen Cadwell’s flat Dublin inflections and their way around a bassline. Definitely worth a listen for something different

Clockwork Noise – Yes and No and Everything In Between

Yes and No and Everything In Between, the second release from Bray band Clockwork Noise has been four years in the making, following their 2005 release “If I Wanted, I Could”. Bolstered by violinist and cellist Blaithnaid Healy, the band continue to carve out a unique niche for themselves as a big-sounding indie band with a twist.

At first, vocalist Robert Maguire’s American, emo-indebted vocals are cloying, but paired with a big-hearted indie sound, it does work, to a point. Opener ‘The Cold Shoulder’ and ‘Choose Your Words’ certainly show that Clockwork Noise aren’t short a catchy, fiddle-laden tune or two. Filled to the brim with warmth and emotion, there’s no doubt that there’s a Frames-shaped hole in the market for Clockwork Noise to occupy, and there’s certainly enough potential here for them to begin filling that hole.

Disconnect 4 – Modern Love EP

Galway’s Disconnect 4 have finally gotten it all down on CD following a solid two years’ touring, with their debut EP, Modern Love. Their polished indie-dance has been attracting all the right kind of attention of late, and the cuts offered here are more of the same for those acquainted.

Opening track ‘Eighteen’ has the hallmarks of an indie disco classic, all squelchy synths and saw-edged riffs backing up Leon Butler’s slightly mournful Kele Okereke-esque delivery, while ‘Modern Love’ races along, tripping over 80’s keyboard and delicate guitar flicks. Disconnect 4 bear all the hallmarks of a generic NME-darling-level indie band, the question is whether they have the substance to bring it to an international level, something that has so far eluded every half-decent Irish indie band of their ilk. ‘Til then, relish their pulsating basslines and addictive synth hooks.

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Certain tunes capture a great melee of sounds that work, with an assortment of percussion and saxophone, on ‘The Executioner’. Whilst the more driving rockier sound on ‘Keep The Door Open’, towards the end of the album, is a pleasant surprise it feels slightly out of place. The final singer songwriter tune ‘All Or Nothing’ is intelligent and humourous and makes it an exceptional end to a strong album. Overall not earth shattering but worth tracking down.

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Fifteen years later and Dave Grohl hasn’t done too badly for himself. His Foo Fighters have grown from a completely solo studio project to a global status, stadium headlining rock band with six albums and a myriad of awards to their name. And now, also unexpectedly, comes their first greatest hits package (not, as Grohl is keen to point out, their greatest songs). While it will undoubtedly fulfil many Christmas wishes what it doesn’t do is explain quite how this workmanlike band got so big.

Put together in one collection, these sixteen songs reveal a band with only one setting – earnest, heartfelt but ultimately uninspired rock. If Grohl is a sparkling and engaging individual, which he is, something has got lost in translation. The shame is that the songs themselves aren’t bad, just presented in the usual plodding manner. They’re tunes that sound good on the radio for sure and even better when backing one of the band’s fantastic videos, but as great, timeless records go they fall well short.

Frustratingly, the Foos do have moments of potential greatness, when they escape their concrete boots and really soar. ‘Times Like These’, ‘Learning To Fly’, ‘Monkey Wrench’ and ‘Everlong’ (especially the acoustic version included here) are proof that there is something special here, just something that remains buried on far too many occasions. It certainly shows itself on ‘Wheels’, one of the two new tracks included. Born of exactly the same DNA as Tom Petty’s ‘Learning To Fly’, it demonstrates the same texture and knack for a great, harmony led chorus. It’s probably the best thing here, which can only be a good thing. It also means that while Greatest Hits might not change our minds about the Foo Fighters’ merits, it does hint that they could still surprise us in the future. How long though, are we prepared to wait?

FOO FIGHTERS – Wheels on MUZU.

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So it’s safe to say APC’s comeback isn’t a commercial cash-in (Jay-Z’s capital is safe on the hip-hop stock exchange), but Fluorescent Black isn’t as wilfully cryptic as previous releases. It even opens with a punky guitar racket on ‘Lay Me Down’, but any fears of a N.E.R.D.-style reinvention dissipate along with the riffs and the beats kick in with the crew’s “paramilitary precision”. Lead single ‘Volcano’ stomps along like a Timbaland-does-dubstep block party, and ‘New Jack Exterminator’ is peppered with hyperactive scratching – there are plenty of hooks to hold up the record’s cerebral experiments.

Beans, Priest and Sayyid may be free-association masterminds and absurdist poets, but APC’s production has always been more dynamic than a 2D crackly backing track. Anyone at their Whelan’s show in May this year witnessed a hands-on tangle of laptops, synths, drum machines, samplers and pads, with the four transforming into a symbiotic beat machine. APC’s rhymes don’t hover above the beat – they’re embedded in a metallic mesh of scattershot drums, molten bass and electronic fizz.

As on the Arrhythmia skit ‘Tron Man Speaks’, the subject of the circuit-flesh interface is once again invoked on Fluorescent Black. ‘The Solution’ is a dystopian addendum to Kraftwerk’s romanticised Man-Machine thesis: “Bionic is the solution… enhancements will be permanent.” The misfiring diodes and sine wave bass on ‘End Game’ has Beans evolving into an artificial intelligence, “designing programming language”.

In this hip-hop virtual reality, ’80s electro pioneers share a pedestal with the heavily mined soul and funk breaks of the ’70s. APC are on the less-trodden trail blazed by the likes of Man Parrish, Jonzun Crew and Afrika Bambaataa – note the vocodered vocals, industrial bass and whiplash snare hits on tracks like ‘The Solution’ and ‘Superunfrontable’. Snarly hardcore rave synths also ooze out of ‘C Thru U’and ‘Dragunov’, another homage to the New Yorkers’ dance music lineage.

But it’s the otherworldly sonic experiments that set APC apart. In the past they’ve used ping-pong balls, roaring elephants and opera singers to bypass melodies. This time we get a booming kettle drum onslaught on the appropriately-titled ‘Timpani’, arcade shoot-em-up laser beams on ‘Capricorn One’, and the cold mechanical hum of ‘Apparently’ is a paranoid wander through the ship in Alien.

On a lighter note, their new Big Dada label mate Roots Manuva appears in a puff of smoke to add his trademark stoned flow on the sleek techno number ‘NY to Tokyo’, rapping about “digital mayhem, digital warfare, reclaiming the art form”. It has a slight air of a phone-in caper, but there’s enough complementary wordplay to whet the appetite – a full-on APC vs Manuva collaboration is a mouth-watering prospect.

As on the apocalyptic ‘Human Shield’ before, APC once again go out in a hail of bullets on the closing track. Flourescent Black’s self-titled final chapter flips over the cliched rap tropes of street talk and gangsta posturing when Beans boasts: “The power of a pen turned a verb into a killer.” The track builds into a claustrophobic mix of organs, Spectrum computer bleeps and a swirling hive of virtual insect chattering, as the three MCs get lost “in the body of the beats”. When Priest announces: “It’s the new mathematics”, it feels like Anti-Pop Consortium really are the ones drafting a new hip-hop Blueprint – no matter what Jay-Z thinks.

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Califone aren’t afraid to experiment with odd sounds and timings, but they’re also well versed in traditional songcraft as well. All My Friends… veers from almost reverentially old-fashioned folksy laments (‘Salt’, ‘Better Angels’) to ultra-modern American indie rock, calling to mind everyone from Decemberists to Eels in the process.

Indeed, vocalist Tim Rutili comes across not unlike Eels’ frontman, E, particularly on the eerie ‘Alice Marble Gray’ or the superb ‘Polish Girls’, the latter where the song’s basic acoustic roots do battle with some searing electro-blues, before winding up with a fit of harmonising that wouldn’t seem out of place on a Fleet Foxes record. Yes, it is that good. Other highlights include the stunning ‘Funeral Singers’, which is one of those tunes that rebounds across the inside of your cranium long after its four-minute duration has passed; the brilliant ‘Bunuel’, a campfire singalong brimming over with bullets, whorehouses and civil wars; and ‘Evidence’, a slow-burning desert-kissed affair that rewards repeated listening.

Indeed, don’t expect to get this album at all the first or even second time around. There’s far too much going on in these songs to pick up even half of their subtleties until you’ve lived with them for a while, but it’s most definitely worth the wait. One of the albums of the year.

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Scars, though, is not your typical Basement Jaxx album. Yes, they’re still a lively, vaguely electro and house-influenced pairing, and they’d still kick off plenty of parties, but there’s something a good deal more mature about the way Scars has turned out. At times, the new album could almost be Little Boots trying to imitate Massive Attack. Not, actually, such a bad thing. The theme of the album appears to be rain (which slips in to several tracks both rhythmically and lyrically), and in ‘Raindrops’ that theme has an impressive, infectious, tastefully toned down lead off.

‘Feelings Gone’ is another highlight, a downbeat piece of Europop-influenced, end-of-the-night dance floor filler with a tuneful Sam Sparro on vocals. ‘Distractionz’ (yes, they do still insist on the ‘cool’ spellings) is driven by a contagious, off-the wall-beat blended with distorted, haunting vocals and the occasional electro twizzle, while ‘What’s A Girl To Do’ is more typical Basement Jaxx, drawing in attitude-filled vocals and trumpets. There are a host of collaborations to add variety, including Yoko Ono (she gets around these days, doesn’t she), Santigold and Kelis amongst a dozen or so others.

The impressive new front is occasionally broken, though, like at the start of the title track, when a gurgled, gritty, extended call of ‘Basement Jaxx’ is thrown in, or between two of the later tracks, when the unsubtle and – call me a prude if you will – entirely unnecessarily sound of one of the duo’s (quite impressive sounding) orgasm is tossed into the mix. Yes, at times, Jaxx might still be the musical equivalent of licking your finger and sticking it in your friend’s ear, but this is some serious progress. And – may God save my musical soul – are occasionally quite phenomenally good.

Basement Jaxx on MUZU.

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The premise is promising. Overcome benefits from roster of songwriting and production luminaries from Lady Gaga collaborator RedOne to Swedish hit machine Stargate who have produced top ten hits for the likes of Beyoncé, Shakira and Rihanna. Burke’s debut opens with ‘Bad Boys’, her second number one single featuring Flo Rida (aka. Tramar Dillard), the American rapper whose aptitude for rapping appears to be in direct correlation to the inventiveness of his name. Opening the song with a swaggering “Alexandra girl, I know what you like”, it would appear that what Alexandra likes is fluctuating siren-like sound effects, sultry bass lines and luxuriant synthesisers in the major key. Songs along the same infectious vein include ‘All Night Long’, with its shuddering percussion and discotheque-anthemic chorus and ‘Nothing But The Girl’, a song built for sleazy sweat-fests on the dancefloor.

Yet for some reason, Alexandra Burke decides to diverge from what appears to be a winning combination of electronic pulsations and heroic drumbeats to pay homage to the ‘power ballad’. ‘The Silence’ is an outdated ‘80s pastiche, with the obligatory soft snare that swells to a drum beat that wouldn’t sound amiss in Phil Collins’s ‘In the Air Tonight’. ‘Overcome’ itself bears more than a striking resemblance to Michael Jackson’s ‘Earth Song’, with its grandiose, lush arrangements which break down into thudding percussion and grand vocal harmonies as Alexandra hits the money note (which may or may not be E sharp 7). Burke proceeds to span yet more musical genres, a feat that reeks of over-ambition. Offerings include the bland Motown lament ‘You Broke My Heart’ and ‘Bury Me (6 Feet Under)’, a swing jazz pop number with more than a hint of Diana Ross that somehow manages to fall flat.

The problem is that in trying to exhibit her versatility, Alexandra Burke has produced an album whose tracks seem uncomfortable beside one another, an incongruous tracklisting that is lacking in any perceivable fluidity or theme, a notion reinforced by the fact that her record breaking Christmas number one single, a cover of Leonard Cohen’s ‘Hallelujah’, seems to have been lumped casually onto the end of the record as an afterthought to satisfy Burke’s audience. No doubt they will be satisfied with Overcome and its slick production, but it’s arguable that Burke should stick to carving out her own niche, which from the sounds of things lies more in pounding electro pop, than Phil Collins/ whiney Mariah Carey parody ballads.

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With the main backbone of their sound upbeat London / Jamaican reggae (they describe themselves as ‘Dub Fuelled Ska Rocksteady & Reggae’), every track has the potential to be a hit, whilst the buoyant, catchy reggae works well over the entire corpus of the album and binds this exceptional body of work in its entirety. The secular (or possibly religious?) query ‘Are We Saved Yet?’ is musically uplifting with keyboard sounding more like a piano organ, as well as some great lyrics but it’s the uplifting singalong chorus that really makes the song.

The party atmosphere exudes on tracks like ‘I Still Love You More’ and even the simple but effective ‘He’s More Like his Father’ shows that the band work when they take their foot off the gas. The combination of hi-hat and cymbal mix, up beat driving bass and drums make this an exciting collection and a must for all with even a passing interest in reggae. Songs of love and understanding abound on this album, but not in a clichéd manner. Instead Pama Outernational is an energetic and buoyant celebration of Jamaican music and beyond. They’ll be here soon supporting the Specials – don’t miss them.

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Ridha’s previous release, Oi Oi Oi, bristled with hard and fast slabs of electro and spawned dancefloor favourites in the forms of ‘& Down’ and ‘Let’s Buy Happiness’. In contrast, Power has been conceived with a decidedly more minimalistic approach and reveals itself at a slower pace than its predecessor. The opening track, ‘Gax’, is an airy, beguiling piece with an underlying French influence, which isn’t surprising when considering that Boys Noize once released tracks on the French-based Kitsuné Music label. Beyond that, though, the album is built upon the distinct Germanic textures that have come to define Ridha’s work. ‘Kontact Me’ and ‘Transmission’ are faithful examples, strewn as they are with robotic vocals and gritty, primal synthesizers that call to mind the proto-electronic machinations of Kraftwerk.

But just because Power is bereft of brazen, pounding tunes does not mean to say it doesn’t contain some potential club classics-in-waiting. ‘Jeffer’ is an infectiously danceable track with a subtle ’90s retro vibe that worms it’s way firmly inside the listener’s skull, whilst ‘Sweet Light’ provides further proof of Ridha’s uncanny ability to compose magnificently catchy, forward-thinking dance music. On the flipside, there are also instances of unblemished calm. Album-closer ‘Heart Attack’ is a masterpiece of chilled-out electronica that calls to mind legendary exponents of the art, Boards of Canada.

The album is not without the odd hiccup, however, which are found chiefly around the record’s mid-point. ‘Nerve’ is a slow, listless number that never quite gets underway and, likewise, ‘Trooper’ is another track that doesn’t find its feet. In the overall scheme of things, though, they are but minor mishaps in what is a consistent, well-rounded collection.

If Oi Oi Oi was the album that first brought Boys Noize to prominence, then Power is the record that will allow Alex Ridha to move beyond the shadows of contemporary artists such as Justice and Erol Alkan to establish himself as a fully-fledged trendsetter, not only in his chosen genres of electro and techno, but throughout dance music in general. It may not be the album that most fans have been expecting but Ridha has certainly masterminded an LP that’s progressive, captivating and, furthermore, incredibly mature in its conception.

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