A disappointing return from the former Mercury champions.

Velociraptor! is neither the classic Pizzorno insists it is, nor the numbskull stadium rock cynics will presume it is.

Unfortunately, over 10 tracks, the band's musical limitations become ever more obvious, with songs like Hold My Breath and Jam for Jerry rummaging through the same box of retro tricks to lessening effect.

Either way, if you're no fan of the fey and fantastical, you're best off fleeing. Still interested? Well, hard work it may be, but it's not without its rewards.

Two Door Cinema Club show sporadic flashes of greatness and have an overall standard of songwriting which places them among the better new bands in the UK.

As it is, it's simply the next Leona Lewis album.

There's little denying the sincerity of No Color as both tribute and experiment, but the duo's previous work was just a shade more likely to make everyone fall in love with them.

Fewer Pro Tool and more risks, and Dhani might just be onto something.

Cancer Bats haven't lost their swagger or even their appeal, but this is uneasy listening in every sense.

She places faith in unremitting earnestness. It's often affecting, and draws you in at times, but somewhat smothering in its unrelenting glumness. There's also a paucity of fresh melodies here. This profoundly personal album is unlikely to woo passers-by, but loyal, long-time admirers will adore it.

While The Haunted Man is an impressive record, one heavy with earnestness and polished sophistication, it's more like The Tin Man: somehow it lacks a heart.

The mixture of emotions across Unapologetic just doesn't sit right.

The sterility and cleanliness of [the album's engineering and production] affords these 12 songs all the warmth and personality of a motorway hotel's car park.

It's a gauche mix of church and the rock'n'roll chestnuts he grew up on. Outside Robert Plant, it's hard to see who it'll appeal to.

The rude guitar sleaze of Hands All Over, or the cocky glam-stomp in Stutter's verses show a band who are really at their best when they play pop music like the sleazy rockers they clearly are. In Adam Levine's mind, at least.

More selective souls may find themselves reaching for the fast-forward button, as perhaps the original plan would have yielded a more cohesive whole.

[Welcome to the Fishbowl] is aimed squarely at the mainstream. These songs are genetically engineered to be both supremely catchy and intensely wet.

Glimmer operates in a more reflective register [than Jacaszek's previous album, Pentral], albeit one that's finally no less draining than assaultive noise.

It's dumb for sure, but knowingly so, and its incessantly upbeat vibes do provide something of a lift.

GEM is far from a masterpiece, but it's the work of an intriguing young artist still shaping a distinctive voice. It's hard to know if the pleasure is in listening to it, or imagining where she might go next.

Leaves listeners sadly wondering where a less-troubled Amy might have been able to take her incredible talent.

Stone packs all the power you expect, but her control misfires enough for some of these tracks to never quite click as they might.

Repeated listens to Let's Go Eat the Factory reveal a paucity of the pithy lyric and classic riff on which he's [Pollard] built a deserved reputation.

When Melua reveals this sensitive side she's amongst the best artists in her easy-on-the-ear field, and she could yet surpass several of her own idols. But The House contains enough forgettable filler to suggest she's some way off delivering a career-defining canon classic.

Though not without merit, the overriding sensation is one of empty melodrama.

It's a palate-cleanser for sure, and whatever lies next for Everett, you have to hope it's a little more emphatic than what's on offer here.

Though clearly as replete with imagination as they are with personnel, Broken Social Scene would benefit from the attentions of a less indulgent producer.

By the end of these 17 tracks the head is heavy with images of the Smash robots battle-rapping against a crew from whatever planet The Clangers call home.