Familiar tropes surface in the lyrical content (sexy times being the core focus), and musically it's a smorgasbord of European dance trends and contemporary RnB production, showy but soulless.

Sadly though, the prevalence of mid-tempo, Des'ree-lite ballads and inconsistent quality make this is an exhausting listen over 90 minutes.

It's full of fascinating, stirring moments, but overall, Year of the Black Rainbow suffers just a little too much from its own grand, sprawling ambition.

Buoyantly produced, it finds the singer leaning a little too comfortably on the conversational Georgia drawl of his baritone, and the writer coming up a little shy on the sort of detail and wordplay that lifts a cliche.

Florence, Santigold and the usually brilliant Danny Brown do little more than tick boxes, and ultimately Long.Live.A$AP fails to match its hype with a coherent trend-setting statement.

Twin Atlantic no longer stand out enough from the host of similar power-pop and emo acts that have flooded the airwaves in recent years, and Free is depressingly characterised by unimaginative, one-paced hollers like The Ghost of Eddie and Time For You to Stand Up.

While it lacks focus and cohesive identity, the album Paul Banks named after himself does demonstrate that there's more to this artist than previous form suggests

The scattered approach showcased on this set needs polish and original thought to develop.

Linkin Park will always be a compelling and watchable entity. But Living Things doesn't deliver music as interesting or as arresting as what immediately preceded it. Which comes as both a surprise and, more importantly, a shame.

The lyrics aren't the only thing holding EFUNK back: Soul Clap's chugging pace drags on the heels of their most anthemic numbers.

+ will give Sheeran's rabid fanbase a lot to love, but it'll also make him an easy target for critics hungry for new directions in pop, as it fails to really gel the man's loves of folk and rap.

The lack of standout hits here is disappointing, but All of Me's Achilles heel is its conversational interludes.

Though not without its charms, Endlessly is too slight and uneven to impress unconditionally.

Though all are blessed with a wry and dusty charm that's hard to dislike, too many are rolled out in a way that seems more to do with autopilot than passion. Narrow Way and Duquesne Whistle mighty be jaunty toe-tappers but they're also examples of the lightweight fluff that blows around the album.

These sky-surfing legends may have another great album in 'em yet, but for all its intermittently irie moments, Into the Future isn't it.

By trying to interpret a whole new landscape and atmosphere, Howling Bells have compromised their strengths in an awkward attempt to force themselves into a new style.

California 37's peculiar teenage stance offers as many toe-curling moments as it does pleasant surprises.

Nick has a great pop voice--high and clear and strong. It isn’t a great rock voice though, and his desire to smash it into shape by spirited bellowing alone can curdle things, just as they should really start cooking.

The band's weakness is an unfortunate tendency to drift occasionally into MOR territory, and sometimes generic boy-meets-girl lyrics fail to keep the arrangements above water.

This swift follow-up, which portrays a band still with shoulder-shrugging faux-teenage inarticulacy high on their agenda, amidst a delivery of doped-out Ramones-y monomania which can make this album's 36 minutes feel like an hour.

Expectedly inconsistent, Almost Alice is a great idea some distance short of being properly realised.

There's no getting away from the fact that WTC 9/11 simply doesn't have the structural cohesion or magnitude of Different Trains--a comparison which Reich fans will inevitably draw.

Coconut’s acid-fried eclecticism occasionally strains for effect and lacks the brutish vigour of its predecessor. A commendably outré listen on any other terms, it’s still a sideways-shuffle that never fully convinces.

Big Troubles seem happy to drift along in a melancholic haze or a sun-drenched lackadaisical dream and let their well-produced but ultimately forgettable songs dissipate around them.

A serviceable but utterly derivative slice of twee electro-pop, the album quietly retreads the ground covered by Sufjan Stevens, The Postal Service and Frenchkiss labelmates Passion Pit, failing to form any identifiable shape of its own.

This is an imbalanced record, and one that leaves you frustrated rather than elated. But despite the blips, they have dished up at least two cerebral bangers here.

Sadly, the songs here are slight and flimsy. Most of them sound like blink-and-you’ll-miss-it backing tracks for under-performing American drama series, pleasant and wholesome as a high-street sandwich, but instantly forgettable.

It's neither particularly accessible nor a nostalgic feast for fans of 90s pop-punk. Instead, it seems like part of an as-yet-incomplete whole.