While Court Yard Hounds is a well-packaged and produced collection, its songs seem rather ordinary compared to Chicks material

It's a super-confident debut breadth-wise, but a misfire in terms of depth--it stretches too far and ends up light on substance and personality.

One wonders if those responsible for this platter of past-perishable pop mimicry, these clichéd regurgitations of ubiquitous motifs, are indeed the same Danes who wowed admirers of sparkly melodies and insatiable hooks only a single springtime equinox ago.

The Awakening is lacking the grandstanding moment it needs to elevate it above reserved recommendation--it's a safe, steady affair, but about as revelatory as a Chris de Burgh best-of.

Those expecting a worthy if belated sequel to "Movements," however, will be disappointed: even at its best, More! rarely exceeds inoffensiveness.

While lyrical simplicity is welcomed when attached to music that dazzles, here it regularly sounds predictable.

It's a sometimes perplexing, often very pretty excursion into the recent past of a pair of gifted musicians, but Archive 2003-2006 expectedly holds little appeal beyond a limited audience.

There is truly nothing edgy about this collection.

The Beginning is a depressing listen, not because the music's that bad, but because it implies that even the most successful pop producer on the planet can't afford to indulge in anything that might be construed as intelligent or interesting, lest the masses run away screaming in terror.

If you can be persuaded to root around for long enough you might occasionally bump into the odd moment that made Thee Oh Sees' brilliant Help album of 2009, or 2010's lopsided Warm Slime, so enjoyable – slapdash songwriting, slovenly hooks and prurient flights of fancy.

"I Was Never Gonna Turn Out Too Good" the lone standout on an otherwise turgid record, but that's only by virtue of its sheer oddness.

Eventually, their self-indulgence completely loses the listener. No matter how hard one might try to love this album--and one can try very hard--there's only disappointment at what could have been.

Santana's talent is compromised by a complacency to play these tracks as truly as possible.

The production--by chart-grabbing Fraser T Smith (James Morrison, Taio Cruz, Cee-Lo)--can only bring so much depth or variety to unadventurous songs which are bellowed and wailed with all the subtlety of Florence Welch giving birth to a rhino.

It's just 11 tracks of mediocre and easily forgettable American rock, devoid of any bells or whistles.

This album unfortunately fails to showcase his strengths, and proves something of an obstacle course for the listener to negotiate.

Fortune is never terrible. It just feels cripplingly pointless.

It is full of catchy melodies and hooks. It is extraordinarily lame. Think of Keane, and remove the grit.

A largely redundant – and frequently downright woeful – endeavour.

Counting cash – and stacks of it – seemingly continues to prove this rapper's primary concern, rather than a desire to significantly stretch the artform.

A joyless listen in and of itself, sure--but moreover, this is a puzzling eyesore exemplifying quite how this process of constructing and immediately normalising eccentricity can still have an appeal.

By and large The Place We Ran From falls well short of the left-of-centre power and eerie intimacy of Lightbody's heroes' music.

Despite occasional flashes of brilliance it’s a patchy, derivative work.

Sweet 7 doesn’t sell the Sugababes as individuals or as a brand.

A depressingly compromised second LP from an artist yet to meet his early promise.

Ultimately it's so much less than it could have been, given the talent involved.

Like Simple Minds, it's not too late for OMD to stride all the way back to greatness. But this album isn't even a stumble in the right direction, and the clock, as always, is ticking.

The slushy sentiments will click with a tweenager in the throes of a first crush--but anyone with life and love experience beyond passing notes around at the back of class is advised to pass on this collection of monochrome musings in favour of something with a heartbeat. Perhaps, even, something that rocks.