It’s a mixed manifestation of electronic pop.

Unfortunately, most of 20/20 falls into a rut; it sets the mood, but then fails to create tension.

This is a second album that genuinely builds upon its predecessor. Exile reinforces the feeling in modern pop that no other group sounds quite as hurt as Hurts.

There’s no real ‘wow factor’ to Talé despite its star guests. But it’s a loveable enough effort.

While some of this album is beautiful and delicate, at other times its vocal and musical honey smothers the intimacy of the lyrics.

You want the mix to jump and pound and excite. But it doesn’t, and the choruses feel hung out to dry. This makes for a frustrating listen, because the talent is there – damn, even the songs are there.

What remains is an adequate compilation of nostalgic sounds, largely void of Clark’s unique voice. Greater consistency would have worked wonders.

Metheny’s use of it here delivers a pale, expensive shadow of what a real band can achieve. The project doesn’t feel like it has longevity, and this release is for the hardcore only.

There is truly nothing edgy about this collection.

Marr’s guitar work can be fascinating--but it’s forever shadowed by less-appealing vocal work.

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

ANNA is strategic in its experimentation, but represents a fairly dramatic departure from its makers’ brand, so hats off to that.

A Moving Picture proves a more nakedly ambitious--in the humdrum sense of the word--follow-up, which struggles to strike the right balance between street cred and pop appeal.

On the whole, Collections is a misfire and proof that, sometimes, re-inventing the wheel doesn't always reap rewards.

Just occasionally the band drops hints that they might have a future beyond this loutish, two-dimensional debut.

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.

It feels rushed, like it needed more time for its many ingredients to blend.

While The Cast of Cheers are shameless rip-off merchants on more than some occasions here, there's evidently ability at work, and a decent ear for a catchy chorus or two.

More often, however, Orbits has too much going on rather than too little.

If it were only possible to turn down the vocals, The No Testament would be a work of greater spiritual, and indeed secular, interest.

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

It's safe, something of a retreat from past endeavours to a sound more suited to commercial returns in the present.

It's incredibly pretty, but ultimately lacking in memorable moments.

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.

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

Such dark lyrical tropes have served him well in the past, and even the blokey-but-sensitive shtick of his lovably clunky, WTF rhymes are part of a well-honed musical formula. But credit where it's due--he provides something for everyone.

For the most part this album, while as slickly produced as the classic pop it references, only faintly smoulders without igniting.

There's nothing tender here; clever it may be, but too clever for its own good.

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.

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.

As it stands, the rich resources Acheson has at his disposal are sadly compromised and the orchestra is indeed hidden rather than exposed.

It's exhausting, and somehow impatient. Swedish House Mafia don't earn their big moments, they throw them in whenever the ideas pot runs dry.

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

They're too bland, too safe and too boring.

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.

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

What scuppers Halcyon, though, is the sense that Ellie's still not nailed down her own identity. There's just too much bombast, and the magpie-like-production and big, booming arrangements swaddle rather than swathe her vocals.

While this is a confident and at times sharply written debut, there's little to suggest that Dog Is Dead bring anything new to the table.

Right now, for all its impressive fireworks, it feels hollow as its title.

Though its combative title suggests Khaled cares little for anybody's approval, Kiss the Ring ends up more of a formulaic slugging match than any collection of genuine rap prize-fighters really should.

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

The good news is that one of the most consistently entertaining pop-rock bands of the 1990s is back together. The bad news is that the album they've released to mark their comeback isn't quite a classic.

His improved state of mind, and the superior production on some of the tracks, does bring the music on occasion perilously close to the RnB blandness to which this is presumably supposed to provide an alternative.

At least five of these songs [out of twelve] should've remained on the cutting room floor.

Beside Putrifiers II's guitar-fuelled thrills are a number of moments that find Thee Oh See's catching their winklepinkers on the pavement as they attempt to side step into more experimental, psychedelic territory.

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.

Appreciating this album does admittedly require time and effort, which occasionally isn't repaid... But once you've settled into it, Yeasayer's Fragrant World is a wonderful place to explore.

Just Tell Me presents 17 cover versions of differing quality which don't gel as a cohesive listen, but it's not without standout interpretations.

Like many a "supergroup" before them, this one doesn't quite meet the expectations that their combined reputations create.

Francis is a trick-free troubadour and for all The Remedy's rather monotone approach, there may not be a more personal album in 2012.

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

Apart from the odd soulful moment and some clever production, there is nothing here that sets them apart from their obvious influences.

An impressive and varied second album, but one underpinned by noticeable troubles.

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.

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

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

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.

Fortune is never terrible. It just feels cripplingly pointless.

The first half of Trespassing offers a smorgasbord of succulent up-tempo pop. There are a couple of derivative cuts, but the highlights are tasty enough to compensate.... The album's second half is less entertaining.

Otherwise every passing second is a vocal battle against a declining attention span, like a clicked finger in the face, forever.

If you've heard one track, you've heard them all. But there are a few standouts.

Dirt City stands little hope of entertaining the masses (again). But its maker has outdone himself, presenting variety with commendable cohesion and experimenting where others might've chased trends for overdue commercial returns.

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 the dampest campfire hoedown you ever did hear.

She's an undemonstrative talent, certainly, but there's understated to the point of blending into the background – which is where much of Orangefarben sounds disappointingly at home.

Blue Slide Park ends up a charm-bereft everyman hip hop record merely ticking boxes required to shift units.

It's not groundbreaking, and it's not that interesting.

For a listener who's only been aware of Mraz by reputation, this is no instant-fix point of entry. It relies on past experiences, knowledge of what the artist is capable of rather than anything he delivers with consistency across these 12 songs.

A few surprisingly wishy-washy string-synths aside, it is, as always, hugely impressive but disappointingly cold and forbidding.

Despite occasional lapses into overproduced mess, the surprise here is their enthusiasm.

You could argue that A Joyful Noise is the album Madonna should be brave enough to make. But it might also be the case that it's the album that Gossip should have been brave enough not to.

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

They sound like a pub soul covers band allowed to let rip on a few originals.

Those glimpses on Perfect Symmetry of something flashier and sexier make this retreat to familiarity a somewhat saddening step backwards.

While no longer the carefree creatures of their early records, Mystery Jets sound as bracingly hit-and-miss as they've ever done on Radlands, and for that much alone we can be thankful.

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

If you're drawn to Battles' nimble melodic turmoil and general musical messiness, you may find some of these electro excursions to be hard work.

The sequencing seems illogical on first listen, but someone as dab-handed as Ward surely intended this, and the rollercoaster becomes easier to digest with each listen.

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

This self-titled album is never less than pleasant, but only rarely is it truly memorable.

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

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.

It's not so certain that Cowley's taste-making always succeeds, despite the overall optimistic vitality of his tunes.

There may be arguments for Rusko's moves here; it's just that they're not very well executed.

At its best Zoo prowls menacingly and intensely, shrouded in sheets of steely guitar and fogs of squall and distortion... [But] this mood-heavy mix doesn't always work.

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

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

Unconvincing and overbearing, it's like being ambushed by the cast of a Broadway rock musical.

There's much substance with the employment of piano, organ, synthesiser, guitar and horn solos, but the actual song structures and vocal performances don't share this same level of achievement.

Second album Waking Up is a set of polished arrangements so middle of the road they make Snow Patrol sound like Animal Collective.

It's fun, but not a lot to show for four years work.

Ultimately, Form & Control serves it purpose as a ready-made playlist for your next party, but perhaps the band's oversimplifying of its sound has stripped away some of its mystique in the process.

If there's a problem here it's how personal this album is, how bleak and heartbroken its protagonist appears. This is not music romanticising heartbreak, but the very sound of heartbreak itself.

There's just too much noise here, and not enough cohesion, for a singular identity to sing clearly.

Freedom of Speech shows that one of Britain's most intriguing hopes still has some serious thinking to do.

It's not that Gainsbourg is swallowed up by her band, more that she doesn't – or can't – rise to the occasion as a natural singer can... It still charms, though.

Points for trying something new, but it's hard to disagree with Lindstrøm's own assessment of the record as something of an experimental misfire.

A largely redundant – and frequently downright woeful – endeavour.