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

Several perfectly agreeable songs are unexpectedly hijacked by a cacophonous onslaught of instruments, with Finnish percussionist Samuli Kosminen setting the furious pace.

Tennis may have sailed a great distance to bring about the inspiration for Cape Dory, but a similarly epic voyage of composition would have yielded far better results here. As it stands, it's remarkably unremarkable.

If only there was more drama of this sort here, and a little less schmaltz, to bolster Ring's talent as an arranger and a producer.

Ross and Reznor receive A grades for effort, and commendations for their execution of this most-malevolent of soundtracks; but Dragon Tattoo is such an exhausting listen that one might well switch to the music from Arthur Christmas before the fine, Ferry-penned finale comes into view.

This utterly unnecessary but partially satisfying "complete" (says the sticker on the sleeve) singles collection manages to fall at the first hurdle by not including their first (and best) 12" from debut album Definitely Maybe, the shameless cocaine elegy Columbia.

Early trio Fembot, the single Dancing on My Own and Cry When You Get Older are scorchingly catchy, and laced with Robyn's familiar cordial of sparkling hook mixed with unutterable poignancy. The thing is, it's alarming when the first instalment of a trilogy houses so much filler.

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

Harcourt is a singer of uncommon charm, and Lustre is a welcome reminder that when he's on top of his game--which he is for roughly half the record--you'll want for little else.

This is all grandeur without any grace.

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.

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.

This should have been a fiery celebration of three decades of waving the ragged punk rock banner; instead, it's a laurel-resting plodder.

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.

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

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.

Whatever your take on the chillwave phenomenon--that brand of overexposed, Polaroid pop mining childhood memories kick-started (arguably) by Animal Collective's influential album Merriweather Post Pavilion--it's a conversation that's happened, and Equatorial Ultravox does little to further the debate.

Here the daughter of bossa nova creator Joao Gilberto has made an album that either drowns in its own sensuousness and sentimentality.

He's delivered a sincerely meant yet curiously staid and pedestrian tribute.

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.

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

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

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.

Over-familiarity with Barnes' recent oeuvre aside, the material on False Priest just isn't as strong as the songs that comprise those other records.

This feels like an album by, for and about himself.

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.

The ballads don't quite work--I'm Not Blue and Russell's Ain't You Even Gonna Cry sound detached and forced, more like excerpts from a musical than songs in their own right. On the more upbeat numbers, though, she's terrific.