They didn't want whatever their next album was to be predictable, and while A Thousand Suns might have emerged by accident compared to previous LPs, it's certainly a far from plays-to-perceived-type affair.

There was a question mark over whether Hamilton's muse would have been better served by adopting a new moniker to go with this band. It's not a question of him stepping away from an impressive legacy, rather giving him the freedom to fully explore his creative urges.

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.

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

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.

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.

This album’s calling card, Sea Change, starts so well that the rest of the album fades in its shadow.

It's a warming blanket of an album, here for you to wrap up in. However, beneath an enchanting surface there's not much to warrant being played over and over again.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

It comprises 11 tracks that sound like intros in search of songs. It is bland of lyric and tinny of sound. The rhythms plod alarmingly.

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.

Inevitably, this turns Here I Am into a bit of a grab-bag in its latter stages, but it's a grab-bag that only Tulisa Contostavlos could claim not to find some pleasure in.

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.

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 a mixed manifestation of electronic pop.

The mid-section lets him down, slumping into the bad habits of his debut solo album.

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

Portamento is simplicity redux, to the point of composing songs that sound too alike, and too like the last album.

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.

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.

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.