By the end of these 17 tracks the head is heavy with images of the Smash robots battle-rapping against a crew from whatever planet The Clangers call home.

The lyrics mingle optimism and deliberate naivety, with even the downer moments coming across as exultantly miserable rather than genuinely forlorn. Rhodes is undoubtedly sincere, but maybe at the expense of potential humour and irony.

If at times the impression left is too breezy (the elephant in the career that is You’re So Vain sounds almost embarrassed to be here), at others it’s extremely potent.

A disappointing return from the former Mercury champions.

Maddeningly tame, neither replicates the whiskey-soaked sleaze and instantly classic riffs that have earned Slash his deservedly legendary status. Thank goodness, then, for three reliable road warriors, who ride in on a much-needed rescue mission.

Ultimately, A Dramatic Turn of Events probably isn't too far from what this band would've created even with Portnoy in the ranks. It still sounds like a Dream Theater album, and that's all anyone's ever going to ask for.

Mine Is Yours occupies an unremarkable middle ground somewhere between their bluesy, abrasive tendencies and the kind of staidly proficient indie-rock that surely wasn't part of the plan to begin with.

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 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.

Perfectly serviceable, but this band missed their chance to make a third great album decades ago.

A ramshackle beast largely informed by the tension between the pair's aforementioned psychedelic styles.

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.

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

If there is a heaven, and if Tupac, Cobain, Presley et al made it through the gates, chances are they're consoling a wincing, visibly embarrassed Jackson, cursing his inability to bolt the demos drawer in Neverland's vaults just that little bit tighter.

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

There's very little drive in Junk of the Heart, just a messy selection of meandering verses that surely can't be the product of three years' work.

The wooziness is reflected in Adam’s voice, which is whisper-soft, quiet and nasal, like a man whose parents sleep lightly and have to get up early for work. All of which makes Ocean Eyes a frustrating listen, or an enchanting one, depending on your stomach for meadow-skipping whimsy.

With the exception of the always inventive playing of guitarist Wes Borland, here Limp Bizkit sound like a band whose time has passed. Given that this is a group that boorishly exemplified the empty materialism and crass self-centredness that lurked at nu-metal's core, this is surely no bad thing.

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

Despite the contemporary co-writes, in an age where Take That work with Stuart Price and Nicola Roberts embraces Diplo's electro cool, this album comes across as a selection of competent B sides surrounding the fantastic Starlight.

There weren't too many opportunities for Jones to arrange or conduct during the course of this project, which is angled towards the vocal performance, whether sung or rapped. Its instrumental contributions serve mostly as a backdrop to the posturings of its guests.

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.

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.

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

Despite their attempts to court the teenagers across the land, it's questionable whether this music has enough quality, variety and ingenuity to truly compete with others who have emerged from the talent hotbed of south Wales, let alone the rest of the world.

There's intelligence, individuality and character in abundance. But all too often it's caked in dollar-store body glitter and choked by feather boas.

These all-star gatherings are more fun for the artists than the listener.

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.