Ultimately ‘Fighting Demons’ works almost as a tribute record, gathering fragments of his undoubted genius. Whether it’s a true Juice WRLD album, though, is another matter.

In aping the sounds that made early rave great--hardcore, breaks and hard house--Vibert has sucked the soul from the genre leaving just a smattering of style. If this is an ode to rave, then it is a hollow one.

Over-produced but under-written, the combined cast of co-writers and producers have failed to knit together a cohesive whole. Plenty of these songs are pleasant enough, but there’s very little to mark an artist in their prime.

‘Music Of The Spheres’ is never less than listenable, but rarely raises the pulse.

The spark of unpredictability that defined his previous records is sadly lacking.

World Of Joy, ultimately, is impounded by its own musical influences.

This album captures an occasionally combustible but largely uncomfortable sound of a previously fearless and pioneering band caught in a crisis of confidence, overriding their own musical instincts to pursue an idealised version of themselves they picture in their own heads.

As a primer, it's pretty effective and the performances are occasionally absorbing, but it's hard to imagine anyone other than the most ardent completist getting excited about it.

Even an all-star cast can't save Caracal from its restrained atmosphere and overly polished production

Too much of Neontwang feels slight, as if the band is still beset by identity issues, still confused by the prospect of what they could be. The transition, then, is still under way. When it works, Neontwang is a worthy return, the sound of a band taking risks in ways their detractors could never fathom.

We really want to like Lantern for its originality; its bravery and its attempt to grasp a genuine uninhibited euphoria that isn't easy pull off. Sadly it just misses the mark way too often and leaves you with fleeting glimpses of what could have been a very exciting album.

In general Sirens is listenable and catchy, only it plays to an unexciting scene that is largely turning (like the victims of a Gorgon themselves) stagnant.

The brazen flows of Dagenham spitter, Devlin, shown on this outing don’t quite translate to the forced templates they lay on, meaning that the formula needs working.

Neither one thing or another, the lack of definition on the project results in something quietly rebellious, but curiously unsatisfying.

The main problem with ‘Changes’ is that it isn’t exciting or dynamic and suffers from dragging in places. Part of this is down to the lack of variation on the album.

A deeply mixed return, then, and perhaps not advisable as your first entry point to his solo work. We all know that Ian Brown can make waves; today he has chosen to make Ripples.

It’s a fairly middle-of-the-road indie record. It could do with a little more depth, a little more humanity.

It’s the ninth studio album to bear the Pumpkins brand, and probably the seventh that wouldn’t find a single track making most fans’ side-of-a-C90 best-of. But it delivers what it promises: songs by Billy Corgan that sound enough like the ones you recall loving as a teenager.

If anything, however, new album ‘Faith In The Future’ is simply too nice. The songwriting is sturdy and well-formed, leaning on his indie roots – you can hear ghosts of the Gallaghers, whispers of Chris Martin – without ever truly channelling something dangerous, or edgy. ... It just doesn’t raise the pulse, or quicken the blood-flow in a way you might long for.

9 Dead Alive demonstrates amazing talent, then--but the ideas and theme, as a whole, are a bit samey.

The darker, lilting tones of Oreja De Arena work better, but this album still sounds confused. As a result, its overall impact is diminished.

Serious though he may intend to be, through the combination of Williamson’s Mr. Angry rants and Andrew Fearn’s tinny keyboards, Sleaford Mods do have a tendency to sound like a bit of a novelty.

‘Under My Influence’ is a bold undertaking, but, at times, it feels unfinished. While many singles and supplementary songs showcase the band’s talent, much of the record weighs in as forgettable filler sounds that take some time in getting accustomed to.

Although the material demonstrates Vek’s undoubted talent, Luck can’t quite match our hopes--or, indeed, the quality of its predecessors.

What's frustrating is that it's too damn enjoyable and not quite derivative enough to actively hate.

The outer edges of this album are impressive, but why couldn’t they penetrate the main parts of these songs and this album more? Instead, they are eye-opening but ultimately useless ideas that must make way for the dry 808 beats we’re all too familiar with.

It's a record which feels like a grower but never manages to click.

Other than final track ‘A Certain Spirit’, the clearest crossover of irked techno and David Byrne-d, samba deconstruction, the melting pot (remember those aforementioned ingredients) that has gestated for five years ends up being served cold as gazpacho.

The punchy ‘Drink N Dance’ utilises ominous 80s synths, while ‘This Sunday’ is potent, and atmospheric. ‘Gracious’ is carefully finessed, more evidence of the duo’s world-building techniques. That said, though, there’s a huge amount here that simply passes you by. ‘Always Be My Fault’ is meandering, lacking structure, while songs like ‘Luv Bad Bitches’ and ‘Mile High Memories’ lack substance.

Whilst for the most part this jam-session approach results in captivating instrumentals and intriguing points of sonic experimentation, at times it can become rather muddled, confusing and drawn-out.

The mask of the brooding troubadour doesn’t quite fit: the LP is marred by below-par, uninspired vocals and rudimentary lyrics.

Most of the tracks’ narratives are undecipherable and consistently scatterbrained. Not to mention that the panoramic mixing of the guitars, while being a band trademark, make it difficult to focus on more than one aspect of a song at a time.

Even if the laid-back and relaxed atmospherics are endearing, there’s plenty of room to push the musical perimeters which the London duo fail to take advantage of.

It's nice to start off with but swiftly becoming a tad wet and ultimately a touch cloying.

While it does knock out some definite singalongs, sprinkling in some fun hooks and catchy structures, there is something missing beneath the veneer of theatricality. This is an album that hints at complexity, but it is inevitably overshadowed by Urie’s one-man-show.

This record sounds like every catchy guitar song you've ever heard.

With its sharply defined highs and curiously odd misses, there’s more than enough here for dedicated fans to sift through, to extrapolate new shades of Springsteen from. For the rest of us, though, there isn’t quite enough to hold our attention.

Lyrics like “I’ll stay young to be saved” (‘Be A Kid’) come across as self-indulgent and frontman Sam McTrusty’s reedy vocals get lost in menacing tracks like ‘I Am An Animal’.

There is more maturity this time around, with an easier flow, such that the songs gel better as an amalgam. It's a shame then that the songs themselves lack the commercial edge to capture any sustained attention, giving the album too much anonymity.

The only reasonable offering on 'How Does It Feel' is the multi-layered and kaleidoscopic lead single, 'Painted'. Elsewhere, it's the kind of standard by-the-numbers electro-pop that's likely to soundtrack your next visit to the local department store.

The moments of nu-disco are superb, yet are weighed down by the sometimes-cringey segments of auto-crooning.

An album that is often slight, and occasionally cartoonish. There’s a lingering feeling that not only can UK rap do a lot better, but so can Aitch.

While elements of ‘Every Shade of Blue’ may struggle to cut through its over-ambitious production value, the album is bound to translate well on the big stage regardless.

Sadly, this lack of innovation seriously dampens those moments of electronic beauty.

Darlings is a concrete mixer full of ideas, although it’s tricky to pinpoint if Drew’s actually laid the foundations of a decent record.

Some moments are impressive, like the eight-minute epic of a title track ‘Take Me Back To Eden’, which sprawls and writhes between textures and knows just when to spotlight frontman Vessel’s holy outpourings. ... But the issue is, this opus comes over an hour into the album, and follows a number of lengthy tracks that seem to be trying to do the same thing, but less successfully.

The over-riding impression is that this is a tired, conservative and weirdly insular album.

Foreverland embraces the clichés and largely follows a formula. Certain subject matter and song titles perpetuate a particular illusion and the middle of the road radio play has trickled in according to plan.

Longevity is often characterised by reinvention in music, yet The Ride stalls in its attempted inventiveness, instead finding success in its most pared down and familiar moments.

[Patience] boasts several colourless, uninspired tracks.

On occasion, the record feels quite lazy in its lyrical direction and yet too direct, falling into moments of cringe rather than what could have been perceived as powerful and fun.

It's not always pleasant, but in a funny way, it's quite compelling.

These 10 tracks continually buckle under the weight of Flowers' torrid lyrics, mind-numbing cliches, and woefully derivative song structures.

It’s obviously understandable to attempt to capitalise upon the success of your best-known hit but on This Is Acting, Sia loses sight of what made her such an interesting artist in the first place.

There are sludgy, down-tuned power chords, there are whiny lyrics about how life is constantly unfair (reminder: Korn frontman Jonathan Davis is 45 years old), there is even that vocal tic where Davis sort of cackles like a disturbed demon.

In short, on Hymns there’s something close to an excellent EP in amongst some of the very worst things ever to bear the Bloc Party name.

It has moments of greatness, some bits even a bit Animal Collective, but as a whole it doesn’t gel into an album you can lost in.

'Extinction Level Event 2' is often bloated and monotonous, making its one hour (plus!) run-time challenging to endure. What could be a colourful and important album is unequivocally tarnished by the tedious, repetitive, and needless opening seven tracks.

On Automaton, the band falters under the weight of its previous singles, leaving any possibility for chart success mired in a sound that comes across as tired and unoriginal, and the album listening experience as a monotonous ordeal.

The unerringly loyal will find enough here to sate a hunger for anthemic bobbins drenched in atmospheric production, but there’s little to match the handful of magical songs for which he is known.

It's not truly terrible, but it does feel akin to a musical version of King Kong Vs. Godzilla, two monsters decimating everything in their path until there's nothing left, except the back catalogues.

Courtesy of the blandly produced, overly-compressed vocal deliveries and guitar riffs from Jonas Brothers’ producer John Fields, the act all too easily fall into the inevitable trap of highly-structured song progressions backed by half-baked guitar solos on ‘Same Language’ and underwhelming chorus chants on ‘Kool’.

‘It’s Never Over’ is this band’s best TV On The Radio impression, and ‘Porno’ almost goes G-funk: a pleasant surprise. But undercooked electronics, impotent rhetoric, too-familiar crescendo-ing structures and an overall feeling that this needs further post-production attention render Reflektor an entirely substandard album.

A record of fireworks, but few surprises. The songs kept succinct, punchy, and direct; there’s no house production about-turns, no moments of revelation, just sheer, unadulterated Khaled. It’s like being strapped in to a rollercoaster – at points its exhilarating, at others terrifying, and by the end you’re eager for it to be over.

Unfortunately, the album barely reaches the most reasonable of expectations. The strength of their flawless magnum opus, 'Better Than Love', overshadows every other song on the LP.

Unfortunately, other than aiding nostalgia, there's not much else nice to say about The National Health.

For the most part, regrettably, Geography only showcases a producer out of his depth behind the mic.

One for the fanatical only.

Macklemore remains unsure of himself throughout, lacking the rapping skills and natural charisma needed to get things onto a surer footing. In the end, it’s a sadly fitting album title.

The music on 'Wax And Glue' shows potential, but the overall idea of the record is just too cluttered.

There’ve been worse assaults on the ears, that’s for sure. But for fans of the original eski sound, it’s a shame that Wiley has his eyes fixed too intently on his Ascent.

This album demonstrates that the desire disappeared long ago and that they were simply prolonging their career to delay the inevitable. For Hot Hot Heat, the fire has definitely gone out.

There’s barely a convincing lyric in the album and by the end you’re wondering whether the title itself has been chosen based on the sheer novelty.

It seems to fall between two stools, not supplying enough arena-filling arrogance while never truly indulging the more surprising elements of their record collections.

At worst, it’s forgettable--at others, it’s actually annoying in its repetition.

Lolloping along with little desire to vary pace or style, it is ultimately forgettable.

For the most part, though, this seems like a step in the wrong direction: a Nicki Minaj album from somebody who’s thoroughly fed up of being Nicki Minaj.

More Transworld Sport than Chariots Of Fire.

Considering the lucid, poignant albums to come to fruition from cabin writing retreats (Bon Iver’s ‘For Emma, Forever Ago’, Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Nebraska’ etc.)--Standards is an album that is almost completely devoid of such clarity and space.

The majority of Grateful is forgettable at best.

Hurts have always been pretty unabashed about their mainstream ambitions, which is fine, but as they explore them further, it becomes easier to strip away the affectations and see them for what they truly are: a cheesy pop band.

Separation is writ large across the themes of Ghost Stories--and knowing what came next in Martin’s personal life, perhaps that was always to be expected. What’s not is just how lifeless so much of this material is, how instantly forgettable these songs are.

Low In High School feels confused, misplaced, and tedious.

There simply isn’t much to latch on to here, and certainly nothing to suggest that Still Corners aren’t completely out of ideas.

One thing is for certain: they've produced a much more pop orientated album. Clash isn't anti-pop, but we are anticheese.

The Great Escape Artist is one-paced, bloodless, and frequently blighted by Dave Navarro's ersatz Edge-isms.

44/876 is like a hilarious fever dream somehow brought to life. Not entirely awful.

A chilling example of naked ambition prioritising production style over songwriting substance.

It's identikit jangle so packed with perfectly poised personality that I find it hard to take it even vaguely seriously.

The songs are trite punk workouts without any real imagination and, whilst there's a reasonable amount of endeavour and vigour, they're unlikely to raise anything other than idle curiosity amongst the curious idle.

There are some surprising hooks amongst predominantly ugly arrangements, and its ambition is admirable, but Plowing… proves woefully lacking in coherency, and fails as its makers’ next evolution.

Feels curiously unfocussed, and lacking in purpose.

Major Lazer’s best songs have always acted as overstimulating sugar-rushes - but the formula that was once fresh and boundary-pushing for mainstream pop now sounds outdated.

The Dreaming Room is an enormously frustrating record, as Mvula clearly has it in her to be an incredible artist. But at this point in her career, she remains a orchestra in need of a conductor.

At its best, Roaring 20s is clumsy and awkward. At its worst, it’s hectoring and condescending.

[An] offensively dull record.

Enter Shikari have the tools and drive to create something potentially mind-blowing, it’s just that they fell well short of the mark on this occasion.

The whole exercise seems so carefully crafted and desperately needy that any joy found within The Weight Of Your Love wears off the more you play it.