I Love You, Dude feels as blunt and oafish as its name, and weirdly dated in its sonic palette. Sporadically engaging, but sadly nothing more.

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.

It's All Real continues along the same lines: lush production, low-key bleeps and bloops, a hushed, lovelorn 2am ambience.

Their commercial star has long since waned, but there is enough here to suggest that Gomez's creative light still flickers on.

Production is loud and punchy and even the quiet bits aren't quiet, which makes all sixteen tracks in one sitting a bit like hard work.

His camp fire ramblings and angry rants soon become tiresome with much of Turner's fourth album feeling like material he has trod before.

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

Suck It And See is not a disappointment, because we've learned never to expect the Monkeys' next move, but it's not half as fun as we'd like it to be.

Despite the gloriously odd decision to place Treasures--a piece of music as fragile as the materialistic lifestyles it attacks--first in the tracklisting, there are no real surprises.

A grandiose, instrumental finale, they're a reminder of the divinity that Moby was once capable of.

The grooves might be intelligently crafted, with plenty of interesting rhythmical quirks throughout, but the songs themselves hold little water.

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

If that's not your bag, then this won't convert you, but if intrigue you have; then check it out.

This schizophrenic album will frustrate purists and sate pop kids.

Despite his obvious talents as a pop-soul vocalist, you're left with the impression that Woon is far more interesting when he's wearing his producer hat, but we'll keep a sturdy eye on his every move regardless.

Alas, a good third of the album meanders and there's a drab formlessness to his sonic fog. Fascinating but flawed.

All the usual suspects are in place as you would suspect from a band with, let's be honest, not that many hits of the great variety.

Ultimately, the songwriting isn't quite weighty enough to sustain a full album. Worth a check if you're a previous fan.

It wears thin over the course of an album, and an appreciation for Eighties synth-pop is a must, but for a band in their thirty-fourth year, the League are still on good form.

It's all pleasant enough, but is clearly trying to be something it isn't, coming off rather shallow and lightweight as a result.

It feels like a personal journey through the past on his part, and a genuine tribute from those who've contributed.

The problem with any soundtrack is that, in isolation, something gets lost and there's no exception here, but it serves as a showcase for a virtuoso performer with the dexterity to excel within any discipline.

A fine line between unpredictable flair and china shop bull.

Patchy with flashes of killer bee sting.

Collapse Into Now suffers somewhat. It's good. But it's no Reckoning. Or Document. Or Automatic For The People. Or...

This is cheerful childhood innocence come to life - candy-floss dreams and rainbow rivers.

The Golden Age ultimately comes across as try-hard penthouse party than wild warehouse rave.

Nothing here transcends either songwriter's back catalogue, but Jonny is a welcome blast of warmth that shows the fires still burn bright.