Across its 10 tracks, the album focuses more on the complete experience than unexpected instances of sidestepping intrigue.

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

While it has it moments, Sheezus is largely devoid of Allen’s pragmatic charm of 10 years ago.

At times her deliberate vocal style disconnects the listener, and one hopes as Green’s career progresses, she trades in the allegories for something a bit more emotionally inclusive.

The album’s lacking that one standout moment to make it a truly transformative experience. Still, the scope and ambition are to be applauded, and it’s a treat to take a voyage around his mind and beyond.

There are Pixies fans that would have preferred another ‘Doolittle’ instead, but Indie Cindy isn’t bad, not bad at all.

Throwaway fun, for sure, but throwaway all the same.

There are enough moments of musical eclecticism here to suggest that Built On Glass is his solid starting point, rather than a definitive statement.

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.

It’s a jarring listen from start to finish, but worth sifting.

The first half of the LP is phenomenal.... Despite some scorching vocal interplay, there’s a noticeable drop in quality on later tracks.

Kaiser Chiefs fall further into the abyss of bands that have little new to offer in a current musical climate where progression is more closely measured than ever.

This is cheap theatrics masquerading as inspired art.

Herring’s growling vocals prevent proceedings from becoming too gloopy or nostalgic, and make Singles a new-wave treasure.

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

Teeth Dreams is the New Yorkers’ burliest record to date, less feel-good and chorus-driven than previous efforts, but there’s still much to love

There’s quiet beauty here.

For all its lack of idiosyncrasies, however, there’s a credibly unashamed attitude to creating perfectly fine pop songs.

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.

It’s patchy then, but there’s enough quality here to suggest Croll is capable of better things in the future.

Although Supermodel is derivative, it’s more often inventively imitative, rather than devolving into out-and-out mimicry.

Pharrell isn’t raising the game on G I R L--it’s a thoughtful, imaginative unit-shifter with some sincere themes running through it. But “different”? Not quite.

Intimate moments, however, like the haunting, heartbroken folk of ‘Tightwire’ show how primal this fourth studio collection could have been.

It makes for a focused, solid offering.

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.

It’s not a bad record by any stretch, albeit one where the turgid does bump ugly against the terrific.

Dear River is an interesting collection but, while pretty, these songs sometimes sound a little too slick or obvious.

Tracks still miss on occasions, and Glover writes with such self-awareness that the listener can regard him as a full-of-himself show-off, someone who believes he deserves musical success just because he’s achieved it in television.

Despite lending his rich, soulful vocals to an eclectic collection of tracks, including versions of songs originally by Coldplay and Wye Oak, the streamlined, country-tinged production waters the songs down.

Whilst previous albums were energetic and exuberant in scope, Eve largely lacks the duo’s trademark vigour and moments of originality.

Some decent-enough songs on an overly long album mostly containing sub-par tracks from an artist capable of much more.

Not a great pop album, then, but certainly the product of a great pop star.

Some may find something deep and spiritual amongst the cuts on Outside, but it just makes this reviewer want to stay indoors.

A fine sound indeed, but one that could have been better with a shade more variety injected into proceedings.

Repent Replenish Repeat is their most mixed work to date.

‘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.

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

Easy to absorb musically and easy to ignore lyrically, Loud Like Love is 50 minutes of simply okay alt-rock.

Even at its worst this hotchpotch collection is pleasant fare.

Loose vocals meander through the whirling haze, the album more suited to intimate, personal listening rather than gatherings in the sun.

This is an auspicious start, but it too often seems that Samaris lack the inherent ability to fully realise their ambitions.

Reid’s soundtrack is vibrant, but it can’t save the album from its own tedium.

Cerulean Salt isn’t boundary breaking, but it possesses qualities enough to leave one charmed, if not consistently captivated.

Running to an hour long, Magna Carta becomes exhausting, bumping familiar motifs with such frequency that, as the album nears its close, the senses feel entirely numbed.

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.

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.

Ice On The Dune is patchy, and shows little progression from 2008 debut, ‘Walking On A Dream’.

It’s a dispiriting affair--a mishmash of glam rock, lad rock and heavier indie rock that fails to ignite.

Random Access Memories confuses, disappoints and grates.

The results here feel somewhat less spirited.

As unconventional in approach as ever, the set extrapolates from their previous ventures and results in a confident and competent continuation of established qualities.

For all of John Kowalski and Rian Trench’s accomplished textures and impressive ’80s sci-fi sheen, it’s these [songs "Happiness Is A Warm Spacestation" and "A Sky Darkly"] simmering, slow burning heavyweights that give Supermigration the thunder it needs.

At their best though, Junip’s exotic folk gems have a slow-burning charm and are an impressive step forward from Gonzalez’s easy listening cover versions.

The songs are simple sing-alongs with some lovely hooks--but trying to open his sound to random ideas and new styles just doesn’t seem to suit.

Major Lazer stands for firing on an all cylinders but doesn’t warn against the oomph taking leave of absence, though it does play off the shoulder of the first LP just lovely.

A pleasant, occasionally saccharine listen.

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.

Useful, thrown-back fun, comfortable off the cutting edge.

It will inspire obsessive fandom and moisten a few eyes, but Henson’s voice is something of an acquired taste.

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

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.

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 offensive nor inventive this album is a bit like a bag of Rainbow Drops; thrillingly pretty but ultimately full of air.

An interesting experiment.

[An] offensively dull record.

The album wears a multitude of influences on its sleeve, containing elements of hip-hop, house, disco and funk, but ultimately there is a distinct lack of variation amongst the thirteen tracks.

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

At times the effects are superb.... However, there are wobbles with the quality control.

One wonders if the venture should have reached out to the band's full catalogue, but it remains an adventurous extension for those who hold them dear.

It's a shame, then, that these creations occasionally meander into somewhat monotonous territories.

Hard to fault but not the progress we hoped for.

There's nothing here to write home about but it should make a nice stocking filler for Mum.

While every track on The Haunted Man is brimming with invention, there's little to keep you coming back for repeat listens.

Overall it's a robust, respectable detour but will leave some fans pining for the smoky chanteuse of old.

Everyone involved on this slab of hertz has brought far too much to the table over the years to dismiss this and the record really works.

It's a bold and stark opus worthy of attention, if your attention span is long enough.

They're still settling in at the start line, prescribing rose-tinted glasses that could very well divide listeners.

Guaranteed to make you cry sugar-coated tears or vomit Care Bears depending on your tastes.

An honorable effort in what they do best.

Pure pop is an unforgiving master and a slight dip in quality results in the flaccid 'Patient' sounding like a blighted Go West off-cut. Fitfully good.

Enthusiasts will salivate over another uncovering of tainted treasure.

Surprising and satisfying, we'll even try to forgive the spoken word interlude.

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

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

["Night and Day" and "Flutes"] are glimmers of liveliness on an otherwise decedent record.

Valtari is glistening, subliminal and sounds as if it's balanced on a falling raindrop.

The only maturity in their sound is towards a more ambient quarter. Elevator music not quite, but rising out of the background might be an issue.

The hallmarks of Simian Mobile Disco are present - huge beats and house loops take centre-stage - but many of the tracks just feel like they're missing a vital component.

Most of these tunes are neither dog turd nor diamond. They're decent-ish disco-punk stompers sold by the vocal.

It all feels a little weary and, whilst there's clear commitment and execution, the material suddenly sounds oh so dated.

Good, but for completists.

An honest and admirable collection that merits some attention.

[Wonky has] not improved on any of their previous work. They are merely chasing the shadows cast from their own trademarked head torches.

It's far from perfect - 'Ghost Note' sounds horribly like Skrillex in places - but there [are] enough interesting sonic detours to suggest that these agitators of sound are more than just another over-hyped gimmick band.

Studio gloss and sanitised drums too often leave things sounding a little safe.

More Transworld Sport than Chariots Of Fire.

Unfortunately, the resultant package is very cleverly constructed and yet maddeningly dull.

An album that could be the soundtrack to the most fucked-up cowboy movie yet to be made.