With a 19-track span and a colossal guest cast, not everything on ‘BLOCKBUSTA’ lands. There’s a feeling sometimes that these collaborations were done separately and then spliced together, with some moments lacking cohesion, or a sense of chemistry. ‘HOMAGE’ with Kodak Black feels flat, for example, while the record’s eclecticism prevents ‘BLOCKBUSTA’ from truly coalescing. That said, there are moments of real bravery.

To account for the offensively retrospective nature of this trawl of commonplace dance-floor garbage (we're talking Coldplay, Candi Staton and Justice), I must assume, first, that they spent the last two years in a timewarp somewhere between 1993 and 2006. And secondly, that they spent this time in trashy commercial nightclubs, where glowsticks never die, dancefloors rotate and there's a price reduction for hen parties.

Partly because it's so painfully eager to please. Sonorous sermons that really should hit home--delivered in an unseasoned multilingual mishmash of tongues (Spanish, Italian, Portuguese, English)--are unflattered by the ersatz backdrop of cheesy latin pop, dire orchestral muzak and (heavens preserve us) Meat Loaf-esque '70s prog.

More Transworld Sport than Chariots Of Fire.

While there’s nothing particularly original or ground-breaking about this debut, CATB is a band that’s mastered the art of writing tunes that connect with an audience, and at a time when commercial rock is, apparently, at a particularly low ebb, that could serve them very well.

Whilst openly influenced by the past, an album that bears the capacity to pioneer into the future--eloquent and elegant.

So, whilst ‘Animal’ endangered no creative boundaries, there’s no denying that autoKratz track the footsteps of their predecessors with great panache.

‘Everything I Thought It Was’ can sometimes be forgettable across its 18-track largesse, while thematically it feels bunched around a cluster of feelings.

As his flow goes off at a regular double time that his chart-scaling peers can only dislocate their jaws for, Dizzee’s personality shrinks into a tediously shallow pool of female ogling, obeying your thirst and his latest holiday snaps.

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

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.

‘Come Home The Kids Miss You’ illustrates that he’s not quite there yet, but he’s certainly Justified.

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.

PJ Geissinger boosts his refinement, despite not being a slave to technicality, with no surrendering of dancefloor rawness.

This latest offering is meandering chirpy slobber that sounds more boy band than ever.

Heartfelt, impassioned and sincere, Mona are reaching for the skies--and taking you with them!

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

Continual evolutions has pushed them away from their roots, feeling less like a band and more like a committee, marking out different strategies without truly owning one themselves.

The three-year hiatus has been worth the largely triumphant return.

Kodaline illustrate all the ingredients for greatness, with many a swooning chorus to invoke a thousand festival lighters held aloft.

Part of the problem is that Diplo has never done subtlety. He’s in his element when blasting vuvuzelas onstage, working with cliff-edge drops and acres of bass frequencies. Out on the open plains of songwriting he often feels lost, resulting in some startling lyrical simplicity.

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.

Green is never going to be a gritty rapper--but even taken as a straight-up pop-rap record, Growing Up In Public is disappointingly tame.

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.

Additions such as Kash Doll and Juicy J are perfect on paper, but beyond justifying their individual presence in the rap realm, do little to save a project which unfortunately suffers from the sophomore slump.

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

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.

‘TM’ feels like a classic BROCKHAMPTON record. Immaculate production, genre shapeshifting, and some of the cleanest verses from the group in quite some time. There’s no filler on the record either – just eleven tracks of pure BH instant classics.