‘Blood, Hair and Eyeballs’ is a level, if somewhat uninteresting, addition to the Alkaline Trio lexicon. Fans will find pockets of the band they fell in love with, while less seasoned followers may be better served diving deeper into the back catalogue instead.

For those to whom Courtney’s songwriting is a soothing balm, there is plenty to like here - but there’s a sense of creative inertia that means it’s a difficult record to truly love.

Fans will hear echoes of his best work, but for most this is a stale, uninspired outing for the legendary figure.

For the most part, it’s instead a case of either too much, or not enough. By stripping the layers back and presenting the songs in a wholly straightforward manner - slick, with Julie’s voice centered as if she’s embarking on a perfect three-minute pop song - flaws appear where they shouldn’t exist.

Their formula is tastefully broken up by frantic drums on ‘CRACK METAL’, unsettling synths on ‘HATEFUL’ and the twisted pop of ‘ASHAMED’ that soars with the most memorable chorus on the record. Unfortunately, that chorus is an outlier on an album that can wash past with as much staying power as candyfloss in a puddle.

Weak and boring are never words we’d have ever thought apply to Poppy’s music, but alas here we are – hoping for the ‘Zag’ to come.

‘Defeat’ alone clocks up a gargantuan 22 minutes runtime. Similarly, ‘Magicians From Baltimore’ could have been a wonderfully tight piece but overstays its welcome at almost 10 minutes. Still, the blissed-out, spage age ‘Genie’s Open’ and the funky prog of ‘Gem & I’ provide at least a partial argument in favour.

‘End of the Day’ feels like a long, slow goodbye to her old life; elegant and, given the context, elegaic.

Yes, ‘Club Romantech’ is fun, albeit superficially - supercharged by pulsating house that would perhaps be irresistible only under very specific, very inebriated conditions in 2012.

There’s a solid background of obviously skilled musicianship on fifth LP ‘One Man Band’, but even on the snarl of ‘Never Taking Me Alive’, it all feels very safe.

A record which clearly finds contentment in its sonic solitude.

For a record titled ‘Messy’ it could ironically do with being a little less neat and tidy.

Where the distinctly Strokes-y melancholy of ‘Dead Air’, or the darker stalk of the Matt Helders-featuring ‘Thoughtful Distress’ succeed, others (‘Home Again’, ‘Old Man’) are throwaway jangles that feel like AHJ-by-numbers.

Homely and familiar in its sound for the most part, ‘My Mind Wanders…’ is a smooth ride of buttery emotional grandiosity and infectious London pop that sits somewhere between Paloma, Adele and Jess Glynne, with enough attitude and bravery to modernise these prevailing and reliable British tropes within soul-pop.

There’s a perfectly fine indie-rock record here, if only it were a little less obfuscated by an aim it doesn’t quite achieve.

‘Drop Cherries’ may be a soothing depiction of a relationship’s simple moments, but this simplicity does leave the listener wanting more, and its poignancy often lacks any punch.

The electronic beat of ‘METALIZM’, with its winding guitars and chanting vocals echoing their melody verbatim, comes over a little too recent-era Muse than anyone needs. But what, on the surface, is mostly a fun, noisy collection does also offer an infinite rabbit hole to dive down.

Like many other soundtracks, ‘Fantasy’ creates a mood - nostalgic; euphoric - and there’s a clear thread throughout that ties these thirteen tracks together. But soundtracks are also often intended to feature in the background, and ultimately ‘Fantasy’ too easily fades into it.

Expectations [are] built by her collaborators - who aided artists like Dua and Kylie in carving revered pop niches - weigh detrimentally on the record: it doesn’t push itself nearly as far. Yet, undeniably, it’s a dependable, invigorating debut.

A mish-mash of sounds, picked up magpie-style to create something which consistently skirts the line between warm and distant, familiar and disconcerting, hypnotic and, well, irritating.

It’s all washed over with a layer of fuzz, the distorted sound making it impossible to discern precisely what’s going on - which is, one would imagine, precisely the point.

At times, their ambition really clicks into place (the euphoric bounce of ‘Smoking Weed Alone’, for example), but at others, it feels a bit muddled. Their ambition is undoubtedly to be applauded, but this one’s a bit of a mixed bag.

There are plenty of good ideas across ‘Suckerpunch’. It just could’ve done with fewer bad ones.

The LA quintet’s third album doesn’t quite explode as much as it hopes to, though a few songs threaten to, largely the acid-tongued, grinding ‘Roadkill’ and the vintage-sounding title track.

‘(self-titled)’ is Vegemite: the same, but different. When he strips it right back - ‘Prior Warning’, with its bleak reminiscing reflected by a sonic hark back to the London scene in which he made his early name, and the stark ‘Dangerous Game’, where Marcus’ voice allowed to linger for just the right amount of time - there’s a warm quality to his songwriting that seeps through.

‘Spark’ presents a jarring change: not one from that familiar warmth to icy cold, but only halfway, a sort of uncomfortable mild chill.

Its wares pick up where its predecessor left off but without adding too much extra to the mix.

The last third of the record is more streamlined, with the sweeping, subtly metallic ‘Kill Or Be Killed’ offering a welcome throwback to the days when Muse were at their best, but it’s not enough to redeem this all-too-OTT offering.

It’s not a bad record, but it’s not quite there.

Given that the various members of Hot Chip have various side-hustles and secondary creative outlets, it’s a little surprising how much of ‘Freakout / Release’ sounds quite this forced.

This is an album that asks for patience, and only on occasion is it duly rewarded.

‘graves’ may not be a huge musical departure, but it’s a sign Purity Ring still have ideas left in them yet.

Despite the album featuring several enjoyable moments, though, the listener is left feeling that it’s somewhat rambling and unfocused, and could possibly have benefited from the band leaving themselves more time for their ideas to gestate.

It’s a largely hit-and-miss pop record.

Their knack for incredible hooks is still there (see ‘Holiday’, the very definition of an earworm), but the effortless fun seems to have fallen by the wayside.

‘Unlimited Love’ certainly won’t win over the naysayers. As the laid-back funk and wordplay of ‘Poster Child’ attests, all their usual tropes are present and correct, meaning whatever your view on the Chili Peppers, this record will only confirm it.

For while standout ‘These Depopulate Hours’ fizzes with what has made the Glasgow group so inviting in the past - a bubbling menace underpinning everything thanks to a screaming synth - and ‘What Makes You A Man’ employs curious sounds to back its ‘80s influences, it’s not matched by what’s found elsewhere.

A mixed bag.

It’s either aural comfort food, or all just a bit, well, obvious. It’s written to a formula for sure. But it’s one that’s served them well, nevertheless.

His perfectly serviceable croon is not quite strong enough to carry it across 16 long tracks. If only he’d given ‘Lightning People’ to Liam Gallagher, it might well have been the soundtrack of the summer. Moments of greatness are plentiful, but ‘Fever Dreams…’ shines brightest when Marr lets his guitar do the talking.

All in all, the blanketing lime-lit production, the in-your-face ’60s nostalgia, the five-sugars-in-the-tea gooiness of it all may be too cloying for some, but Miles Kane has been so upfront about these musical influences, and for so long, that one can only admire him for so faithfully embodying them.

A puzzling, and largely forgettable collection.

With ‘Fragments’, Bonobo is as listenable as ever. But this locked groove is one he seems too comfortable in. Once you hear where he can go, there’s a frustrating desire to see him latch on to that fragment of himself rather than the familiar.

The record spans from spoken word to ‘70s funk and ‘80s glam rock, dabbling in balladry and power pop. It may not be the most polished or serious piece of art to emerge from the pandemic, but it’s impossible to deny the sheer amount of personality and unashamed frivolity bubbling out of ‘Transparency’.

This is handsome, but not essential.

There’s enough for fans to enjoy across ‘Lifeforms’, but it is not as lofty as it perhaps thinks itself to be.

The instrumentals are less head-on, giving way to subtleties that are new for WWPJ as intricate guitar lines meander alongside the vocal melodies, the touchpoint with the rest of the band’s back catalogue. The less dense sound swings between lightening the tone and turning it far more melancholy.

Alexis Taylor’s discovery and consequent understanding of the importance of religion and its expansive scriptures are well captured in this reflective release.

Her detached, precise narration leaves little to hold onto, and over 15 tracks, you begin to long for a little more emotion. Still, these productions are dark, atmospheric - she knows exactly how to conjure up a mood. It’s just that it’s slightly too forbidding to ever fully feel at home.

It's in the middle where the album begins to sag, thanks to some monotonous backings and noticeably weaker hooks ('Remote Control'/'Tell the Vision') which lead the runtime to become alarmingly apparent, before strong features on 'Keep My Spirit Alive', 'Moon' and 'Pure Souls' further begin to force Kanye awkwardly into the background on his own album. He positions himself closer to the spotlight towards the final third.

‘Into The Blue’ largely finds itself coasting on one level. The standouts are the songs that break out of the formula.

‘Deep States’ provides, perhaps unsurprisingly, a difficult listen at times, weighed down as it is by its overwhelming lyrical bluster. Penultimate track ‘Legal Ghosts’ is however an unexpected moment of melodic tenderness - this elusive tale of loss revealing a soft underbelly beneath this otherwise bristly, tough-skinned offering.

On ‘Baw Baw Black Sheep’, Rejjie Snow reaches for a more conceptual take on his laid-back sound, but stumbles on the execution.

‘It Won’t Always Be Like This’ is inexplicably reanimating the era’s penchant for plodding, drive-time indie-rock.

While its inconsistencies might betray the circumstances of its creation, it’s comforting to know that The Go! Team’s defiant experimentalism remains undiminished.

For all the immediacy of these tracks, the core of others can get lost: on ‘Pass’, she perseveres through changing seasons and a tornado, yet ultimately a high-pitched, burbling synthesiser is the obstacle that proves too much, distracting from the atmosphere that’s been so carefully cultivated.

The material on offer ranges from the piano balladry of ‘The Cruise Room’ to the ‘80s synth pop of ‘Best In Me’ - in other words, every flavour John Grant has to offer. And that’s an exciting prospect on paper, so it’s a shame that the record frequently suffers from songs too long by half.

Whimsical songs about stormy weather and journeying across the United States are sweet enough, but Max Bloom’s virtuous desire for simple arrangements and affected naivety is often to his detriment, sounding pedestrian at best.

Whether down to Erika’s understated vocal, or the shallow pool from which many of the musical textures come, things do elsewhere get a little samey. A shame, as ‘Sensational’ starts so bright.

While the studio’s energy is palpable on record, ‘Delta Kream’ is likely to appeal mostly to Dan and Patrick’s fellow blues nerds over anyone else.

There are a couple of sweet spots on ‘Ice Melt’ in the form of the shimmering ‘Balloon’ and the creamy ending title-track, but not enough to warrant a whole album’s worth of material from what could have easily been shaved down to an EP.

We’re left with a contrast that never quite works. Instead, it’s where the concept is applied metaphorically that ‘Van Weezer’ finds some green shoots.

‘Typhoons’ occasionally misses the mark: the space created by the pair’s more chilled sonic approach isn’t filled. The songs here may be more melodic, more complex even on paper, but in reality there’s little there to truly grab hold of.

Sure, with ‘This Is Really Going To Hurt’, Flyte have successfully echoed the sounds of the past, but it’s all about as paper-thin as a yellow-hued Instagram filter.

La Femme toss so many weird and interesting ideas against the wall, that for every gorgeous moment that sticks, there’s an awkward miss.

The issue is that, in conflating deliberation with maturity, ‘Today We’re the Greatest’ ends up feeling a little bit middle-of-the-road.

Although accomplished in its tone, ‘I Won’t Care How You Remember Me’ longs for dynamic crescendos to differentiate the album’s eleven tracks, no matter how pleasant they may be.

‘When You See Yourself’ sounds like a jolt back into something potentially promising: there could still be life in the old Kings yet.

The in-demand singer-songwriter-producer primes himself for new heights here - tapping into the hedonistic spirit of Studio 54, while applying a gloss that is very much of today.

Winding orchestral flights propel ‘Innocent Weight’, in part redeeming an effort that covers little in the way of new ground, while timely lyrical takes command attention yet lack the frequency to shake off neighbouring songs sinking under their own unwieldy mass.

Black Country, New Road’s seriousness and determined intellectualism is sometimes to their detriment.

TV Priest's debut is good but not necessarily enough to poke through the maelstrom quiet yet.

Not one for anyone who’s not already won over by the pair’s particular charms.

‘Petrichor’ is a passion project, all about indulging the kinds of whims that don’t fit the Hawk and a Hacksaw mould. On that front, she’s succeeded.

There are occasional flickers of inspiration - see the maximalist rework of ‘Elite’ from Blanck Mass and the minimalist ‘Teenager’ that Robert Smith contributed - but otherwise, you have to hope that everybody involved enjoyed putting Black Stallion together, because it ain’t much fun to listen to.

The Leeds-based group’s long-delayed debut might not offer much in variety (in short, if you’re into a combination of those groups’ [Gengahr, Bombay Bicycle Club or alt-J] sounds, you’re going to love it), but in our current long, dark winter nights there’s a nostalgic tint to the songs on offer, whether the bassy synths of the title track, or folky ‘Smorgasbord’ that hits right in the warm and fuzzies.

It’s refreshing to see that the band aren’t content to solely focus on nostalgia trips, and there are some great moments here - the dark driving force of ‘Wyttch’ stands out - but with such a hefty run time, it’s difficult to really tap into the heart of ‘Cyr’.

The signs for the band’s third aren’t too rosy, and yet their latest does go some way to showing the defter touch they first struck out with.

‘Are You Fucking Your Ex’ has none of the melodrama its title suggests, the question holding about as much weight as ‘did I leave the bathroom light on?’, and ‘I Got Hurt’ sledgehammers the line “I got hurt… and it didn’t feel good”. For a songwriter who’s so loved for finding poetry in the quotidian, for saying so much with so little, it’s just a bit basic. Maybe if he’d allowed him - and us - to wallow a bit, he’d have had more of a point.

Though ‘Mama’s Boy’ won’t exactly be changing the alt-pop game, it certainly might convince you to text your ex after one too many glasses of wine.

‘The Streets Where I Belong’ appears to aim for ‘80s FM radio nostalgia, while the title track hints at cod reggae, ‘Forever ‘92’ borrows a smidgen of shoegazey guitars and ‘The Bomb’ a touch of trip hop. But with a lack of immediacy, paper-thin production and no discernible hooks throughout, for anyone still humming ‘Chewing Gum’ or ‘Heartbeat’, it’s a disappointment.

‘As Long As You Are’ is a steady-as-she-goes sort of affair - a solid effort from the four-piece that would fare better with a little more exploration.

While not exactly the wildlife-soundtracking level of Nan-friendly safe his day job has reached, it’s largely default Jónsi, just with a few more effects.

It’s a lot of… well, not much; a studio folly of sorts, (unsurprisingly) impeccable in sound but meandering without direction for the most part.

‘Airhead’ is a piece of bubblegum goodness, ‘Haunted’ is a celestial sizzler, while ‘Jumper’ almost calls back to 00s pop-punk classics (with an AG spin, obv) and closer ‘Lifeline’ is a sprawling synth slowburner. Though sprinkled with bops, ‘Apple’ doesn’t pack the expected punch.

Notably, the record is without the pair’s usual darkness, but ‘Host’ feels organic and true, like the first day of spring after a winter full of rain.

While at times ‘Violet…’ shows Lana’s fine lyrical prowess, quotes primed for Tumblr captions, most of the time it’s more sixth former trying their best to impress at their first slam poetry event.

With highly catchy choruses on ‘Heart of Mine’ and ‘Deliver It’, it’s obvious that the band can deliver the pop sheen they are known for. But while reaching for style, it is only by exception that they achieve their usual substance.

With more focus, this could have felt quite vital.

It’s sharp and serious but without the navel-gazing feel that sometimes makes ‘Appalling Human’ a difficult one to truly get stuck into.

The middle run of ‘U Do U’, ‘RH RN’ and ‘Old Flame’ is so mid-paced and lacking in audible spark that it’s as if the record has momentarily dozed off. And for a group who have seemed so overflowing with ideas, so strong in their convictions and so urgently essential, it can’t help but feel a bit disappointing

The result is still just a big, slick, debatably-decent pop record.

A couple of times they get some wind in their sails, namely ‘War Dance’ and ‘Turned to String’, but the overall feeling from this is that No Age are, ironically, starting to show their years.

It’s all pleasant, but feels inessential and - at times - dated, not least because the lower-tempo tracks veer dangerously close to sounding like chillwave. Domestication has not robbed Sébastien of his adventurousness, but the killer instinct that defines his best work is missing here: ‘Domesticated’ is a meandering listen.

Earth might be musically faultless, but it lacks the bite of his day job.

Despite some stellar production and sparkling pop moments, it feels like there’s been little evolution in the duo’s sound in the five years since ‘Another Eternity’.

A potent mix of influences, it manages to sound equally focused and effortless - the work of a true performer.

The songs here mostly lack the sonic power and impact of those on its predecessor, but they do accomplish the not inconsiderable task of making Sean’s angular guitars sit alongside Pascal Stevenson’s synths congruously on tracks like ‘Ego’ and ‘Keep Out’. Post-punk bands of various eras have transitioned to new wave over the course of three or four albums, but Moaning have done that with just two.