A more succinct approach to these re-assembled works would have done wonders, though as it stands leaves these ten tracks merely as a curiosity for long-standing Mogwai fans only.

Something that gradually becomes clear is that this is an album of uncertainty.

It’s another collection of decent, cheerful indie-pop.

Full of campy affectation presented with a shiny flourish, 'Do Things' is not fundamentally a bad album, but the constant happy-go-lucky nonsense, along with the un-imaginative songwriting, just seems a little contrived.

Ultimately Someday World is undeniably disappointing. For something that promised so much and to deliver so woefully little is an injustice to each respective side of the partnership.

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’.

Whilst a fun record, there’s only one issue remains, the fact that it’s often hard to connect with something so unabashedly honest.

Encyclopedia is the sound of The Drums trying to find their feet once again, an endeavour not yet fully accomplished.

Orangefarben has very little distinctly objectionable or sinister about it. There is still the impression that something is lying dormant under the initial cheerfulness, but for those craving true, raw darkess, Baenziger's demons might not rear their heads quite enough.

Granted, Chapter and Verse isn’t rewriting the book, but it is yet more proof that Funeral For A Friend still possess that same fire, that same determination, to keep making great records.

Desire’s best moments arrive when there’s a genuine attempt to create a bit of atmosphere--the cool strut of ‘Spotlights’ is a rare bright point. Everything else, though, has been done better elsewhere, and recently, too.

Paul’s commitment to trying new things is to be lauded, but it does mean Diagrams lacks cohesion; it feels less an album and more a collection of ideas, some thrilling, others less so.

There are a couple of fleeting moments (the chorus of ‘Wait’ is a hooky, soaring thing) that remind you of the unabashed earworms that the Kaisers can produce at their best but, for the most part, Duck is actually a bit of a turkey.

There’s no faux-earnestness here. Whether Mabel is singing about messy break ups, mental health or empowering herself to move on, High Expectations is effortlessly cool.

While never the strongest lyricist, ‘Power’ sees vocalist/guitarist Sam McTrusty roll out an unending series of lines that are overt to the point of self-suffocation. ... ‘Messiah’ and closer ‘Praise Me’ are stronger cuts, though as with much of ‘Power’, they’re unfortunately lost amongst the plethora of untidy songwriting on show.

Ghost Stories is the sound of Coldplay finally coming to terms with who they are--a universally loved, often loathed, slightly cheesy outfit. Charmingly cheesy, though.

For an album which features a list of impressive producers, it feels though one of them should have worked on the album as a whole to give Soft Control cohesion and the platform for Welsh to jump from.

Of course, as with any such unrelentingly blissful formula, if their sky-facing euphoria and sentimentality can’t be matched then the whole thing can be terribly nauseating.

It’s all too nice, too safe, and ultimately, too predictable.

Ultimately, this is either the musical equivalent of seeing your old clothes in a vintage store, or this album has been hardwired into our central nervous system.

It's filled with cool sounds, and makes for an interesting listen, but it’s not engaging. It leaves the listener unfeeling, untouched.

While debut ‘Beams’ was a bubbling, unpredictable electronic masterpiece, second album ‘Apocalypso’ was a dancefloor smashing, out-Fischerspoonering affair, Pacifica stands as a wildly temperamental compromise between those two drunk on a peculiar addiction to mainstream action.

Where other works were distinctive and refined, These Spirits feels confused and clunky.

For the most it is a spaced-out, blissed-out trip that makes it hard to comprehend that it came from the mind behind Bangerz.

A thick as muck yet intelligent pop album.

Far from snug or welcoming, the Gang’s overpoweringly thick-sounding ninth album is as refreshingly abstract as anything they’ve done before.

They've got some good ideas, but perhaps just aren't ready for a full-length release.

While this album will neither shock nor rewrite opinion, there is no denying 'Strangeland' is solid enough.

Jay-Z’s latest does little to prove that he can come up with anything that isn’t entirely predictable.

The keyboards are the same tones, the chords are similar intervals, the vocals are heartfelt without the lyrics really saying anything, and perhaps most tellingly they don't deliver the goods on a pop hit to rival 'Buck Rogers'.

With all the various guest vocals, Pick A Piper's multi-narrative structure is a little problematic.

It’s pleasant, and there are intriguing touches to be found in the Jacco Gardner-esque keys of ‘On Your Own’, but there’s an intrinsically grating quality that’s hard to shake.

Instead of its wide-eyed optimism rubbing off onto others, this album has the effect of canned laughter bouncing off the walls. It’s a hundred nutritional yoghurts being mushed into bland liquid nothingness.

This record does have its moments, though any instances of real connection are a notable rarity.

At this point Mumford & Sons know exactly what they have to do to keep the Spotify streams rolling over, and Delta feels like an exercise in box-ticking, no more, no less.

After an ‘Our Version of Events’-worthy build, it’s crying out for something slightly off-kilter to douse the saccharine overload, but instead shoots for a bounding chorus of ‘Rather Be’-proportions, which misses in favour of something that can only be described as 90s dance clunk.

This is the sound of an artist who has allowed himself to take a break and record eleven tracks he would like to rele

It'll make you dance and sing until you sweat, and although it stutters in places and has plenty of sections that build but frustratingly never execute the finish to shatter your eardrums, it's an album that is very difficult to truly dislike.

This is a confused mess of a record, with nonsensical lyrics, trite musical clichés, and not a lot else.

The vocals, the terrible rhymes... it's business as usual then for Liam; it's just scrubbed up a bit.

It's pleasantly pristine stuff from the still relative newcomer.

While mellow and downbeat at times, the subtle happiness could have been made more evident from the inclusion of ‘Paint A Smile On Me’.

There’s a bit of filler in the form of the relatively stagnant ‘Xmas In Japan’; but pretty much all of the other tracks are just great big fun dancefloor fillers.

The epitome of indie clichés, Drowners have done nothing to break their mould, and On Desire does little to appease the want for something more.

It’s both over-produced and underwhelming.

The second album from the Phenomenal Handclap Band may not contain anything as exciting or danceable as the highlights of their debut but, despite its disappointments, there is still plenty on Form & Control for anyone who enjoyed their debut to appreciate.

In the grand scheme of things, Sequel To The Prequel is a definite step in a positive direction.

Hit The Waves offers little in way of innovation, an unthreatening album to Sigur Ros and The Knife’s releases later this year, but The Mary Onettes are perfectly happy to look backwards.

Having been dogged with comparisons to Friendly Fires since their formation, it is ironic that this record perhaps sounds like the kind of misstep that the St. Albans band made themselves with their second album 'Pala'.

There are a few duds thrown into the pack--closing pair ‘Into The Sun’ and ‘Walk Out Music’ offer little of interest and ensure the record goes out with something of a whimper--but there’s enough on With You Tonight to suggest Summer Moon might gather something of a cult following.

Flashes of the airtight songwriting that ran through ‘Scream Aim Fire’ and ‘Fever’ remain--closer ‘Pariah’ does controlled fury very well--but otherwise, it has to be case of back to the drawing board, because Bullet sound as if they’re beginning to run on fumes.

Glitterbug is a tired album that lacks invention and makes the landfill indie tag even easier to attribute.

As loud and aggressive Flats can sound it can't come close to hiding a lack of pretty much everything other than extreme volume and misplaced nothing-better-to-do-than-have-a-go-at-everyone-else small-minded aggression.

The music is a little too polished-sounding to have ever seen actual garages, and there doesn't seem to be much of the charm of, say, contemporaries Palma Violets, pervading any of the record's twelve tracks. But it's fun, and fun is sometimes just about enough.

In a record where there are a minor derivations on a tried and tested formula, 'Still Life' is a major curveball; a high-risk almost jazz-like number that's almost ruined by the strange whizzing noise that could easily be a kazoo teasing its wares throughout.

This is an album that suffers from having altogether too much surface and not nearly enough substance.

Taken on its own merit Rituals is a bright and bombastic record that harbours a darker underbelly. ... And though there’s a chance it will alienate a small portion of established fanbase, it will certainly earn the band more than it loses.

Despite hiding behind the veil of electronic experimentation, Thom Sonny Green has taken a brave step forwards.

Slick production and a consistency in sound may make for easy listening but if you pay too much attention it all starts to sound a bit contrived and cheesy.

Not a lot on Spreading Rumours makes sense. It doesn't match, even in its apparent desperate attempt to sound like the bargain bin of an Urban Outfitters.

Named after a match-winning wrestling move, Coup De Grace isn’t quite going to do that, but it’ll get Miles through to the next round

'Weapons' has no shortage of big choruses, slick production and crunching riffs but is let down by tired lyrics and too many forgettable songs.

At its best, Youngish American exists at the nexus of day-job classics ‘Giving Up the Gun’ and ‘Unbelievers’, offering glimpse of Chris’ massive potential to be an engaging solo star.

If a little more time been spent focusing on the increased R&B influence, Tranquilizers could've been the rejuvenation chillwave deserves.

So far, so great. But when the use of vocals is taken into overdrive on final track ‘Go On Without Me’, where Jacob Bannon from hardcore punks Converge offers up his jarring scream, it’s almost on the borderline of becoming too much.

Perhaps the biggest criticism about Brain Holiday is that it does become a bit of a yawn towards the end.

Medicine is an album that baffles just as much as it thrills.

For those open to more electronic sounds, this will likely be a great release and to those who are dubious of change, the band have accounted for that with a handful of numbers that more or less embody their established sound.

Too much of the album’s mid-section is plagued by Kele’s whimper, and the experimentation with guitar sounds sometimes prioritises method over melody, but there’s diamonds in the rough that shine as bright as the best of Bloc Party.

While in small increments ‘Sexorcism’ feels incredibly empowering and progressive, when you go 12 rounds on the trot, it fast becomes a law of diminishing returns, clumsy in its own damp puddle.

'Look To The Sky' sees him returning to the spotlight with an album that only fleetingly hints at his past glories.

Forget the fact that even at its best moments the album still kind of sounds like a RATM reunion minus Zack de la Rocha, the biggest issue with ‘Prophets Of Rage’ is that it’s not as radical as it thinks it is. Is it competent and confident, energised and engaging? Sure. But there’s nothing new here.

Wiped Out! is a fine wine in a sea of vodka Red Bulls, and having successfully mixed pop, rock and hip-hop together, it seems like they have finally defined their sound as a band.

It’s a great--albeit mis-matched--collection of songs.

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.

A record that does the musical equivalent of wrapping its arms around your body and giving you a nice, warm hug.

Much of the album either grates or bores.

There are moments on Coming Up For Air that lay claim to a genuine force, the kind who’ve earned their Chris Martin-endorsed stripes. They’re yet to truly claim their own territory, though, and any attempts to reinvent the wheel fall flat with an almighty thud

'Days Go By' doesn't catapult them back to their prime; there's a lot of issues that can be picked out, be it recognisable musicality or questionable song choices. Having said that, when The Offspring do get it right on this record, they are great.

Unsurprisingly, this collection does sometimes border on becoming stale; 10-30 second fillers appear somewhat pointlessly bookended between certain tracks. But, more often than not, Friedberger does spice things up.

This is far from a bad album but it's also far from matching their best... 'This Machine' is both an attempt to recapture the glory days and a sad admission that it can't be done.

L.A. Divine is simply too rigid for Willett to shine. Joe Plummer, while undeniably talented, is a less subtle drummer than Matt Aveiro and locks Willett into predictable, percussive grids that give his voice a jarringly artificial, almost showtune quality.

Musically confused, frequently lyrically painful (closer ‘Erotic Letter’ needs to be heard to be believed), its ego is so overpowering it ends up as a sweet relief against a backdrop of po-faced, fence sitting peers.