In their attempt to induce dreams, though, too much of Alpinisms is a laptop-gazing wash out, neglecting the intensity required for this kind of thing, and "Prince Of Peace" inhabits a disturbing world where Enya might front an electronically-enhanced baggy band.

It's a workmanlike and often wearisome ambition that proves the record's undoing, which leaves The Secret Machines V2.0 sounding less the stadium-psych messiahs and more like a trio of very naughty boys.

Combined with the slick, predominantly live band set-up here it makes for some dreadfully clunky moments.

If there are moments when the feted snap and snarl of yore amounts to little more than ramming generic blues licks down the audience's throat, they're tempered with moments of discovery like the lysergic 'To Be Where There's Life' and 'Falling Down' which displays an uncharacteristic lightness of touch.

Overlong and oversexed, Futuristically Speaking... stumbles where you will it to stride; something surprisingly staid and mediocre from extraordinary circumstances.

The album's sole significant guest, Nick Cave, emerges on the stalking 'Just Like A King,' but elsewhere there's sadly no real sign of the poetic edge that he or the pick of the earlier troubadours can produce.

Only by The Night will undoubtedly sell bucketloads but there's no escaping the fact that creatively, Kings Of Leon have stalled.

Given the fact there are 25 tracks and a platoon of songwriters spread over Doll Domination's various bonus discs, it's not surprising that it occasionally succeeds, and there are hit singles to be found here.

Perhaps it's just that the rest of the songs aren't up to scratch, but this album is a simple case of diminishing returns--what appeared carefree and sparkly-eyed to begin with feels more and more calculated as you go on, what first seemed endearing ends up feeling a little irritating.

On the whole Pivot seem hesitant to surrender anything of themselves--they've sacrificed the time taken to craft the whole dextrous thing, of course, but the temptation is to see that as slightly indulgent when there seems little attempt to ensnare the ears of others.

Airplay or not, however, he's also sounding seriously dated.

Overall you're left with the aural equivalent of an unexpectedly comfy bed in a cheap hotel--relaxing, welcoming, unexpectedly pleasant, but eminently forgettable.

Death Magnetic at least proves that 40-something millionaires can make a valiant fist of recapturing the fury of youth. Sadly, though, it seems that Metallica will never be 20-years-old again.

It makes for some pleasingly approachable music but that's not what he'll be remembered for.

Though he falls short of wholly convincing, the heart is almost always in the right place: a refreshing change from 99 per cent of those more interested in the image, not the message.

Good or bad, everything here sounds like a lesser version of someone else.

Ultimately, on the strength of The Golden Mile, the longevity of The Peth seems, at best, questionable.

For the first four tracks, The Verve dig deep into their chaotic history to conjure the strange, intoxicating mix of stridency, shimmering beauty, pretension and vulnerability that made them so distinctive back in their pomp. And then the plot is suddenly lost, along with the tunes.

Problem is, much of this record is just Game keeping up with the Joneses: everything you'd expect from a 2008 rap album is here (Lil' Wayne guest spot; boring, '80s-styled Kanye track), and the stuff that makes him unique seems harder than ever to get at.

While it's certainly refreshing to hear Oberst refrain from swaddling his emotionally-driven conceits in rock statesman's clothing, much of Conor Oberst seems too comfortably by-the-book to really leap off the page.

Girls And Weather is so cloyingly cheerful and eager to please that it might as well be "Big Brother" audition tape.

Lower your expectations a level and there's a decent enough rock album; tight, stylistically roughed-up and actually sounding much more like The Libertines than you expect.

Mostly, Donkey is undone by a dearth of really memorable, infectious tunes.

While eight years ago Primal Scream embraced a hard edge that blew our faces off, this limp electro-pop doesn't stand up against the likes of The Knife, who infuse their work with both an inventiveness and emotion that's sorely lacking here.

Not tonally consistent enough to work as an ambient record, not sufficiently solidly written to really grab your attention as a suite of songs, Leila's comeback nonetheless numbers some arresting moments worthy of your attention.

It's a mixed bag certainly and while nothing else here scales the heights of the single that's made his name thus far, there are plenty of moments of pop confection steered with a degree of sophistication to suggest he's more than a one trick pony.

Kasabian and their brass-necks have long since appropriated The Music's mantle of anthem-whoring psychedelic horsemen and there's barely a moment over the course of 12 tracks here where they contest that.

This isn't a bad record, it's just a laboured and peculiarly joyless one, all those things that Supergrass were once the opposite of.