Intense, grown-up and pretty it may be, but this record does nothing to move the whole cathartic/cinematic genre a millimetre further than where it was a decade ago.

The psychic bruising Okereke has sustained playing the East London fame game during the past 12 months has produced self-pitying lyrics that frequently state the bleeding obvious.

For now, it's way more than a stop-gap but sadly not the second coming you might have been hoping for.

Norah's most personal collection of songs to date.

If they've kept the good stuff back in the hope of better times, the decision was misguided; but if this is the best they can manage, the portents are, in the original sense of the word, ill.

Pretty much a repeat of an earlier 1990 compilation.

"9" picks up where the ubiquitous and two-million selling "O" left off. Hoarse howling to acoustic guitar strumming; folksy plucking to bleeding heart mutterings; Radiohead-a-like moments pull of portentous, look-at-me pauses and full band crescendos.

This is an album rich in feminine delicacy and woodsy magic, but ultimately Campbell will remain far too fey for many.

She undoubtedly has a great record or two in her. This, sadly, isn't one of them.

He's spitting distance from a brilliant concept album about love and suburbia, but he keeps pulling back.

A short, sharp blast of snotty fun that suggests the party is not over yet.

Greater things may well be in the pipeline for The Kooks, but this is sadly lacking in anything to fall - or indeed remain - in love with.

When you don't have the fun of playing spot-the-steal, all you're left with are wishy washy pastiches and a sense of growing fatigue.

A record that surgically removes all trace of sensuality and replaces it with calculated, mechanical, by-numbers bump'n'grind action.

There just aren't enough ideas or songs to make up for the overwhelmingly mean perspective.

"Crazy Itch Radio"... is the sound of an act running out of steam as it settles for the lowest common denominator with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders.

"Riot City Blues" starts fairly poorly and gets progressively worse.

Here, the band do what anyone suffering from a knock to their confidence does - they revert to the safety of what they know best.

Sliced in half, Kelis' fourth album would be twice as good. As an EP it would be perfect. But in it's current incarnation, it's one to cherry pick from your favourite download store.

This is the first Muse album to sound - brace yourself, outrageous melodrama fans - ordinary.

Neither wholly satisfying nor wholly great.

Busta seems to be treading water too often.

As a result of [Leithauser's] strangulated mewls and caterwauls, "A Hundred Miles Off" is at times very difficult to listen to indeed.

Strip away the fug of patchouli oil and incense and you're left with little more than a shoegazing album played by Kula Shaker.

Attempting such an ambitious concept in an age of diminished attention spans should no doubt be applauded, but overstretching itself in a stab at immortality, "Stadium Arcadium" marks a step backwards from 2002's "By The Way".

While going reggae was always going to be risky, it's the severe lack of conviction - whether in Burgess's mumblings or songs general vagueness - that's the biggest problem.

As the title suggests, this album is - deliberately, you feel - a thwarted pleasure, any sweetness and warmth being spiked with discordance and bitterness.

His 12th album is so girly it should be wearing pink tights and a tiara.