Sure this album may well sound awesome if you’ve just snorted a metre of charlie or recently breakfasted from a menu of ‘shrooms and LSD, but for sober ears it’s enough to drive anyone to drugs.

There’s just very so little of merit here--glazed pop-rock staggers into itself as the whole album washes past without you realising.

What Calvi's debut is a mixture of sprawling guitars that teeter somewhere between Tortoise's mathy noodlings, Deerhunter's brownish hue, Hendrix's fade outs and Howling Bells' shimmering grunge-gaze.

Black and White Rainbows seems to have been produced by the committee who did the backing tracks for the original Guitar Hero--every edge sanded smooth, compliant and utterly indistinct. There are no dynamics to be found on this LP, only ‘on’ or ‘off’.

Perhaps the worst aspect of ONe is how on autopilot the band sounds. Even the flat-out rockers – like the opener, 'Teahouse Of The Spirits' – contain no guitar pyrotechnics and come off sounding limp and perfunctory.

All in all, it’s a shambles. Incarnation No 4 lacks the interesting feminine insight of Rihanna’s latest, the flamboyance and ‘balls’ of Lady Gaga, the nous of Annie, anything approaching the vocal talents of Beyoncé or the nonsensical slapstick fun of Girls Aloud.

Lyrically, things grate from the off, with cringe-worthy and rudimentary rhyming couplets being Peñate’s irritating stock in trade. By the end, everything has blended into a graceless, jaunty melange of up-down guitar strokes, bellowed vocals and mid-tempo skanks.

Pursuing new directions and seeking out new sonic soundscapes is all very well, as is jamming and wailing for 30 minutes and holding 17 hour gigs. However to merely shove over two hours worth of randomly selected work onto two discs with no attempt at continuity or direction is lazy at best.

It screams often, confused, like the mess that it is.

Wrong Creatures is just disappointing.

This is a thumpingly disappointing and consistently milquetoast set of songs riddled with lyrical banality, done-to-death melodies and wispily thin production.

By track five Hardwired has already showed off all its tricks, and I find myself quite tempted to show my discontent by going to listen to Slayer instead.

This is an utterly pointless record with no artistic merit, creative spark or genuine ambition whatsoever.

Succinctly, it's a crap record.

Fade Away is the sound of a band clinging to the lost potential of their past for buoyancy, trying desperately not to drown in their own aimlessness.

An attempt to relive the RATM era that falls far, far short of the bar. Save your money and go and listen to the real deal instead.

Their debut is just minute after minute of hollow pandering.

'Rock N Roll' is the worst record Ryan Adams has ever put his name to; a mess of identikit garage buffoonery and amateurish production, filled with rushed lyrics and written-in-a-weekend tunes.

Sébastien Tellier has a tendency to tackle substantial topics, and it often smacks of dilettantism.

There isn't really an awful lot else to say. Famous First Words might not be the worst record you'll hear this year, but it's certainly one of the most pointless.

This is a largely irritating and fairly hollow unit shifter, that despite its upbeat nature feels like a cynical move to market.

As a creative artefact however, its merits are limited, and does little, if anything, to contribute to Tim Burton’s creative vision.

The head feels weighed down with unresolved torment, the smile forced and awkward, the colours garish and messily-applied.

To truly grasp the vigour of Do Whatever You Want All The Time, do it yourself. Grab four mates, pick up some instruments and go nuts. Just don't cut an album from the sessions.

The result is like a musical cab ride from hell, a forty-minute endurance test of half-baked cockney cod-philosophy.

There’s not one song on here worth releasing as a single. Only two or three are even remotely listenable.

Perhaps the worst crime is that Ashcroft never even gives that wonderfully expressive voice of his a proper workout; he hasn’t written anything here that demands he really go for it. Instead, These People is an album that’s so safe, it’s almost dangerous.

At his best Turner can be immensely charming and gloriously witty. Sadly, these facts only makes the dreary, alarmingly soulless retreads that populate most of Positive Songs for Negative People all the more depressing.