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.

Come Around Sundown is musical wallpaper for those who purchase such amenities from the likes of Tesco or Asda. It represents little more than a giant turd amidst a sea of mediocrity, several million of which will shortly be appearing in homes near you.

Sex Dreams and Denim Jeans really should have been released a couple of years ago when Uffie was at the height of her fame. She should have struck while the iron was hot. She’s missed the boat completely now.

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.

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

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.

This aggressive tone is a constant throughout and pretty much breaks new boundaries in sounding absolutely ridiculous.

There are moments which hint at Casablancas’ underlying skill as a writer on Phrazes, but there’s such a ruinous deployment of disparate ideas that they never form a cogent whole.

In general, the choruses are forgettable, the guitars are woefully exaggerated, and the quirkiness that made Weezer a band to be cherished now seems forced and stale.

It's at the safest of removes; emote by rote, numbness by numbers.

The intensity on Billy Talent III feels the same as the intensity of the band's live show, awkwardly forced and absolutely repellent.

He's crafted a whole album so stagnantly repetitive that one listen gives the illusion of having already been subjected to the same song again and again and again and again.

Don't you want to think? Don't you enjoy thinking? Or do you instead prefer listening to background whining? Are you happy to settle for this?

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.

Despite the so-called grandiose statements of intent such as strings, pianos and soul-trained female backing vocalists, this is simply a case of mutton dressed as lamb and those lambs eventually being slaughtered.

It’s a fatal flaw that rears itself again and again as a bastardised version of blue-collar Americana is force-fed a mass-produced strain of bland modern rock throughout all eleven tracks.

Even a past-it Smashing Pumpkins ‘reunion’ with only Corgan remaining is more acceptable than this awful mimickery and that’s not a good place for a band to be.

It’s a horribly calculated, horrible slice of anthemic horribleness. Throughout, dreadful lyrics are in abundance, pianos are thumped and drums are bashed.

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

This is not the sound of the London underground (although the album ends with that particular sound); it sounds nothing like London. Not the London I know. London Undersound was made by a Wandsworth-ite so rapt by his own fears and insecurities, that he has completely lost sight of the bigger picture.

Every song is predictable, workman-like, lacking invention.

Iglu & Hartly are collectively giving the nation a wedgy and nobody seems to even care, that is why this is the worst album of the year.

This is not just the band’s worst record, it’s also the worst record with any profile to be released this year.

Formula is strictly adhered to, and while pace may differ from one jolly strum-about to the next, the void where there should be a worthwhile tune remains.

The descriptive we’re looking for here is ‘shallow pastiche.’

There’re dudes out there (Google them) who will try and tell you this album has some relevance, that it represents pop, that it’s important. That it’s good. They’re wrong.

These odd moments aside, it’s tempting to suggest that never before have a band--and a band who, let us remember, this writer awarded a generous 8/10 for their summery, tuneful debut--managed to nail mediocrity so definitely between its tired eyes.

These Are The Good Times People is a mere shadow of its ‘90s counterpart that struggles to retain any of the President’s early charm.