The orchestra tries so desperately to stage this cool retro show, but there are so many glaring holes in the script.

Bahdeni Nami is nothing more than a dull and flat dance record, dressed in the trappings of the 'exotic' and 'worldly'.

The Rapture have kept all the ingredients from their previous successes, but they have forgot to ignite the oven.

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.

It seems they’ve not only gone and made that sensible and mature fifth album that every band past their sell-by date inflicts on their effervescently loyal fans, they’ve actually made a record that would be more appropriate in an old folks’ home than your local indie niterie.

It’s a confused effort, with the songwriting faults, misguided lyrics, and the foolish sidelining of Cage the Elephant's greatest weapon (Schultz’s voice) torpedoing the vast majority of tracks.

I only wish that they had given us something with a little more substance rather than the bland mess we’ve been left with.

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.

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.

Nobody expected Smith to reinvent the wheel on his second album, but anything is better than limping along on a flat tyre.

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.

The Diving Board feels like an album made by somebody who’s spent the last few years performing the same set list night after night in Vegas.

Wrong Creatures is just disappointing.

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

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

In many ways it's a hip joke of an album.

There really is nothing of great merit to this album.

The agony is there, but none of the nuance or substance that would make you empathise or relate with it.

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.

This is a piece of chewed-out gum; with no viable nutrition, no flavour and no joy. Do yourself a favour and spit it out.

In trying to be all things to all fans, all critics, all expectations, all click-bait corners, Harry Styles has failed to make a defining statement.

Taragana Pyjarama is unstimulating, oddly soothing in an anesthetized way, hypnotic in the most guileful sense.

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.

It’s crushingly disappointing from a band that can sound so much better.

Liam Howlett and the boys embrace their psycho circus schtick on The Day Is My Enemy to the point of suffocation.

The all-over-the-place sounds don’t remotely go together, and not even in a good way.

All in all, the album is unremarkable, showing only rare flashes of lyrical prowess, and melodically unadventurous. Bugg fails to push boundaries and flounders outside his recent comfort zone, resulting in a record that fails to impress, delivered without vigour.

'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.