Ripples is a record which will likely struggle have any relevance, impact or longevity beyond the goodwill of its own gestation. Which really is a shame.

As well as they’ve delivered The Teal Album, they don’t quite hit the mark with every one of its takes, with their version ‘No Scrubs’ feeling more than a little bit uncomfortable.

Future Ruins progresses at a pleasing rate, though it never really pushes beyond its genre confines. Every track here is solid-to-good-to-occasionally-great with a friendly, familiar vibe of a bygone nature without ever really presenting anything new or challenging.

If we look to the previous literature, we find that no components of >>> are particularly novel.

This is ultimately an unremarkable--and frankly forgettable--third album from a notably gifted songwriter.

The Smashing Pumpkins in 2018 are an anachronism. Whether that’s an anachronism to relish, or render them irrelevant is up for debate, but Shiny and Oh So Bright sadly offers little to further their considerable legend.

Simulation Theory largely sounds like the work of band who have the pressure off and are just going with it--definitely not a bad thing.

Sometimes an all-encompassing desire to satisfy the album’s eccentric premise causes musical havoc. Alt-J have always revelled in a penchant for vocal distortion, frenzied percussion, cinematic strings, and reverberating synths - attributes they largely abandon in lieu of offering more traditional hip-hop elements. And sometimes it just doesn't work.

The constant ricocheting of lofty instrumentation with visceral, storybook lyrics make Indigo an at times arresting listen, like the shimmering ambiance of ‘Flawed Translation’. But oftentimes the formula comes up short.

It’s an album which is not sure whether it wants to be happy or sad; to accept the inevitable nothingness of existence or keep searching for answers.

Egypt Station is easily one of the most forward-thinking records of McCartney’s later career and a surprisingly welcome return. We might wish he could be more thoughtful and elegant in his older age, and maybe even a little bit cooler, but that wouldn’t make him Paul McCartney. Thankfully, he generally keeps his groan-worthy impulses to a minimum.

Nothing's third album is something of a safe bet: fans of the band and/or genre will still enjoy this, while Agnello's name being attached may turn a few extra heads, but it is feasible that the whole 'nu-shoegaze' movement is running out of steam.

Despite Angry Cyclist’s shortcomings, the peaks are high enough to earn its place in the band’s long, lustrous discography.

So safe they remain for Slow Air--with the same airbrushed slick of 2016’s Dead Blue, Greg Hughes and Tessa Murray pare back the fog machines and phone in a mostly forgettable series of pleasant enough new wave, as distant and vague as the storybook rainforest on the cover.

Nine albums in, Death Cab for Cutie are just about holding it together, but you have to wonder if the title Thank You For Today belies nothing more than a grateful acknowledgement of continued existence.

NV’s live shows are a true spectacle, bursting with human drama and storytelling, building an arc that is disappointingly absent here. It is not just the pop songs that have disappeared, but the sense of definition. ... There are moments of hope.

While these songs are often good, they also lack the colour and experimental zeal of Gorillaz’ best work.

Kazuashita, then, is the barely audible sigh that follows when you crack open the vacuum-sealed bag that preserved GGD in that hiatus--everything’s there, but crisply folded and flat.

Whilst Bad Witch is definitely guilty of too much looking backwards there’s enough to keep us focused on what lies ahead.

If Li was a Pokémon collector So Sad So Sexy would have caught ‘em all, but alas--this is music; and the truth is Li should really leave the hip-hop influences too Janelle Monae and Lorde.

As a rule, Dove meshes into a good album that might be accounted a small disappointment if this was 1995, but is a pretty spectacular accomplishment for a group of semi-retired musicians in their fifties.

Here, the former Supergrass leader is so busy trying to prove something with his lofty themes and overreaching stylisation, that all of the magic is lost.

The moments of unity sound accidental and haphazard, ambient music with the occasional breakcore eruption, as if a child was operating two stereos playing each artist and alternating turning the volume up and down on each one.

There’s this frustrating sheen over everything--likely from Fitz and Joy’s formal training--which makes the violins too syrupy to be sweet, the steel guitar too rustic to be real. By the same token, Joy’s lyrics also lack any lived-in landmarks.

Fourteen years on from their last outing, A Perfect Circle’s return to active duty as a living, breathing band is broadly speaking a good thing for the hard rock scene. Just don’t expect a record which silver plates their stellar reputation.

Beautiful Thing can be marked down as an interesting experiment but not a great record. It may end up being loved by hardcore fans of his song-writing but there won’t be a lot here for casual fans to come back to.

Without the installation, Dimensional People feels a bit 2D. There’s a piece of the conceptual puzzle just out of reach, and I’m not really sure what to do with all the other bits.

Slug at their very best are a live band, so I’ll take this album as a warm-up.

The imposed restrictions are evident on this album and the effort to overcome them more so. The result is that tracks like 'Execution' and 'Frustrated Operator' sound amateurish, even awkward, in their extreme simplicity with nothing to mask the mundanity of their composition.

Our flower peddlers serve functional rock music, plastic utensils for rudimentary needs, easily disposable and just as easily replaced. And that’s frustrating, for several reasons.

In combination it’s not adding much--except that little something in the twang of Bell’s voice which is completely unique and compelling--a little something almost completely drowned out by obvious platitudes maintained for a bit too long and with a few too many strings in the background.

This stylized despair erases everything that made Holy Motors special. Without the casual surrealism (like sentient skeletons) or gaffs about touchy stuff like tampons, the reboot plays out with the predictable pallor of most “edgy” primetime cable shows.

White Is Relic/Irrealis Mood is, in essence, a very solid new of Montreal album.

It’s an album certain of what it wants to be, but lacking in the naturalness needed to truly convince, let alone amaze.

Femi Kuti is still an entertaining performer and One People One World is almost tailor-made for live shows with its sharp performances and joyful tone. But listening to it on its own is a much less satisfying experience. These songs are too similar in tone and message, and unfortunately that makes for an undynamic album.

If there’s a problem with the album it’s possibly in the even-ness of the tone throughout. The vocals are soft, tuneful and pretty, the tunes are melodic and often hooky but it’s not until the second last track--‘Snaps’--arrives with a bit more attitude and grit that you realise that this is what has been missing up until this point. That said, almost every track here would work as a single, or heard by itself on the radio – they’re all decidedly easy on the ear.

Man of the Woods is not an outright disaster but it is a significant disappointment--a record too preoccupied with image, volte face and forced “REAL” to fully engage as a coherent piece of craftsmanship.

It is, when it comes down to it, a sloppy gimmick. One, admittedly, that has a few choice moments, but which would have been much better served if Mercer had streamlined all his ideas down in the first place instead of treating these songs as malleable, never-finished opuses.

Marmozets are a band that thrive on angst. They deliver it through the raw nature of their sound, through their acute lyrics and pounding metalcore-slash-pop-punk. It can feel at times, though, of too much of an exhilarating ride, an endless roller coaster that doesn’t provide enough respite.

On The Thread That Keeps Us, Calexico have splurged. They’ve flexed their muscles and had a go at everything, with the possible exception of speed metal. Some of it has worked, but not all of it. Hopefully, the next album will hone down their sound and focus it like a laser beam.

The blokes have always goofed too much to fluke sensuality, but there’s some spark of intimacy, which ties off Marble Skies with an unexpected bow.

Ruins is a thoroughly pretty piece of work, lovingly presented. The question hanging over it, though, is how long First Aid Kit can get away with making revisions to the original model before the law of diminishing returns begins to kick in hard.

It is, ultimately, an unimaginative album from a promising band. Better records may lie ahead for them, but for now they will struggle to reach far beyond their existing fanbase.

The trio’s meandering avant-rap is somehow more encumbered by its lack of ideas than its lack of editorial savvy.

They’ve lost a little bit of the magic of their debut. The lyrics feel a tiny bit less wistful, while the bass is a little less heavy--that strange but heady mix from the likes of ‘Hey Mami’ just isn’t jumping out from any of the tracks on What Now.

It is in this record’s opening salvo and in its closing stages that its aim, of reflecting the natural beauty of eastern England, where both Rogerson and Eno grew up, comes closest to being accomplished.

Xenoula simply meanders at times, losing a distinct sense of urgency and focus and washing over the listener like gentle lapping waves leaving little in the way of residue behind. Nevertheless, there are times when Xeno’s music becomes less translucent, harnessing its subtleties to create hauntingly ethereal sounds that do evoke vibrant images of her dual lives.

This feels like Holmes’ record--a studio-created melting pot of awkward approaches, inspired instrumentation, the occasional colossal flop and a few genuinely unique moments. More power to Gallagher for giving him the reigns here and allowing himself to be guided into territory that’s often fresh, sometimes really interesting but, above all, utterly atypical and bizarre.

In many places, this record sounds and feels like a migraine captured on tape, and that is not a pleasant experience, nor is it meant to be. Unlike the more luscious, shoegaze influence that's pervaded Black Metal in recent years, this feels like an absolute rejection of that, being as difficult and painful to experience as possible.

Unfortunately, the remix format really extracts and commodifies the sounds of the original albums rather than do anything wildly different or interesting to it. The mix might sound alright on the dancefloor, but so would the original effectively mixed into a good DJ set.

With at least half of these songs, there is almost nothing to say, nothing to be baffled by, nothing to argue about, and for that sad, whimpering reason, Pacific Daydream can probably be called Weezer’s worst album.

Most of these are just too damn long, and don’t develop too far past theme-and-variation rounds. Plus, Sarp taps along at the same stately tempo for nearly all his parts, so every song merges unwillingly into the next.

There’s nothing inherently bad about anything on Losing, but nothing’s going to stick around, either.

Subtlety is an early casualty, lyrics and riffs hitting with all the grace and charm of a sledgehammer.

Whether Colors will be a success within the pop world it is clearly aimed at remains to be seen, but one suspects even pop fans will see through this for it appears to be: an album documenting a mid-life crisis.

We’re unlikely to see the power or the passion of Manson’s classic run again - it’s very difficult to bottle lightning twice - and you shouldn’t come to Heaven Upside Down expecting anything as textured, interesting or frightening as those early releases. That said ... It’s business as usual, but after a decade of disappointment, it’s good to know business is doing well.

There are moments where the album shines, absolutely, but it doesn’t match up to the same level as Okereke’s previous work, both with Bloc Party and solo. However, it’s still a worthy piece in its own right, and a testament to the idea that a musician changing their sound is a gamble that can pay dividends.

In all, it’s an album with an admirable sense of ambition and innovation, a band pushing themselves sonically and lyrically in new directions; that they at times come up short is therefore a shame.

The message feels less than vital at a time when vitality is so needed, and no, there will be no revolution off the back of the subversive royalty involved in this release. The slogans feel thin, but the music itself is substantive. Whether that counts as a success or not comes down to what you came here for.

The fact is that Lovers is an almost unremarkable debut, except for the fact that it hits every target set for itself with clinical accuracy. If you’re in the market for something harder than Celine Dion but a little softer than Dragonette, you could do a lot worse than Anna of the North’s debut.

In the end, it’s the lack of direction that’s fatal for Concrete and Gold; at least the last three records, scored through with problems as they were, had a sense of what was driving them, even if it was something as superficial as Sonic Highways’ city-hopping.

As a full album, this wafts innocuously past like a gentle Hawaiian breeze--too meek for any real surf, but just strong enough to be mildly of note to those wishing to hit the waves. That’s about the best that can be said of it.

Alvvays were the perfect band to listen to when a need arose to forget about life. Despite its title, Antisocialites doesn’t manage to accomplish the same thing.

It is no coincidence that the moments when Dwyer’s writing strays furthest from the familiar format are the least satisfying. It is reasonable to assume that he is capable of far more intriguing and stimulating excursions than these.

Villains isn’t a terrible record, but it’s not a fantastic record either, and that’s perhaps the least kind thing that could be said about new material from a band which we’ve come to expect a lot from.

There are hooks here, but they are scattered and often attached to tracks that come worryingly close to mediocre exercises in MOR.

The great thing about Blondes is how they move through such simple ingredients as a decent bassline and a tight groove, and end up in some tripped out wonderland after nine minutes of hedonistic bliss. On Warmth, they’ve traded that sound for something a bit harder and more immediate, which doesn’t end up all bad, but does sacrifice that elegiac joy they used to perfect so readily.

The record isn't perfect either, though it's enjoyable in places.

Cage Tropical is a dreampop record. ... And the problem with dreampop records is--well, if they fall short of dreams, then you’ve got to either imbue something other than the divine into the lining (hi, Deafcult!), or you’ve got to work it into overdrive until your listener’s heart flutters like a virgin on the mattress (hi, Ballet School!). And our protagonist simply fails on both counts.

Sodium does slay. But Dasher whizz through in such a hardcore blur, that the highlights of the album get buried in the carnage.

The album comes in light lapping waves of melodic song. It doesn’t wash you away, it doesn’t lure you in to your death. It’s a nice album.

Boo Boo is fascinating as an exercise for Bear, and proves that Toro Y Moi has yet another viable direction to take their music in. At some point, Bear may need to chart a clear course for the project but for now it’s fun to hear him freely experimenting with new sonic palettes.

There is a really great album rattling around in here and Howard's invention and ambition should be celebrated as such, it's just not quite at the level it could be.

Something To Tell You is no disaster and you could do worse for background listening whilst tackling the ironing or something, but music really shouldn’t be quite this uninspired, nor should the artists at the helm.

It’s a real shame Witness has come out as a bit of a disjointed mess, as there’s a decent record somewhere in there, but it gets lost in the fog of endless guest productions and co-writes that miss the point entirely.

In summary, this is an album which is trying to be lots of things for lots of people. The sadness being that where Royal Blood appealed to so many because of its abandoned musicality and aggression, How Did We Get So Dark? may run the risk of losing its soul and beating heart in order to please the masses.

The album falls somewhere between curio and convincing; there’s enough here to hold the attention of the casual Mac fan, however fleetingly, but diehards should find a bit more to dig into in the brighter moments. A worthwhile exercise.

The first two singles released of the album, ‘J-Boy’ and ‘Ti Amo’, are enjoyable enough, setting the scene with shimmery ripples as you’re engulfed by the clubby rhythm, disco-balls swirling through every riff. But they also reveal the main flaws in the album: both build promisingly into grand reveals only to stall and go nowhere, like revving a car in neutral.

That’s the half of Relaxer that I can live with, the half that strives actively to dispel alt-J’s pretentious front and swing for the top of the charts. But then, my friends, we return to the 'House of the Rising Sun'--because here, on this wikkle precious cover version with the cyclical Leonard Cohen guitar, we’re reminded of every reason to hate the three blokes.

Maybe !!!’s latest effort isn’t revolutionary, but it is rebellious.

Three of the songs are between seven and ten minutes long and make for laboured listens and sadly, the lack of song variety doesn’t really fit in a volume that’s meant to reflect lightness.

Creating a 19-track album out of Black Lips’ brand of messy psychedelic punk was always going to be a huge ask. And they have nearly pulled it off.

What Pollinator does confirm is that there’s plenty left in the tank from Harry and Stein; next time, they might better realise that surrounding yourself with bright young things can often be the same as surrounding yourselves with your fans--and that they might well try too hard to please you.

The result with For Crying Out Loud is that it has bright moments but ultimately adds to the collection of below-par efforts that will do little to extinguish the elitism scorn that they attract.

Gargoyle is missing the emotive, musical draw that makes Langegan the tear-jerking, blues-poet that he really is.

It’s perfectly pleasant background listening, but it yields diminishing returns from close listening.

Pollard hasn’t delivered an all-enticing album in a while, and with all of its hidden gems, August By Cake suffers from having too many songs that just aren’t fulfilling enough.

Apart from the new wave prom dance of 'Candles', The Far Field plays out like a treadmill--same tempos, same whining siren wails from the synths, same bass undulation.

When you heard Cape Dory, you probably didn’t expect Tennis to be growing into soulful artistry six years and three albums later, and they deserve an incredible amount of credit for that. But you definitely wouldn’t ever have expected them to sound dreary either, and that’s something of which Tennis are slightly guilty on Yours Conditionally.

Volcano is a fun album of tightly-crafted, catchy melodies. But it’s in no way reinventing the genre the band members so keenly idolise.

Unfortunately, the plodding repetition soon rears its ugly head again, and stays for the duration.

Its conceptual limits are conspicuously narrow.

Chalice Hymnal drifts a lot and while every song is distinguished, too often shorter tracks don’t feel as fully developed as their longer brethren.

Big and bold when it hits, underwhelming and otherwise transient elsewhere, it’s a debut that manages to occasionally impress while leaving a lot to be desired.

The problem with Human (the album) is that it feels like it’s been over tooled for success, that the commercial facets of his talents have been blown up at the expense of what might have actually made him interesting.

Quite the mess all told.

Alas, The Temple of I & I, does not hit the high benchmarks of prior quality. Very much a Thievery album in its own right, with the tropical rhythms alongside the DC-based musicians approach to studio-dub, the LP falls short of the classic peak moments of the past.

A rather average document, already a relic on arrival, with about three standout songs among a soporific wash of over-polished Flying Nun imitations.