There are moments of dynamism, like the excellent quivering steppers’ bassline in ‘Time’, or ‘In’’s disemboweled grime-pulse sounds. But even these tracks feel weighed down by a relentless paranoiac mood that soon begins to tire, their gestures sparse and restrained in a manner that’s presumably meant to be evocative, but often just feels unadventurous.

It’s a shame that their debut album is so short on variety and surprises, and doesn’t capture the imagination past a couple of listens.

Nobody's denying Herndon's ambition and technical chops, but the goals of this album--however successfully they might be achieved--are often unappealing; the sonic outcomes, regrettably, a little dull.

By taking electronic to mean, largely, removed introspection, WIXIX might be the one example of a guitar band who, by fully embracing electronica, have regressed.

If anything, they illuminate an increasingly formulaic approach that, in its attempt to express extremes of human emotion, ends up saying not very much at all.

While the lyrical content can be a little prescriptive in places, all of Womack's contributions are frank, honest and humble

It all comes across as fairly overwrought, working very hard to sound effortless and losing its sense of self in the process.

Even if his chops as a producer aren’t in question, the writing on Xen is too patchy to fully realise Ghersi’s ambitions. Still, it’s hardly lacking in ideas.

Aside from anything, the album’s glut of southern coke-rap cuts are plain mundane; partly because trap is so horribly over-exposed right now, and partly because footwork sounds unordinary next to any genre you could name.

In Our Heads seems acutely lacking in personality, meaning or the ability to evoke, in your head, anything other than a vague urge to dance.

The album wants to be eccentric, but it severely lacks personality.

This is a Chinese whispers record, one that has been passed through enough cultural and aesthetic filters as to make it utterly meaningless.

At the moment, it feels like he's clinging tenaciously to the edge of disco's seamy grandeur: held there by a certain stiffness, seriousness even.

It’s all genre-splicing and too little genre-defining, and I can’t help but think that Martyn, with both his musical knowledge and his production chops, is capable of something better.

There’s often a disconnect between the production and what’s going on vocally, the two elements at times even working at cross purposes.

It’s a creditable enough compilation as a whole, although a couple of relative oldies, Burial’s ‘Shell Of Light’ (from 2007’s Untrue) and DJ Rashad’s ‘Only One’ (from last year’s Double Cup) rather make me question the aims of the exercise.

It’s Too Late is a woozy, scattershot thing--Late Night Drake, if you will.

Having been born of time around Hot Chip's main activities, however, New Build's debut is not without the limitations that are likely of such an endeavour.

The problem is that the vocals sound generic.

Unfortunately, dependable lounge ambience this ain’t; as the album progresses, any sense of cohesion or purpose is quickly lost to the sheer density and variety of ideas.

There is some meat here, but it’s difficult to suck it off the bone. Perhaps in his efforts to prevent his music being “reified,” Warwick has fallen short of saying anything much at all.

At.Long.Last.A$AP is an unfocused, overlong slog of an album.

Lucifer is a very pleasant listen, but then so are The Wailers, without Bob.

Produced by arena rock specialists Flood and Alan Moulder, Holy Fire sounds pop sound insofar as it’s smoothed off, big and accessible.

Kwes is a resourceful, competent producer and songwriter who’s not short on ideas; if anything, he’s overwhelmed by his own creativity.

Hive Mind doesn't quite possess the same strength as what has preceded it.

It's as if by having every tool and style of every era and nation available to them at the press of a button has stripped AC's world of its mystery; as if there's nothing more to discover.

By and large, Overjoyed works when it rocks--the snarling chugga-chugga of “Do It Nation”, the nursery-rhyme feedback shredding of “Overjoyed And Thankful”--and falls a little flat when it doesn’t.

A delicate thing, and for all its studied complexity sometimes comes off a touch insubstantial.

Overall this is a fine, and occasionally transcendent, stepping up of Fiona's game.

It’s so clean, stylish and pleasant that few will rubbish it, so the spotlight is instead shone on select tracks whose impact is then over-stretched as they try to inject some gravitas into how fluffy it can be.

The fact is, what we're presented with here isn't filler exactly, but it's certainly not killer either.

Whether or not an attempt to be faithful to the original recordings (which kind of defeats the purpose), his compositions are, while lyrical, touching and impressively accomplished, fairly middle of the road.

While it's unlikely to garner them a new generation of fans, as an exercise in generating fresh fodder for their festival sets it's effective enough.

Ultimately, the overall feeling of Mature Themes is of a band and songwriter that don't really care. So why should we?

There are much worse records out there but at the end of the day, and somewhat ironically, it's just much too kind.

It’s a record that masks its lack of content under swathes of super-hip production tics.

There's nothing here resembling stadium polish: if anything, the lush arrangements often yield subtly fascinating results.

The pacing is tentative, the tone one of suppressed pain, and the FX custom-designed to denote ‘meaningfulness’ or emotional sensitivity--all rustic organ sounds and tinkling guitar notes.

Spun out over a sometimes painful hour, NYC, Hell 3:00AM is a mess of an album that, despite a questionable concept, still has plenty of genuine highs.

On Evolve or be Extinct he spends an uncomfortable amount of time simply sounding doddery.

So safely, solidly familiar is Hawk's third album that it's enough to make you nostalgic for the sound as it splutters on its deathbed.

A fair and fine experiment in folk that sees a more mature and worldly Lynch gently come to the fore.

There’s very little sense of a uniting personality, and you’re left wondering how genuinely great an album H&LA might make, how much more they would feel like a band rather than a conceptual project, if they cut loose as much as they do on ‘The Key’.

Instrumental Tourist is unlikely to be viewed as anything more than an unimposing footnote between solo records.

Body Music lacks both the pace and range required to sustain repeated listens, and rests too heavily on one--and even two-year old singles to bolster its overall quality.

The lion's share of this album is sprawling, confused, and almost grotesquely misshapen--a grand experiment with disappointing results.

The result is unexpected; thick, major label-backed, acoustically driven independent pop songs with a folkish tinge, laced with soft electronics and David Bryne-like vocals. BBC Radio 2 beckons.

As with Hive Mind, the record's most interesting moments are its briefest, almost as if Martin-McCormick's strongest ideas are the implied ones, the unrealised ones.

The changes aren't especially radical, but they're noticeable--and it frequently feels like Vasquez has nudged over a line he might have done better to shy away from.

EX is not awful, but it’s certainly not good either.

The album’s periods of gestation and decomposition so outweigh its moment of flowering that a full listen is much more a chore than a pleasure.

Tanlines's debut comes across as well-meaning but overly earnest, overly-invested and trying hard to do many things at once.

Flop moments aside though, Rebellious Soul ticks the prerequisite boxes of classic r’n'b: confessional tales of love, loss and longing sung with passion and sincerity.

Even when new ideas poke their way through, the knowledge in the back of your mind of how great a Terror Danjah album in 2012 could and should be sours the tight-lipped lack of fun on display here.

While this EP showcases some interesting ideas, even its best moments fall short of his work as Audion or False.

Overall, Homosapien doesn’t possess quite the same spirit as Church With No Magic but is certainly a surefooted step somewhere.

When Teengirl are on form, their music is a heady thing: house music sent delirious on a glut of ideas, or pop working to some half-known criteria. It's an unstable edifice, though, and too often the results fall flat.

Coupled with a diminished knack for melody and slower (r'n'b-aping) tempos, conveying a vaguely subdued mood, the difficult Fragrant World just isn't what most people would consider fun.

This is Squarepusher with the best equipment money can buy, pumping his tracks mercilessly until they're all surface and no substance.

Unfortunately, whichever way you try and dress it up, frippery and kitsch alone isn’t enough to carry this album.

Transistor Rhythm is a well-made but forgettable album by someone who, given past form, I'd expected more from.

In patten’s world the fizz of intellect is an end in itself, rather than a means to some sort of insight. Which is enjoyable in moderation, but mostly just frustrating.

As a pop-object, Interiors is far more convincing than its predecessor; as a musical experience it is still, regrettably, thin.

Leila's awkwardness doesn't pay off here: this time round, it's almost like a disguise for lack of inspiration rather than greater depths.

More of a step sideways, then, but one which keeps us very much interested in what comes next.

Bundick never quite detaches from the sound here, and if he languishes there any longer he’s liable to go down with the ship.

Alicia Keys is a singer-songwriter in the purest sense, and Girl On Fire is at its best when Keys (and her collaborators) remember that.

MU.ZZ.LE isn't the perfect album either, but it is another bizarre step in the unfolding vision of a very unique voice, a tantalizing and far too brief hint at something magnificent to come.

Weird Drift is a little laid back, lacking the vertiginous drama that you find in the best synth-pop, and I’m more inclined to stick with another recent Planet Mu foray into the form, Miracle’s overlooked Mercury.

There’s no pandering to musical tastes, no whimsical experimentation, but instead real unity between a song’s musicality and meaning.

Despite DeGraw’s earnestness and the many good ideas that are in there, SUM/ONE‘s sense of free rein results in something garishly over the top--a bit like reversing your cases when trying to write a serious point.

On Pluto, Future does his best to build a coherent album around these hits. He succeeds; the problem is that it's too coherent.

Supermeng is a refinement of Shirach's sound, exhibiting what you might call a newfound maturity. But when being puerile and provocative is your schtick, that's not necessarily a good thing.

Despite her undoubted vocal talents, she doesn't possess the authority to sell the bluster of her lyrics.

It does occasionally miss the mark, but that there are any hits to speak of at all shows that Eno and Hyde have a good deal more to offer than the uninspiring gruel of their debut.

Adrian Thaws is not without its moments.... Elsewhere, it’s a story of misfiring ideas and botched experiments.

Despite her Instagram and “turnt-up” references, the bounce brought to the album by of-the-moment hitmakers like MikeWiLLMadeIt and Hit-Boy and her undeniably personal subject matter, the record just doesn’t have the same candid, bold edge that characterised Beyonce’s huge statement.

Silver may believe in the changeless beauty of his art, but he doesn’t quite succeed in convincing the rest of us.

Up and down we go, and each time the adrenaline rush lessens.

Generally the album hits all the right notes, with great vocals and solid sounds, but at times you may be overpowered by the sickly-sweet nature of the beast.

The production on Dirty Gold--generic, consistently uninspired, gauche--bears absolutely no relation to the album’s subject matter, and jars horribly with Haze’s dark forceful flow.

In My World is a counterpoint to McQueen’s recent work: while the introduction of vocals reveals another side to Matthewdavid, the humour--too often overplayed--is its weakness element.

While the sense of humor that separates him from someone like Gucci Mane emerges at times, the brief grins are not quite enough to distract from the relentless, repetitive tropes that have come to define Juicy’s (and the rest of the rap game’s) lyrics over the past few years.

It may well appeal to those content with downtime after more forthright records. As an album, however, Evelyn’s good mood sits somewhere between decisive and whimsical.

Instead of updating his sound and style for a contemporary audience, Prisoner of Conscious comes off as a series of half measures.

For all this record’s gesturing towards pop directness, it is sorely lacking in impact and in memorability.

MDNA runs the gamut of quality from ghastly to mediocre to brilliant, but it's not the unmitigated disaster that many feared.

My Everything isn’t quite everything, but it’s enough.

With a few more such thoughtfully crafted moments The Big Dream might have been an entirely adequate sidenote in Lynch’s ever-growing oeuvre. As it stands, it is barely that.

James never really follows it through.

How you find Document And Eyewitness will depend on your appetite for artistic bloody mindedness. Still, if you’re a fan of Wire, you’ll know it can be moreish.

It’s an honest album, and while you may not skip back to all of it, its jagged pieces all have their place.

MGMT is by some margin the New Yorker’s most intuitive, sincere and naturalistic record. The bad news is that it’s not at all musically interesting.

Yet despite having created a record that admirably challenges pop conventions, Black Dice could let a little more of the tradition in to help shape their material further and get the most from this direction.

Indie Cindy plays just like one of Black’s solo efforts, but with better session players: good, yes, but never great.

In The Lonely Hour is an album made by an artist who spent years waiting to be famous, but when he got there, found that he didn’t actually have that much to say.

Even when Unapologetic fails, it often does so in interesting ways.

The record is at its weakest when it’s more hoedown than hoes down.... Generally though, Cyrus’s fourth album is more--ahem--bangers than clangers.

This is two albums in a row now that were basically a bit boring, and she needs to sort it out soonish please.

A tedious album from an otherwise great talent.

Everything that is missing from [Lady Gaga's Artpop] is here, but everything that is good about it is spectacularly absent from Prism.

It's not a classic album, but its contents implicitly argue that the concept of a "classic album" has become irrelevant in 2012 anyway.

The album's middle section treads water--'The Palace' passes by without making any impression whatsoever, '1313′ sounds like a more conventional Panda Bear--and then it all goes tits up.

If you dislike fidgetty edits and squealing high frequencies fine--go and listen to Eleh--but if you like dance music crashing into the most mainstream of the mainstream on a skateboard, being cheeky, rude, funny and giving you a massive rush when you listen to it, then here it is. Recess. Enjoy.

Generally though, The Fifth‘s “dance” tracks--‘Bassline Junkie’, ‘Something Really Bad’, et al--just seem too limp to succeed as radio hits, and they’re certainly not good or interesting songs in any other capacity.

Play this album from start to finish and it’s hard not to feel that at the core of its cheaply gratifying genealogy is nothing but misery.