A definite sense of fun permeates Conor Oberst, with the singer allowing himself to indulge a few whimsical idea's.

Katy Perry's second album offers minimal creativity or originality, but there are several likeable tracks--despite their turgid, juvenile and bordering-on-offensive lyrical content.

What the world needs now is love, sweet love. Instead we get a new Korn album. Oh well.

Pop and R&B backroom boy steps into the spotlight.

Veteran hip hop soul princess Erykah Badu's newest creative contribution is ambitious, but lacks the smoothness and cohesive feel of her previous work.

There’s still something oddly admirable about Alice In Chains’ stubborn refusal to change.

An edgy rock album, reminiscent of Razorlight’s great debut, had been promised but is nowhere to be heard.

Ringo solo album... Come back! It’s not that bad!

Deerhunter's latest features more pop melodies and fuzzy soundscapes, forsaking the raw, intense sound we all love.

Sleek but insubstantial fourth outing from R&B songstress.

Emo pin-ups milk last moments of glory

Pleasant young fellows cause record reviewer to suffer acute fit of niceness.

If not entirely out of gas, Green certainly seems to be having trouble shifting gear.

The freeform mish-mash of sounds, scratches, samples, styles and lyrical themes is far too much of a mixed bag to have a wide appeal.

Despite their reputation as torch-bearers of the new post-rock prog, it lacks the outrageousness of the ‘70s version of the genre and there’s an earnest sameness to these pieces that render much of it tedious beyond belief.

Former Cranberries woman gives us too much of a good thing.

New York dreampop combo meander a bit.

Despite boasting another stellar line-up of guest vocalists, James Lavelle’s dance-rock project once again fails to convince.

Slick yet soulless second effort from Denver’s Answer to Coldplay.

Truly, this is music for the ringtone generation.

Four years in the making second album from Oz hard rockers.

RATM guitarist and hardcore troubadour participates in dodgy agit rap/rock experiment.

Not many tricks up their sleeves on this album. The Bronx make more of the same noisy, aggressive songs on an album with the same title as their last two.

Craig David's back, and in fairness, he makes a decent fist of it. However, David is hamstrung by trying to please both critic and fan.

Mixed up confusion.

The results are too often less-than-inspiring, and our Marilyn’s music has not established the sort of consistency required to atone for this lack of drama.

Ultimately, this is less a fully-formed debut than the tentative first few steps of a promising artist still finding her way.

Inoffensively bland offering from US indie pop outfit.

Earthbound offering from hyped to the heavens duo.

Ho-hum third record from brit chanteuse.

Wayward offering from hip hop legend with distinct lack of finesse.

Though hardly the disaster it could have been, then, The Stooges’ return feels unnecessary and, more importantly, undignified.

Underclass Hero is a perfectly workable North American punk rock album. It’s got melodic suss and a snotty attitude to its credit, but not much else.

Anyone hoping for another "Don’t Dream It’s Over" is going to find Time On Earth a disappointment.

Whatever personality Lewis has is smothered by an oppressive pre-ordained sense of direction: she sounds simply like another cog in an impressive, but, soulless machine.

Craggy eco-concept record not the car-crash it could have been.

If it ain't broke, don't fix it! Seal re-visits some soul classics, but dresses them up in a way that turns pure gold into something of a different color.

Thrillingly experimental hip-hop.

Sounding, for the most part, like a Stars In Their Eyes version of Cat Stevens, the album lacks variety, imagination and charisma.

Suddenly sullen Kooks produce a limp effort.

Teenage dreamer turns in nightmare of a second record.

Cynical vocodered mediocrity.

The musical equivalent of a puppy humping your leg. This is not a recommendation.

Shooting people, no-strings-attached sex and being a millionaire has never sounded so boring.

Seriously, Ms Jackson, I invite you around for high tea and you turn up leather clad, groaning, and hollering about touching yourself. Mrs Wilberforce didn’t know where to look and the vicar was most upset.

Sci-fi hi-jinks from ‘the nerdy Kraftwerk.’

There’s nowt nu about this nu metal.

Would be blockbuster from the Jack Johnson it’s really not okay to like.

Anastacia’s voice--once described by a critic as a ‘human air-raid siren’--is still hard to love: when she reaches for the trembling high notes your first instinct is to duck under the table and lock your head between your knees.

Underwhelming Third outing for nu-gaze duo.

Ego Trippin' is a subdued comeback from this once hot rapper.

Steady as she goes on AOR eighth outing.

Not as good as Beyonce.

Hard Candy sounds bloody expensive, but has precious little to declare except an infatuation with its own reflection in a nightclub mirror.

The album fifteen years in the making that sounds like a slick but robotic imitation of what it might have been long ago.

The clunkers come thick and fast.

We’re treated to less-interesting takes on the work of Bloc Party and The Libertines, low on hooks and utterly devoid of interesting production quirks.

Aging punks flog a rapidly expiring horse.

Houston, We’ve got problems

California dreaming, diminishing returns.

Woodly prog rock for weird beards.

The catchiest tune on The Block is ‘Summertime’, and in dignity terms it’s Cohen-meets-Waits compared to their hyperactive teen-pop of old.

Re-hashing a similar formula throughout 12 tracks makes for sour and rarely enjoyable listening.

It will probably go down as their 'sell-out' record, in that it's their first for a major label.

Shine remains a terribly average r'n'b album that occasionally flickers with possibility, but never burns brightly enough to matter.

Predictable return to stadium soft-rock from former Poodle-permers.

Sgt Emo’s Lonely Hearts Club Band delivers a less than thrilling album.

Berlin based electro crooner ratchets up the goo factor.

Overall this is a major letdown

Heavy on aspiration, light on inspiration on rapper's second outing.

The shift in subject matter cannot disguise Linkin Park’s acute lack of creativity.

Electro Pop maestros return after three-year hiatus.

Session musicians removes salt from the sea!

Pull the Pin possesses nothing more than stale and horribly bland rock that will most likely leave even die-hard fans disappointed.

Throw away your fashion magazines and join the army, teenagers.

It’s bland, boring and just not very good.

This essentially middle of road noise bears some relation to their past work but lacks any of the grit or charm that made them such a cool little indie band.

Two heads aren’t necessarily better than on! Fire Songs isn’t a terrible album, it’s just a little too sweet and safe for this writer’s ears.

Cutting to the chase, this album is full of Rihanna b-sides that sound like a carbon copy of everything in the charts right now and are completely personality free.

More shouty rock and party anthems from the valleys.

Not up to par with his other albums, Tom Jenkinson's latest work is saved only by his name and not his art.

Hard-working hat-wearing ‘Had A Bad Day’ songwriter Daniel Powter’s third album is a bit of a mess when all’s said and done.

Freddie-less queen fail to recall old glories.

This isn’t the place for Timbaland to try any new tricks and what starts off as something quite thrilling rapidly loses its impact over the course of the album’s 19 long tracks.

Try-hard, but ultimately mediocre R’n’B comeback from disgraced singer.

Go on, drink whiskey from the bottle, see if I care. But when you’re done, don’t jump around like gracelessly ageing Bratz dolls playing late-era Kiss and think you’re a blistering she-Crue.

Shallow and unfunny third album from london boys

Poor man’s Usher wallows in hip-hop cliches.

New mexican drone rock duds. Tune free zone.

Dismal offering from would-be R&B Lothario, this 14-song supposed sexual odyssey is more like a soundtrack to a day in the life of Mr Bean than Hugh Hefner.

'Craig Nicholls’ mob spectacularly fall from grace.