Blur's most inconsistent and infuriating statement thus far. Infuriating, because divested of four solid-gone clunkers '13' could pass muster as the best of Blur.

Third album La Di Da Di is comprised of 12 entirely instrumental tracks that feel less like stand-alone songs and more like strange sonic experiments cooked up in a lab.

They mean well, but there’s something conservative about them.

A majority of the songs on ‘Love Sux’ clock in at under three minutes, giving the record a fiery sense of purpose. From the fraught emotion behind the vulnerable, delicate ballad ‘Dare To Love Me’ to the snarling guitars of ‘Déjà Vu’, every moment on the album is deliberately melodramatic.

At its best (the crunching ‘Hero’ boasts one of Weezer’s greatest ever choruses), ‘Van Weezer’ marries soft metal and melodic geek culture to stupendous, festival-slaying effect. At its most frustrating (‘All The Good Ones’), it makes otherwise marvellous Cuomo songs sound like boy band rock pastiche. And at its absolute worst (‘1 More Hit’, ‘Blue Dream’ – most of the album’s second half, basically) the tokenistic thunder-chord segments, motorbike noises and Iron Maiden riffs distract from great songs.

It’s all lovely stuff, but the darkness within my soul says it’s maybe too lovely.

There are some bumpy moments along the way, but this ‘Voyage’ is a nostalgia trip worth taking.

It's unfortunate that Frank Black And The Catholics' fourth release falls so close to that of his former band the Pixies' B-sides compilation. Next to the twisted urgency of Black's heyday, his current shortcomings are even more stark.

Liberation may lack the grand ambition and massive pop bangers of her glory days, but by the end, it’s hard to deny that she feels reasonably relevant and contemporary again.

There are some misfires here and there. ‘Escape’, which details trying to get away from the never-ending plod of everyday life, is so understated that it fails to make an impression. ‘Here I Am’, meanwhile, has the opposite problem – overcooking itself at points into OTT theatrics. Those missteps aside, ‘Melanie C’ is an invigorating, uplifting record.

Ultimately, though, its success still falls on Lightburn's shoulders, a vocalist who's always straddled the line between impassioned and overwrought.

This is not his finest hour nor his most groundbreaking, but just having him on the scene is enough--even if all he’s able to do is spread joy.

It doesn't seem the product of so revered an artist. [29 Apr 2006, p.37]

It’s not Flight Of The Conchords quality but, hey, at least it’s not The Midnight Beast.

This is funny peculiar, not funny Barenaked Ladies.

If you’re a fan of the band’s stoner charm and enjoy guessing lyrics to songs as they meander from your speakers, there’s fun to be had here.

Now they’re safely out of what passes for fashion, their retroisms sound more loving than offensive.

No Way Down’s panpipes and ‘Windmill Wedding’s' outro menagerie racket are so gap-year utopian they make you want to ram joss sticks up Air France’s noses. Mighty peculiar.

As an album, the moments of intelligent beauty aren’t quite obscured by the gloom-by-numbers and, considering how rabidly commercial this really is, that’s something of a little victory.

A record that otherwise skids wildly across art-rock history leaving steaming tyre tracks in its wake.

It’s not an essential listen but it does exhibit plenty of moody gravitas.

There’s no suppressing the fact that, ironically, in loosening up and stretching their wings they’ve become a little more earthbound. Where once they conjured up the sound of, um, glaciers drifting across the surface of the moon, occasionally here it lapses into the sound of a wheelie bin being dragged across HMV’s backyard.

A nightmarish listen, but in a good way.

There’s nothing on Hombre Lobo (Spanish for werewolf) that couldn’t be constructed by breaking down the DNA of the previous six Eels albums and repiling the strands up in some melodically fresh but warmly recognisable way.

While not their best, it’s decent enough to ensure there’ll be more-- even though the truly off-the-wall moments are either rare or misguided, meaning the record feels slightly anonymous.

Kwes' voice underwhelms throughout, as if he's embarrassed by his own singing, and he ends up underselling the songs into which he's put so much effort.

It’s a well-crafted debut from a worthy new artist, but it’s competent rather than compelling.

Without the gritty substance of the first album, it has all the depth of a packet of peanuts.

While it’s far from a dramatic reinvention, there’s enough on display here to ensure that long-time fans will be more than happy, with a consistent array of the arena-ready riffs and post-rock choruses that cemented their name in the first place. This time, however, we’re given a welcome glimpse into the darkness that seemingly exists within.

It’s nowhere near his best work--it’s clear why tracks like ‘Oatmeal’ and 'Catacombs Cow Cow Boogie’ didn’t make his albums--but Cass McCombs' cutting room floor is grimier than most, and this record is a consistently intriguing portrait of the odds and sods of a fascinating career. Listen to it, then buy his entire back catalogue.

By Benga’s own high standards it feels a little flat.

The problem is, these impressive production techniques are in greater abundance than actual tunes. With clever tricks rather than pop hooks, expressionistic (and often mumbled) lyrics and a lack of relatable themes, Aquaria can feel cold and self-involved.

Nothing especially groundbreaking here compared with compilations such as the Kitsuné Maison series, but listenable nonetheless.

It’s clear plenty of good choices have been made here. It’s not quite redemption--only time will tell if he’ll curb the recklessness--but it’s certainly a start at reinvention.

<i>An End Has a Start</i> turns out to be a pupae album--it's Editors stretching their sonic muscles, poking the first spindles of whatever new form they'll take out of their gloom-rock cocoon come album three.

The multi-talented musician’s downfall is sometimes that he wraps melodies in so many layers that it barely has a chance to breathe. ... Whatever the flaws in some elements of ‘Changephobia’, Rostam can be proud of creating an album that showcases his talent as a producer and is truly unique.

Canopy Glow can pass you by on first listen, but persevere and memorable moments do emerge.

The record as a whole is full of wan acoustic guitar tunes in desperate need of that mysterious quality of oomph.

At its best, his songwriting is appealingly simple and straightforward: the title track offers an evocative portrait of a relationship that’s breaking down. But at times, Horan’s lyrics let him down a little.

Sex with a z – amusing but dull.

FLOHIO’s willingness to embrace a number of genres and sounds in her music — from 2000s grime to house music — can only be a positive thing, and ‘Out Of Heart’, a body of work that does show promise, serves up a refreshing take on modern-day rap. There’s still room for improvement, though.

Poetic lyrics, tender guitars, tortured synths and Olivier's heavenly vocals. [29 Jan 2005, p.59]

Lyrically, Beach House 3 is a step away from the musician’s satin-sheeted comfort zone, but we may have to wait for ‘Beach House 4’ to see him truly come of age.

Band Of Joy is an essential purchase... if your dad is having a birthday this month.

‘Sorry I’m Late’ is a lot more fun when it stops trying so hard to prove itself.

It’s not until ‘Kids Are Growing Up’ the album’s 20th and final track, that Howard attempts to reflect on anything but heartbreak and fame. .... It feels like an emotional breakthrough for Howard, but it comes just a little too late.

At times, its a record that feels slightly lacking in range as a consequence; as this album chugs on, Night’s wittiest turns of phrase can’t help but take centre stage against a familiar backdrop.When The Regrettes shake things up, they’re most ferocious.

No song is quite right: a lyric about angels or elephants here, a trip-hop beat there, and even the Milky Way would blush.

‘Hold On Baby’’s brightest moments may be more than enough to keep the die-hard KP fans hooked, but this feels like a missed chance to offer up something truly surprising.

It’s testament to their power that an average Isis album is still pretty good.

Cheetah isn’t bad, but it could be the work of lesser producer.

The result is an intriguing, if disorientating, sprawl of sound.

Japandroids know how to bring the ruckus. But elsewhere the power-chord pummelage gets a bit one-note.

It's a well-assembled album, and the steady trance-like flow of 'The Forest At Night', and the eiderdown of sound on 'Transcend' are absorbing.

She’s great, but Lord, it’s heavy-going.

While the beginning of the album struggles, you’ll be hard pushed to find a five-song stretch as flawless as the close out tracks on Ross’ 10th studio album.

Although they might be lacking teats, their creative juices are nevertheless overflowing.

Revelations wants to be unlistenable, but it can’t always hide Shamir’s songwriting strengths.

Though it boasts hard-hitting moments (see the supple uppercut of ‘Been A While’ and the dizzying double-jab of the JME-featuring ‘Call the Shots’), this sequel lacks the punch of its predecessor.

The little dude is a poet. Still, at a relatively lean 30 minutes, it’s hard to argue this is a heavyweight album.

Raymond V Raymond finds the singer in an emotional headspin, and when he channels it here he produces some of his darkest and most hypnotic soul-pop to date. But sadly there’s quite a bit of forgettable bravado babble too--hardly original.

Overall, SY fail to get into their groove between twisted, brutalised melody and spastic six-string experimentalism.

As a whole, Meteorites fails to set the sky on fire.

Despite its delivery, Kamikaze is very resolutely an old-fashioned album: 45 minutes and 13 tracks long.

Musically, the album hits in all the right spots, solidifying their expertise at penning sunny, earnest Radio 2-core. And when they deviate from the easier path, most notably on the slow, deeply sombre ‘Strange Room’, which sees Chaplin’s voice take on a genuinely affecting, downtrodden lower tone, ‘Cause and Effect’ begins to exist as more than a comeback album for the sake of a comeback album.

This sounds more like a new Gnarls Barkley album than an old Prince one. A genius on autopilot is still very clever indeed.

Far goes some distance to halt a slide into mere radio-friendly pleasantness, though.

Every track here follows the same pattern over identical lackadaisical rhythms, her vocals never rising beyond a low-slung murmur with most of the lyrics drawing the same conclusion: she’s bored.

As a pop product, the album performs its function--and it’s commendable of Minogue to experiment with a different sound. It’s just a shame to hear a pop queen like Kylie seeming to buy into tacky generic artifice because it happens to be in vogue.

OCD Go Go Go Girls is, as ‘Think’ was, simply an imperfect heads-up for Lovvers’ live skills.

Tiersen never loses touch with his innate sense of melody, but the lack of edge means that Infinity's charms are, in fact, finite.

'Nation' is not bad - it's taut and tense and if you buy it quick you'll get to hear their logic-defying cover of Bauhaus' 'Bela Lugosi's Dead'. But it's hard to reconcile 'Nation''s obsession with the scourge of globalisation with Sepultura's conversion from third world pioneers to just another angry hardcore band.

This surprise album – despite its frequent beauty – works best as a puzzle piece rather than a standout record in its own right.

The Earth, Wind & Fire-sampling ‘It’s Sunny’ is too cheesy, and ‘Aye Muthaf***a’ slips in some Rihanna-style dancehall beats, but elsewhere TLC offers a familiar mix of breezy R&B tunes and folky self-acceptance jams.

A slick offering, Rented World is let down by a tendency to veer towards the formulaic, evidenced by closing track, ‘When You Died’, an altogether too tepid acoustic tear-jerker.

But if attempting to dress ancient monuments in radical, avant-garde clothing was always going to be a hit-and-miss project, he's still succeeded for the most part in making a richly ambient, evocative record from apparently staid and stale old material.

The record doesn’t feature a bunch of seminal tracks, instead packing filler between his knockout singles such as ‘First Class’. You’ll find a gem or two here and there, but this collection’s longevity is questionable.

A few more like ‘College’ and ‘Figured It Out’, with their emotional weight and memorable choruses, and they’d be onto something.

[Lemmy's] voice is a bit croakier these days, but the band’s riffs are as pummeling and unforgiving as ever.

The misogyny of Tha Carter V cheapens its moving moments.

Few giant leaps nail the perfect landing, and Morrissey’s two-footer into full-blown electronica stumbles occasionally. But there’s also plenty of reason to hold your political nose and cross the Twittermob line.

They're tight in the way that only the threat of bottling can foster.

A lot of it is quite earnest, dealing with subjects like rejecting the mainstream (‘Run Boy Run’) and, on ‘I Love You’, unrequited love.

A Thousand Heys reeks of wrong-side-of-the-pond, washed-out lo-fi revival as much as the vocals.

The formula wears pretty thin towards the end--bee-stung emoting in the verses, splashy catharsis in the chorus--but Glorious is no failure.

Rival Schools have finally returned from an inexplicably long hiatus to demonstrate why they're such luminaries for today's post-hardcore hordes.

Listen once, chuckle lightly, rip 'Together,' then run a fucking mile. [9 Oct 2004, p.57]

‘Eyeshadow’ treads more familiar ground, thrillingly injecting the Welshmen’s knack for an anthemic chorus with Thursday’s pulsing, wide-eyed intensity. Rickly fans may be uneasy with No Devotion's softer synthpop moments though.

Taking inspiration from the best seems to have paid dividends, but it doesn’t half make you wonder what the real Harry Styles sounds like.

Ultimately, the album is weighed down by its very gentleness. [30 Apr 2005, p.64]

Sawdust reveals a band with a healthy blueprint for success, sure, but "The Masterplan" it ain't.

Sure, there's the odd thoughtful spot of violin, like on "Give Me Shapes," but the record's relentless rawness eventually bleeds into a murky burble.

While it’s heartwarming to see Lauv’s newfound openness, the album is – ironically, given his most persistent theme – missing a little something.

Some other stylistic choices prevent ‘New Last Name’ from being the disruptive moment it clearly wants to be – ‘Flex’ and its nod to ‘Mr Brightside’ (“now she’s calling a cab”), doesn’t quite land – but the album’s overall vibrancy doesn’t dim on repeated listens.

His new set is disarmingly jaunty, occasionally odd – as on the scratchy electro-folk of ‘Don’t Want To Sleep Tonight’ – and frequently lovely, chiefly on the parched reverie of ‘Ballad Of Fuck All.’

More than anything, annoying for the fact that in its moments of brilliance, it's the catchiest, danciest jangly guitar pop you'll hear this side of the summer. Sadly, those moments are few and far between.

Had the entirety of ‘Brassbound’ been as polished as these final two tracks, the Boys would be closer to the promise they exhibited on their debut. Instead, they’ve produced – and have the frightening candour to admit to – their “second debut”.

So 'A Bigger Bang' is no masterpiece. As a loss leader to allow them to continue touring, it's not even as good as 'Don't Believe The Truth'. But it's the best record they were going to make, and a world with the Stones is better than one without them.