Things limp from bad to tedious with 'White Noise', a song so passé it just bought its first shares in ITV Digital.

Insipid marshmallow post-rock that occasionally sniffs in the direction of Yuck or Mogwai, but mostly glowers in a dismally cloying, precious nostalgia.

The Loudest Engine punches for psychedelia and falls flat in a puddle of MOR.

For a pair of wannabe pop classicists, Cardinal's cardinal sin is the failure to provide anything approaching a whistleable melody.

The Christmas album can risk being a sonic Round Robin, of interest to few but its creators, dispossessed of all perspective as they've mired themselves deep in their icky, cosy world.

This is music for message-board moderators and the greasy-haired sycophants who hang around too long after gigs, and precisely no-one else.

It's not quite pop enough to dance to, and almost shlock-country enough to make you give up listening to music altogether.

[A] perplexing and risible album.

After two albums treading water in the tricky oceans of landfill indie, the tides are turning.

Just as you're starting to see light at the end of the tunnel, you realise that there's another five-track EP by these self-absorbed, boring, aesthetically bankrupt bellends still to go. Double bummer.

Needless to say, it's totally fucking rubbish.

It's difficult to believe Limp Bizkit could return after all this time somehow even more hateful than before.

Soppy nostalgia that bares little else.

It's an album full of the sort of drippy ballads and droopy soft rock that should induce an involuntary gag reflex in anyone under the age of 45.

Four years on, his fifth album just feels stodgily generic.

For now, though, she's no better than one of Cowell's ventriloquist dummies.

Shocker! The long-awaited (it says here) follow-up to a sublimely average debut is another half-arsed muppet show executed with the charisma of a terminally ill sloth.

[They] not only resemble hoity-toity Fields Of The Nephilim lookalikes but are just as godawful to listen to.

Undersexed and over here, let's send them back to where they, indeed, belong.

So, you're a founding member of the legendary hip-hip combo Wu Tang Clan. And your fans are extremely pissed because you went and done a track with that Justin Bieber.

It's certainly a messy record, made by half of a broken legend.

Beyond the sonics, the lyrics are embarrassingly piss-poor as well.

Despite Cee Lo's vocal guidance (Brixton Briefcase), you almost black out from the terribleness before coming to and realising you're too good for this soulless nonsense.

Rolling Blackouts sees them doing what The Go! Team do: flailing and yelping like meth-addicted Energiser bunnies, which, as you may have figured, is not a compliment.

Mine Is Yours? You can keep it, thanks.

This album is a tribute to enduring a profoundly underwhelming pop star existence. The banality could be forgiven if it included even one decent hook but alas, no.

Cardiology is monstrously offensive – the latest shit-streak by music's laziest sons.

Richard Paul Ashcroft has assembled that most ruggedly authentic of musical backings, a team of LA session players, and walked them through all of his most anodyne default settings, at a deadeningly flat pace.