Former DFA man Tim Goldsworthy has helped them find more sonic sparkle in the production of their second album Dunes, but they nonetheless remain a confused proposition.

It hasn’t completely reinvented the wheel for Hurts, nor has it allowed them to rest on old habits. Instead, it presents them at their most open – and in age of isolation, there’s much to admire in that.

There are moments of brilliance on both records. ... Thematically, ‘Everything Sucks’ and ‘Everything is Beautiful’ fail to deliver anything new.

This latest effort might represent a small progression, but it’s far from an evolution.

Ultimately this record lacks the genuinely interesting shifts that have punctuated Swift’s career so far, from the lyrical excellence on her superior breakup album ‘Red’ to ‘1989’’s pivot to high-octane pop.

Soaring closer ‘The Room It Was’ reminds us that, even after 10 years in the game, there’s enough punch and gusto behind this band to swerve overall disappointment, despite a lack of inventiveness and some lacklustre songwriting. ‘The Shadow I Remember’ undoubtedly packs enough muscle to excite at Cloud Nothings’ return to chaotic live shows.

In truth, of the eight previously unreleased tracks, one is a not-massively-adventurous reshuffle (the Osaka Sun mix of ‘Lovers In Japan’), another a 48-second long incidental piano piece, another the version of ‘Lost!’ that features Jay-Z on autopilot (ie, still quite amazing) but is on the flip of the single.

While musically not as memorable or gripping as we’ve heard from Simz previously, the stripped-back nature does play to Simz’s strength as a very relatable MC, drawing greater attention instead to her rapid-fire rhymes, earworm hooks and thoughtful turns of phrase.

For the most part, the songs furrow a similar path throughout the 20 tracks and, unlike most double albums, which are either loaded with fillers or come in two bloated parts, ‘CYR’ feels like a single complete record crammed full of pop anthems. Pumpkin detractors may well hate this record’s simplicity, and they’d be right to criticise it for sounding same-y to a point. But there’s no denying Corgan’s ability to craft a tune.

The album’s glossy production and lyrical vagueness mean these songs could just as easily be about relationships.

By trading nonsensical time signatures and atonal bursts for fluidity and stadium rock, they've subtracted from their former wretchedness.

The result is well produced and enjoyable, but it would be nice to see personality and innovation--two things The Prodigy rarely lacked--emerge among the Altern-8 tributes.

‘Heartbreak Weather’ pads its way through every different phase of relationship-based grief, inevitably letting some moments of catharsis feel more impactful than others. It isn’t an entirely lost cause, but one to build upon for a more inspiring future all the same.

There’s a lot to like about Turn Blue, but it’s a cruel irony that the heaviest hand in Dan Auerbach’s warts-and-all confessional sometimes seems to belong to his producer.

'The Sun'... lacks urgency and focus.

It works, up to a point, but means the whole smooth and romantic-sounding affair, though not quite boring, lacks that special spark.

It’s full of clever collaborations and interesting vocal performances; Roddy Ricch has placed himself comfortably in his own lane.

Ultimately, Maximo Park have bravely taken a chance with this album, trying to experiment with their sound rather than settling for what had previously brought them success. Shame they weren't up to the task.

There are moments of brilliance on both records. ... Thematically, ‘Everything Sucks’ and ‘Everything is Beautiful’ fail to deliver anything new.

This is certainly the kind of music punk had to be invented for. It probably won’t make it onto the Radio 1 playlist, but don’t be surprised if something from Stiff pops up on Mid Morning Matters.

This album is covered from head to toe in a cuticle of stylish crap. Underneath, fortunately, there are several redeeming gems. [21 Jan 2006, p.35]

Sadly there’s only one track here where singer Tigs’ urgent purr and the subtle combination of electronica and bouncy indie pop matches either of those two tracks: the mesmeric ‘Slick’. The rest is solid, but with New Young Pony Club back on the scene, tracks like ‘Two Hands’ feel unremarkable.

Musically, it's really just more of the boozy, ribald, shoutalong same, but tellingly the best moments are when Hutz reins in his mentalist troubadour shtick.

If you don't mind the odd reflective moment, the odd luscious production value, then this has plenty to offer. [25 Mar 2006, p.37]

The album peaks quite early – perhaps with a few tweaks to the tracklist, the new stars of YSL could have had a little more time to shine.

Her pipes can still be transportational, but mostly they deliver nice, docile music to stroke cats to.

The eerie, mist-shrouded 'Running On Fumes' is the standout track, but really, Diamond Mine should be taken as a whole, at night, in the dark, with some Scotch and a blanket.

For Manson fans this is familiar territory: the same mechanical riffs, same whisper/scream vocals heard on his regular stream of albums. Here, most songs are entertaining rather than groundbreaking. Occasionally they’re neither.

Sublime stuff. [11 Feb 2006, p.33]

Not all of it works, but his renewed creative vigour is obvious and his sense of duty commendable.

What diminishes War Room Stories is the songs themselves, which can feel a little ordinary. Rappak’s vocal is a bit sub-Yannis Philippakis, a monotone half-mumble that doesn’t make the most of his intriguing lyrics.

Enjoyable, fiendishly moreish, while also somewhat disjointed, A Girl Cried Red is most rewarding for what it tells us about Princess Nokia, both as an artist and a person--showcasing an alternate side of an open yet abstruse enigma.

Taken on its own merits, there are more than enough moments on Back On My BS to stop the world from forgetting his name. The pity is that, given he’s one of rap’s most distinctive voices, right now Busta seems to have no idea who he is.

It’s just a shame he can’t bring them together as a coherent whole.

When it works, as on 'Let Them Talk', it's a mongrel-pop joy. When it doesn't, as on the overloaded 'Venison Fingers', it's a mess.

Yet get past the grating AF-isms and there’s some good tunes.

A solo charm assault with mixed results.

It's fair to say you won't hear another album like this in 2005. Or probably until 3005. [30 Jul 2005, p.49]

There are more ideas here than Blink-182 had in their entire career; it's just that they're the same ideas that Jimmy Eat World had on their last LP. [11 Nov 2006, p.41]

Christopher is all dreamy lushness with synths that range all the way from zappy to squashy.

Do Whatever...sounds less like inhibitions being shed, less like sex with a tree trunk after a hallucinatory, three-day Haribo bender than their other stuff - and that's kind of a shame, too.

If 'Let's Get Out Of This Country' was a person, you would want to hug it until its big doe-eyes popped out. [10 Jun 2006, p.41]

Only the appearance of Barbadian teen rap prodigy Haleek Maul, annotating the grimy 'ISIS' with a murky charisma saves Supreme Cuts from slipping completely between the cracks.

There are magic moments, but the overall effect might make you drift off rather than have you on the edge of your seat.

A mixed bag, sure, but there's signs that they are still fighting the good fight for weirdos everywhere.

There's something disappointing about this, however undeniable the quality of material.

While it’s a good listen, every song drags.

'Driving Rain' is supposed to be raw, spontaneous and unpolished, when in fact it's perfectly pleasant, unable to resist the McCartney default modes of jauntiness and sentimentality.

This album compares favourably to Smog, or PJ Harvey at her most skeletal--not least in the confessional lyrical sexuality.

The cream of their output is undeniable--the Air-like stringed beauty of ‘Les Nuits’, gut-wobbling soul wailer ‘I Am You’ and early singles ‘Dextrous’ and ‘Aftermath’--but there’s an awful lot of so-so wallpaper here, especially for a Best Of.

It’s too long (16 tracks), musically all over the place (veering from Littlewoods advert pop-house to Smooth Radio schmaltz) and, above all, wants so hard to be liked that it sounds like an earnest school project. However: for its occasional tedium, it would take a hard heart indeed to reject this record.

Spans a whopping 21 tracks – a length even the world’s greatest artists would struggle to fill without sneaking some sub-par songs in. Which means that lo-fi ballad ‘Julia’ is a little cloying, while the acoustic finger-picking of ‘For Now’ and jazzy guitar strums of ‘Sweatpants’ don’t quite live up to the high standard set elsewhere on the record.

They return to their roots for the addictive ’90s swing of ‘Make U Love Me’ but--frustratingly--after the sultry ‘Summer Rain’ the album quickly slips off piste. ‘Who Hurt Who’ is a wet Disney ballad, while the limp dancehall and incessant pitch-shifting of ‘Ratchet Behaviour’ grates. Third time lucky it might not be, but it’s not a million miles away.

Despite some misfires--notably 'Blue Neck Riviera', which features a strange programmed hip-hop beat and a Diiv-style jangle accompanied by some semi-rapped verses--it's an admirable listen.

While there was an endearing humility to Smith's work, this dour offering provides little comfort.

A naggingly problematic record, with a void at its heart that no amount of cool celebrity mates can quite conceal.

The record isn’t weighed down by its ideas--it could just do with a filter, a producer with more sway, or even someone in the process to say: “Actually Jaden, mate--most trees are green.”

Two properly good moments out of five isn’t a great ratio, but at least it’s telling us that The Men’s wagon is still rollin’ steady.

Scissor Sisters sound under so much pressure to follow up a monster hit that they're not actually having any fun.

The ideas in ‘Songs For The General Public’ are rich, creative and often funny, but its musical staying power is lacking.

While it's interesting to hear Grace pour his heart out on 'All Of The Future (All Of The Past)' in a pained fashion, it makes for a record that doesn't really demand repeated listens.

While charming, Albumin suffers from a distinct lack of harmony.

Their introspective, mainly mid-tempo 11th album is a massive foamy middle-finger to retromania, running elegantly from jangly indie to kraut jabs.

The finest line here is the one between effortless thrash-pop and Slowdive's arse, and My Vitriol just tripped over it.

Go To School, feels less like a night on Broadway and more like being dragged along to an amateur performance at your local village hall. It’s charming and full of heart, but you’ll be grimacing all the way through it.

It may not be game-changing and it'll be slaughtered by those who have a hatred of hipsters/fun. But it's harmless entertainment, and London gets full marks for what he's best at--experimentation.

If 'It's Never Been Like That' is a failure, at least it's not a boring one. [20 May 2006, p.31]

Cornershop’s cult is one you’ve either already signed over your seventh-born to or will watch pass you by with a fascinated bemusement.

Some isolated moments make you want to vom a bit--Groove Armada trombone on ‘Many Rivers’--but ‘Love Inc’ neatly reworks a snatch of Lil Louis’ house classic ‘Club Lonely’ into insistent Balearica, and you can’t argue with that.

What Happens Next is a distracted listen--an experimental Gill production that should be out under his name only.

Rise Ye Sunken Ships is actually pretty great, but guys, just dial it down a bit yeah?

Nelson’s [voice] still boasts a lightness of touch. He might be a soulful elder statesman, but there’s a perkiness to his version of cult outlaw songwriter Billy Joe Shaver’s 1981 track ‘We Are The Cowboys’, which celebrates the multiculturalism of the American cowboy.

Okkervil River comes into its own when he forces some particularly oblique and unique strategies into practice.

There's certainly nothing here that'll match 'Wonderwall' or 'Live Forever' for pub karaoke ubiquity, but with this record Oasis are at least tentatively stretching themselves in new directions. [28 May 2005, p.61]

Musically ‘Walls’ is a largely conservative album; it’s primarily guitar-led and rarely experiments. ... The album is padded out with a string of forgettable – though not unenjoyable – acoustic whimsies. ... There are the foundations here for a rewarding future.

There’s definitely a nod to new Nashville here--however, we’re talking more Mumford & Sons if they started songwriting for Justin Bieber than the grit and guts of Waylon Jennings or the current king of classic country, Sturgill Simpson.

In some ways ‘Traditional Tools’ is a welcome return to form, but the album isn’t nearly as innovative or as introspective as it makes itself out to be.

These overly earnest lines [in ‘Weathered,’ ‘My House Is Your Home,’ and ‘Surprise Yourself’] do a disservice to Garratt’s talents as a musician and producer, because the artful melodies and textures on Phase really do shine.

Dr Alex Paterson and co are open for business again, plying their dubby squiggles, electronic bubblebaths and trippy soundbites to the next generation of cosmic travellers. It’s well worth a dip.

The demo vocals she’d already recorded are pretty much album-ready, their slightly unpolished edge even helping throw back to the band’s 1992 debut album ‘Everybody Else Is Doing It, So Why Can’t We?’, home to the immaculate-if-overplayed ‘Linger’. It’s rare indeed that a farewell brings a career so neatly full-circle.

Honey suffers when its producers smooth out their rougher edges to accommodate Katy’s chart-star status.

Essential listening... but only if you're of that particular breed of misfit who grills their cornflakes before adding milk, in order to make breakfast that bit blacker an experience. [1 Apr 2006, p.41]

Drizzy’s candid lyrics about battered egos and insecure relationships were refreshing early on in his career, but the persona is wearing thin as he recalls how rich his melancholy has made.

Laura Marling, six years Emmy’s junior, sounds far more worldly wise, and there’s a sense of naivety, rather than innocence, that stops the album being as Joni Mitchell as it thinks it is.

Pretty, but all too forgettable.

'Gemstones' sees Adam go much deeper into cabaret territory. [22 Jan 2005, p.51]

It's the sound of a band once introspective but alive, now lost, depressed and completely unavailable.

Someone needs to tell Wainwright there's a huge difference between 'epic' and 'over-egged'.

Collections is a confident and professional album, not all that different to 'Acolyte'. And it's not different enough.

The slow, dusky familiarity and lack of dynamics make for more of a groundhog day than transcendence into any fifth dimension.

Albarn's best work has cheek, wit and a smart-alecky desire to shake things up. All this reverence doesn't really suit him.

Your appreciation for this fascinating, frustrating album will ultimately depend on your tolerance for Doseone's unique voice – a strangled croon that threatens to turn milk.

That surprising lack of offensiveness, though, isn't replaced with anything to particularly excite, leaving it a tasteful aural curtain of an album without much of a view beyond.

Luck has its moments, but in terms of defining a way forward for Vek, chance would be a fine thing.

It’s interesting from a certain geeky perspective, but it's never quite as satisfying or substantial as you want it to be.

Rick Rubin’s final Primal Scream-gone-hip-hop remix of ‘A Light That Never Comes’ saves Recharged from disaster, but you might need resuscitating after this lot.

After the ubiquitous presence of '80s-indebted music last year, a follow-up with little stylistic deviation isn't a thrilling proposition: Take Me Over steals a hook from fellow Australians Men At Work, adds ooh-ooh backing vocals and just about gets away with it.

You know those people who moon out of train windows, in love with their own picturesque melancholy? Fionn Regan's third album is like that.