'Sad' is an Adele-apeing weepie, 'Payphone' has a guest rap from Wiz Khalifa, and both 'Lucky Strike' and 'Fortune Teller' feature cod-dubstep breakdowns.

Where this album tries for a harder, more adventurous sound, they’re still stuck with one leg in leather trousers.

Her choice of collaborators is piss-poor, and as every vocal snarl and heartfelt croon is wilfully blanded-out by the musos and their sterile embellishments, we might as well be listening to The Corrs.

Things are less enjoyable when musical boundaries are pushed--and at 25 songs long, albeit with nine of them shorter than a minute, it’s a joke that wears thin.

They’ve possibly succeeded in alienating the casual fan with the brief moments of nastiness that are here.

But while Gray's voice is still beguiling and unique, The Id is basically Brit-award winning, corporate soul with little identity, too cosy and calculated to have any genuine depth.

The musical results feel more like a touristy package holiday through Jamaican dub history.

Clearly Damon is pleased to be carving a niche in the world of high art, but perhaps 'Dr Dre The Opera: Nuthin' But An ENO Thang' might have served his legend better.

A mammoth indulgence, an 80-minute justification of his own ill-defined status.

It’s spunkier than 2008’s ‘Sebastian Grainger & The Mountains’, but still meek in comparison to DFA 1979.

Both musically and lyrically, Daughter ain’t half as clever as they clearly think they are (people get serious and clever mixed up a lot, weirdly).

Original it is not--there's little here that couldn't have come straight off a Shara Nelson album--but she does write some fine tunes

Rather than evolution, Listen offers questionable overindulgence in funk, soul and chopped beats.

Inevitably, when the Prozac finally wears off the more 'thoughtful' numbers fall flat on their faces. [20 Aug 2005, p.58]

Away from his day job, White is less creatively liberated, and surrounding The Dead Weather there's a very strong whiff of conventional, rather clumpy Middle-America jock rock.

Despite this early start, she oozes a smoky maturity that bodes well for her debut, but unfortunately then shanks it off the fairways by prattling on about Air Max 90s and hanging on the District Line.

Individually the tracks have a removed piquancy, but an hour's solid exposure leaves you yearning for a crackle, some fuzz, or any human intervention.

Weirdest of all, though, is that no matter how much Jessie J sings about being herself, we don't really ever get a sense of who, or what, that is.

All 13 of the tracks here sound nothing like their much parodied clip. It’s just that sadly, branching out isn’t a good thing for them.

Imagine if your diary was published in a national newspaper two years after writing it. Now consider what dull and repetitive reading it would make, and welcome to 'Return To Saturn'.

All this greedy grasping means the London newcomers can’t really get a firm grip on anything, meaning Bad Blood comes out with about as much identity as a Facebook commenter without a profile picture.

Mainly, Halcyon sees Goulding's quirky-as-usual vocals lazily spliced into factory-standard chart dance.

While it's sometimes hateful and sometimes hate-filled, "At Your Inconvenience" is rarely boring.

It's a shame Mr Pain needs these cameos as much as his instrument of choice--without them, the temptation for the listener would be to simply Auto-Tune out.

Fly Yellow Moon sounds like Guillemots with all the wonky bits weeded out.

Nine of the ten songs are named after friends, and they’re samey and indulgent.

As is the case with twee-pop even at its best, there are moments when Allo Darlin' can get carried away with its cutesy sensibilities, when smiles can turn into winces

If only the rest of the album was as inventive [as 'Spend Some Money'], instead of a derivative box-ticking exercise that features Dizzee going on about his "willy" a lot.

This perpetual desire to show off is Hawkins' weakness and 'One Way Ticket..."s ultimate downfall. [26 Nov 2005, p.44]

The 11 tracks trundle along in a generally inoffensive slipstream of occasionally admirable but mainly dull AOR silliness.

It's accomplished but occasionally overbearingly earnest and calls to mind the Foos' acoustic alter-ego, bolstered by Sufjan Stevens-ish banjo plucks and, in 'Hard Sun', the kind of play-it-again chorus made for credits rolling over a stunning landscape.

While most of Matinée will fade away into your brain faster than a pair of his danced-out Nikes, there is a shadow of a hint of a suggestion that there’s something more to Jack Peñate than rapidly-dissolving indie-pop sugar.

The gulf between Barrie's obvious talent and the quality of his recorded output is disappointingly huge. [27 Jan 2007, p.29]

Where Black's muse was once shrieked and otherworldly, it's now distinctly earth-bound. [17 Jun 2006, p.37]

The Enemy¹s second is weighed down with pomp and bluster.

It's good in flashes but frighteningly unstable.

There's something a little too ‘phone advert’ about it all to properly excite.

Unfortunately, this rarities compilation focuses on OM's 2008-until-now phase, and it grates heavily.

It's a set of two halves whose hands won't hold.

There’s melody and slick production throughout, but all the life and soul of an accountancy website.

$o$ sounds like the most half-baked efforts of Hadouken!, LMFAO and Eugene Hutz.

What disappoints, though, is how numbingly comfortable he is within these nostalgic boundaries.

It’s lyrically weak, however, (sample: “The moon falls in your doorway”) and although there’s sparkle in the production, Johns reveals himself to be a far from charismatic singer.

Ultimately Deerhoof Vs Evil isn't going to bring about any revolutions by itself. And while the people who love Deerhoof for being Deerhoof will certainly like this, it's no place to start for anyone else.

Far from bad... but so much of it sounds like a museum piece, the glum-pop self-harmings of another time. [12 Nov 2005, p.45]

On the balancing strength of those two songs [Dangerous & Much Too Soon], Michael manages to dodge the bullet enough to be kind of enjoyable. But it's worth remembering that both songs date back to the 1980s.

There’s enough sonic meat here to gain him fans, but not enough depth to build a fanbase that will remember him once he’s off the airwaves.

The beat pulses seductively on ‘Staring At The Moon’. ‘Flags & Crosses’ sounds like a nasty Bee Gees. But then it all goes a bit wrong.

Mostly, though, The Dodos’ little quirks--the lack of bass, the blustery drumming, the lyrics that threaten to say something profound but never do--irritate rather than intrigue.

Equatorial Ultravox is undeniably lovely, and the title describes the vaguely early '80s Mediterranean synth vibe pretty well. It's just not exactly essential listening.

So yes, a solid enough album by the standards of most pop tarts, but from the mistress of innovation? Pretty mediocre.

the promised sense of youth and experimentation rarely surfaces. If anything, Feel Good goes too far the other way, sounding insipid and polished in comparison to The Internet’s debut.

Mvula’s keenly awaited debut record is ornate, gentle and clearly composed by someone with vast musical training. So it’s a shame that so much of it sounds lightweight and shallow.

‘Blameless’ and ‘Little Moments’ marshal some nice glimmering synths, but Alec Ounsworth’s mewling vocal--while unquestionably distinctive--remains a bit of an odd proposition to achieve the requisite Everyman appeal.

The overriding feel is of an album just too jaded, too joyless to truly count as a return to form.

It feels too affected to be truly effecting.

Yes, they write pretty and moving songs, but it’s reasonable to expect more from a band with a history of writing such sophisticated pop.

III is unspectacular, yet it’s laudable that Billy Talent’s chins to remain unencumbered by the ballbags of big business.

Experimental pop that tries way too hard and yet paradoxically feels frustratingly half-hearted. [12 Jun 2004, p.49]

Welch displays little dancefloor nous. Conversely, these cheerful jumbles of loops and kickdrums aren’t the kind of ambience you can sink into.

The monotone pace is lifted by the sprightly ‘3 Days’, but ultimately Woman is cloyingly pedestrian.

Cranes is strong on ‘Honeymoon’ and ‘Easy’, but there’s also nigh-on-sprightly, post-Jessie Ware trip-pop on ‘I Only’ and ‘Feather Tongue’. It's just not enough, though, to struggle above years of similarly tasteful, slight efforts.

A few tunes--like the Afro-flecked ‘LA Calling’ or ‘Everywhere’--pass muster, but the whole thing is about as cosmic as a hairdresser who’s just read in Grazia that hippies are ‘in’ this summer.

Not a bad choice for zoned-out afterhours sessions or long lost summer afternoons, but it's just too indifferent to recommend with any real conviction.

To be fair, this is easily the best thing they’ve done since the mid-’80s and ‘Rockets’ and ‘Moscow Underground’ have some of that epic post-punk/new-wave disco spirit of yore, but it’s still not enough.

What's curious here is how, for all the Kid's ludicrous victory laps, 'Cocky' is so soft in the middle.

Samey and inaccessible in parts. [5 Nov 2005, p.43]

Nothing here comes close to the claustrophobic, urgent brilliance of the early work. [26 Feb 2005, p.66]

If they want to be treated like adults they’ll have to release something, y’know, gooder.

So, his odd decision to make Jamiroquai-like pillow-pop adds yet another string to Oye’s heavily-laden bow, but this is one we’d happily take the wire-cutters to.

Disappointing, then, that the eight-track ‘bonus disc’ opens with a cover of a cover: a lo-fi version of ‘Valerie’. [Review of Deluxe Edition]

Daring as some of the tracks are, they overwhelmingly loop her vocal around a generic house lick that has the effect of giving her very little to do vocally.

It feels distant and phoned in.

Too often, though, the rage is vague.

It's largely the usual semi-hilarious histrionica to which we've become accustomed

Easy Pain proves hard to like; and with little more than aimless aggression to cling onto for eight songs, you realise it’s all muscle.

There’s the occasional peak, like ‘Clown’ or ‘Destroy Me’, but Candy For The Clowns feels more like an act of stubbornness than defiance.

It’s difficult to share the singer's awe when the musical backdrop sounds so tired.

It’s respectable enough but a stronger dose of Fink’s maverick tendencies would be welcome.

Young Rebel Set are as comfortable and enjoyable as a Mumford-wool blanket, but when was the last time you got really excited by a woolly blanket?

The problem is, while the music is as violently powerful as ever, the rage, anger and lyrical bite are starting to sound seriously forced.

Ultimately though, this feels most like the result of a major-label brainstorming session titled 'Which Of Our Artists Will Fill A Santa Suit Best This Year?'

‘Devil Inside Me’ is the album’s earworm that you’ll end up humming, and ‘Solstice’ is a pleasingly overblown proggy epic, but much of the rest is competent yet uninspiring, and the novelty soon wears off.

Disappointingly, given his previous sterling output, this is a pretty boneless pastiche of the genre.

It breaks very little new ground--which does have the upside of the songs sounding catchy because you feel like you've heard it all before.

Overall it sounds like the work of a man struggling to recall his motivations for making music in the first place.

Over 13 tracks, though, Kreay's 'thing' wears waaay thin.

What they offer on Waiting For Something To Happen is a fey-pop selection box that leaves out the gothic grit and garage-infused rabble of early tracks.

Genre-bridging should excite, thrill, agitate; yet... Hood are--still--hipster-miserablist Pet Shop Boys fans threatening suicide during rainy countryside walks. [15 Jan 2005, p.43]

Far from the unpredictable genius of old, it seems that Rivers Cuomo has returned lacking both edge and sparkle.

Ultimately, 'Ten New Messages' is too myopic to see beyond its own concrete cynicism.

...And Star Power is the sound of record-collection rock having a nervous breakdown.

Too few tracks leave as forceful an impression however, and for all its added bells and whistles, Palme comes off more mildly quirky than exhilarating.


It seems Paradinas' real talents lie behind the scenes.

A total car-crash of excess enthusiasm. [12 Jun 2004, p.49]

The album title promises much in the way of forthright antagonism and the Jessie J hair she sports suggests some kind of ironic statement on the chart mainstream, but the content fails to deliver, save for two isolated moments.

[The title track is] a fantastic storm-brewing, brass-stabbing, Nelson Riddle-goes-Tom-Waits, claustrophobic blues number.... It's not worth buying this album for, however, since the rest of it's made up of frustratingly minimalist snatches of music.

There are enough dreamlike melodies to sustain your attention rather than zoning out completely, but in reality it's all just very comfortable.