The result: essential listening for members of the Lambily – Carey’s famously loyal fanbase – and an intriguing, sometimes fascinating artefact for everyone else.

From the brief flamenco break in the pummelling ‘Night Night Burn’ and the doomy guttural rumblings of ‘In The Name Of’ to the horns-up thrash anthemics of ‘Distortion’, ‘Metal Galaxy’ is a wild ride that, through its sheer energy, is somehow infectiously accessible.

Will only sound sweeter as summer draws nearer. [19 Mar 2005, p.59]

What White has done with ‘Fear Of The Dawn’, in fact, is row his experimental tendencies back a little, as if to meet the desires of his audience halfway. Unfortunately, that can make large chunks of the ensuing record a confused and purposeless mess.

Breezy and club-ready standout ‘What’s Next’ isn’t too dissimilar to ‘Laugh Now, Cry Later’; the quietly simmering ‘Wants and Needs’, which features a glittering star turn from Lil Baby, evokes some of the more brooding parts of ‘Scorpion’; and ‘Lemon Pepper Freestyle’ is the kind of exuberant freestyle cut that we know Drake likes to close his projects with.

Not quite double thumbs aloft then, but way fabber than it has any right to be.

It all adds up to an overlong, slightly repetitive but ultimately compelling album of two halves.

Missteps are few. Instead of taking a battle-axe to what came before, ‘WOMB’ refines Purity Ring even further. The subtle experiments pay off – even if you may sometimes wish they’d surprise you more.

Experimenting with different vocal registers and taking advantage of how harmoniously her voice goes with live instruments, she’s shared a collection that should leave you itching for her next step. If these are loosies, it’s proof of how top-notch her craft is.

It is pleasant, and largely forgettable.

The Seduction Of Kansas is a fun, dancey funk-punk record that benefits from Congleton’s lightness of touch, proof that you can step outside your comfort zone and maintain your sense of self.

On their third release Asobi Seksu have toned down the fuzz’n’raunch of old and come over all Cocteau Twins-y and mature--not necessarily a bad thing, just quite a bit less visceral.

There are simply too many stodgy slowies. [13 Nov 2004, p.57]

He has some bangers, despite being pretty hit or miss. This second stab at musical longevity is exactly what it says on the label: all over the place. But at this point in his musical career, that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

These are well-penned tunes. They just don’t do anything special with them.

Covering so much ground (‘Hydrate’ even bridges dubstep and reggae) means the album lacks a clear narrative or overarching theme.

To be clear, the good outweighs the bad here, but Tinie has lost a lot of the charm that, when he turns it on, makes him so appealing.

It’s only when he plays to his strengths that On My One comes into its own.

Much of this record plays like a tribute to '90s miserabilists Red House Painters, all phantom-like reverb over misleadingly comforting folk tropes.

You'll be comfy, you might spot some pretty things on the hard shoulder, but ultimately it doesn't get you anywhere.

Ne-Yo‘s overly polished vocals not sit well and Preemo’s production sounds uncharacteristically remedial. Sometimes, too, Guru’s absence is a little too noticeable. ... But these hiccups aren’t enough to derail the album’s quest to remind fans why the duo’s name is mentioned amongst the hip-hop greats.

All too often, tracks feel like connectors – carriages to transport listeners between the singles. There’s little narrative, few definitive themes, but there are lots of guests.

It’s hard to find a unifying meaning beyond the beautiful noise or any indication, really, of what a band that’s cut‘n’spliced a plethora of sounds and genre has left to say or do. Perhaps a part two will answer.

Although ‘B7’ could probably benefit from an injection of tempo from time to time, as well as a little trimming – the granular ‘High Heels’, where Brandy raps under her Bran’Nu alias, disrupts the album’s more refined moments – it mostly thrives, thanks to her unwavering resilience, the unique texture of her vocals and the stellar production courtesy of DJ Camper, Lonnie Smalls II and the late LaShawn Daniels.

They pick a traditional genre and do everything in their wicked power to leave it a broken, quivering wreck by the time they’re finished with it.

It’s melodic, competent stuff, but if you’re going to try and push the crazy buttons you’ve got to go full straitjacket, and Liam Finn is just a tad too straight.

Tasteful and perfectly executed, but workmanlike.

It's compelling, and finds new territory.... But it doesn't do a huge amount to lodge itself in your memory

On this evidence, SMD aren't quite there and the result is, sadly, a bit boring.

Kurt’s going for a mirror image of the album here: reimagining some songs (‘Air Bud’ becomes ‘Wedding Budz’), expanding others (‘Snowflakes Extended’), adding reprises and, thankfully, including a brand-new track--the lovely ‘Feel My Pain’.

The AM radio pulse of the title track, the San Franciscan sway of ‘Old Friends’ and the loveliness of ‘Country Queen’, with its sweet acoustic fade into ‘In The Rounds’, is overshadowed by a nagging lack of imagination.

Better known for one-off dancehall hits and dubplates, Popcaan isn’t necessarily expected to make a cohesive feature-length record, particularly not across 17 cumbersome tracks. But on ‘Great Is He’ he proves that the exuberant dancehall sound he’s known for can be tinkered with and remoulded, along with some undiscovered vulnerability.

heir lighter moments can be a bit cringeworthy--too earnest by half--but when they go slow and heavy, they’re unfuckwithable.

A record largely comprised of sulphurous gothic rockers such as ‘Lose The Right’ and ‘Be Still’, both of which sound like a band working from muscle memory.

Though less immediate than debut "Marry Me," Actor is full of charm, picking its way through disorienting rhythm changes and peculiar progressions.

Mason falls a touch short of the mark. [27 May 2006, p.33]

There’s a certain power to ‘Euphoric’, but it certainly could have been a much more potent album. It’s a shame, and a missed opportunity: we don’t learn much about Georgia’s new worldview on a record that is, supposedly, dedicated to moving on from the past.

Fans of the Mancunian mood sculptor will see this lavishly packaged collection as the latest step in securing Bazza's reputation as the North West's sardonic answer to Barry White.

If only the other half of this album didn't spiral off into wretched reggae stylings, this would be alright.

Ruminations on a post-Brexit nation from a bunch of middle-aged musicians is, perhaps, less essential than it seems to deem itself, but there are probing thoughts and moments to make it worth sticking with.

Noble and determined, 'Left' proves that while HOTS are capable of stirring thoughts and emotions, it's only when they reach full throttle that they truly move hearts and minds.

An enjoyably kaleidoscopic experience, Better Ghosts pays good homage to its influences but doesn’t strive to do much beyond that.

Perhaps less time spent constructing solid, unremarkable riffs and more spent testing out the percussive qualities of chunks of dead rodent à la Scott might make this album actually exciting. As it is, it’s just adequate.

They may not have been perfect, but Plan B’s prior albums have never been disjointed. Heaven is. But, by his own admission, this is a songwriter in transition.

If anything, on the likes of ‘Warsaw’ and ‘Cards To Your Heart’, it gets too dark, but there’s enough funk in their trunk to ensure that the coffee table crowd won’t be too terrified.

If only because feeling sad isn't as good as feeling happy, this isn't as enjoyable as before.

Clinical and precise rather than mind-blowing, Temper Temper will keep BFMV as a band with one foot in metal and the other in the mainstream, which is exactly where they want to be.

On Ores and Minerals, they ditch the giddy sounds of their early material and adopt a broader palette.

Inevitably it’s also an adventure in need of an edit.

For every James Blake moment there’s a Jamie Woon one, and Seabed could do with less mopiness.

[The lyrics] can also be so formulaic that you’ll almost wonder whether you’re listening to M3GAN. ... But at the same time, it’s hard to shake the suspicion that Max has fully understood the assignment. ‘Diamonds & Dancefloors’ lives up to its escapist title with a non-stop onslaught of sharp and shiny pop hooks.

At times, ‘In Pieces’ still stands as a fragmented version of the songwriter and producer’s talents.

Eloise’s attempts to gently push her sound outwards are admirable and promising. There’s a disquieting hint of sourness to the distorted layers on ‘Take It Back’, while ‘Vanilla Tobacco’ is peppered with moments of record scratching. They may be far from revolutionary, but the fullness of Eloise’s new vision vibrates in these tender details.

The generous would suggest this is the album Oasis should be trying to make; the cynical that it's a collection the Inspiral Carpets did make over a decade ago. [7 May 2005, p.66]

The rapper’s attention to detail is undeniable – but serving up a pile of rhymes, rather than full-bodied songs with snappy hooks, can be boring no matter how skilful you are. Even the star-name features can’t really lift this skippable sequel and its samey songs, which is a shame, given Benny the Butcher’s proven penmanship.

At less than two minutes, many of the songs remain as sketches neither punchy enough to work as snotty punk songs nor ever developed into anything more.

A smattering of other tracks aside (including the lush groove of ‘Getting Closer’ and the funk-jazz fanfare of ‘Love Is Everywhere’), this collection doesn’t fully provide catharsis nor connection.

Dismiss this as uninspired “dad rock”, or embrace it as a dad making the music he’d want to hear.

Some of it is awful. Some, notably 'Hide Away' and 'Lucky Day' are as good as anything on prime-time Stones album 'Black And Blue', which is saying something.

It’s honest, personal and wholly relatable. Rostam may have defined Vampire Weekend’s sound, but with Half-Light he begins to define himself.

There are standout moments--the aforementioned ‘Beloved’, the full-hearted chorus of lead single ‘Guiding Light’, the delicate tinkle of piano underpinned by a dog barking in the distance on ‘October Skies’--but you must sift through these sprawling 14 tracks to find them.

A sharper edit and this would have made a great EP.

Best enjoyed off your face at a festival and forgotten about the next day.

Stripped to the bare bones of her soul and the sentiment, her truth shines--and there’s a beauty in that. The only thing holding it back is a lack of risk, but there’s still so much comfort in the familiar.

‘Odin’s Raven Magic’s is built on incredibly specific foundations – the particulars of Norse Mythology and medieval Scandinavian poetry is certainly niche – so key aspects feel lost in translation without a hefty visual component or matching blurb. It feels less like conventional album, and more like a live piece immortalised on record.

Despite its underwhelming second half, ‘Barbie’ is packed with a surprising diversity of sounds paying homage to the Mattel muse. The soundtrack has some wonderful highs and some miserable lows – but then again, it’s not all rosy in Barbie Land…

This is a rock album for those whose idea of rock heroism is Red Hot Chili Peppers, U2, or maybe Muse if they're feeling a bit crazy. If that's you, you'll bloody love it. Everyone else will have to hope Example's evolution is just the beginning.

They’re out of step, out of time, out of place, and have completely gone off on one in their own strange little world; as such, there’s much to admire about The Bravery. Just never go down to Endicott’s basement.

Manages to contain enough surprise turns and twists... to keep you interested. [25 Jun 2005, p.64]

Cassius man's production is a deluxe weave of dreamy synths, biting snares, throbbing bass and warbly Vocoders, but it feels as if Chromeo are just doodling knobs over the top.

In truth, the majority of this largely monotonous second outing becomes a one-size-fits-all affair, and you’re left digging around in this hallucinogenic haze for a new high.

When it works, it works.

It’s a tender passing of the torch.

Gone completely is any passing trace of the grubby, US college rock that made them so beloved underground when the real world wasn't taking notice. In its place, is an awful lot of big, blustery ballads.

‘Always Tomorrow’ boasts a handful of punchy, promising songs but it’s frustratingly unambitious in scope. When the album treads old ground, the ideas are stale. Hopefully a bigger rejuvenation is on the horizon.

Kill This Love ... showcases a band who are certainly talented but perhaps not quite ready for the next upward arc in the ride they’re currently on.

For the most part, however, while never less than beautifully realised, there’s a sense that the record has more dramatic and intense potential that’s left frustratingly untapped.

They’ve taken finest pop moments of the ’70s and laid them out with all the retro flair of a fondue set.

On 'Brilliant! Tragic!' all the usual themes crop up – loving Axl Rose, feeling sexy, the Republic of Sealand – but there's something strangely self-conscious about it all, like the way that Argos is trying to drum up, Big Brother-style, ever-stranger ideas, but without quite believing in them.

Intriguing, but unsatisfying.

Stuffed with superfluous features, the Chicago rapper's 22-track debut studio album sags somewhat, but is almost saved by his infectiously optimistic outlook.

For all the flash and flair, the freshest, most intimate moments here are the result of holding back.

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.