Not only do his [Reid's] noises fail to carry the songs, he often loses the songs altogether. They drift away from him when he should be dominating them. And this album is a missed opportunity.

This 10th album lacks such bite [as 1999’s single Flame].

De Martino and White are on an unashamed mission to make perfect pop, but seem to have treaded the path too literally.

As a whole, Let Yourself Be Seen flows more like a meandering DJ set.

For four songs you'll find it tender and comforting – then you just start craving VOLUME.

A bittersweet second album of gentle strumming and washed-out summer sun. [30 Sep 2006, p.37]

Although those searching for a raised pulse will find the title all too appropriate, Blood From A Stone’s hushed, held-breath, Cocteau Twins-ish atmosphere is addictive.

As essays from high-flying, high, high school dropouts go, however, 'The History Of Rock' isn't bad, if a little low on inspiration.

SCUM, then, is more revolt than revolution. But there’s undoubtedly talent here--and there’s every chance Cardy, not T, will be the touchpoint 10 years from now.

It’s fun, but not the comeback it could have been.

Had the stronger songs been contained to an EP it could well have rivalled the extraordinary consistency and thrill of its predecessor – but frustratingly, it falls short.

There’s one too many generic, string-laden ballads, and a stop-start feel to the record, a frustration given how enlivening its highs are. But if anything, it feels like a record Beer has been desperate to make since the very beginning: she’s come a long way in her time in the spotlight, but now we’re finally getting to know her true sound.

The prime intention of Wolf's Law is to overwhelm with bluster, muscle and noise, to orchestrate us clean out of our boots.

It shimmers with wonky ’90s-indebted pop smarts, a daisy-chain of balmy nostalgia with blissed-out guitars, hushed vocals and kaleidoscopic lyrics.

Throughout the album, Fredo doesn’t necessarily get as deep or introspective as audiences may demand. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it does create superfluous tracks across the project.

This album is an almighty slog, one where the vibrant new is weighed down with a lot of the same old tricks. For all glimpses of bold musical and lyrical steps forward, they remain largely the same band they’ve always been with ‘Return Of The Dream Canteen’ offering an all-you-can-eat buffet that often feels overwhelming.

Ultimately, it feels as if everybody involved in ‘Thank You’ has reverentially tried to make the platonic ideal of a Diana Ross album, but instead fallen into the late-career artist deadzone of a pleasant record that neither particularly updates nor diminishes her legacy.

In standing mostly still, Travis have found contemporary eddies swirling around them.

Clocking in at 47 minutes (despite its 17-track length), Lil Boat 2 feels like a vast improvement from ‘Teenage Emotions’ simply as it doesn’t feel like an ordeal to listen to. What that does do, however, is narrow down your focus, which tends to land on Yachty’s predisposition for telling us just how rich he is now.

Everything you hear is supposedly conjured from Yoav's guitar. It's a cute trick but as the album storms ahead it becomes a distracting and frustrating gimmick that sells the songs short. [15 Mar 2008, p.50]

All done in their trademark chirpy Camden ska way. [30 Jul 2005, p.49]

Yung Lean still lacks quality control. The middle bulk of Stranger can feel like being suspended in ice, experiencing a never-ending comedown.

Love gets to indulge his sweet tooth over a whole record. That freedom turns out to be part blessing and part curse, his delicate-as-a-feather jangle and wispy vocals eventually wearing just a little thin.

If the focus on 'I Predict A Graceful Expulsion' is sharp then its scope is overly broad, focusing in on vague sentiments that leave you fond, but never in love.

It’s a bit nuts, but the ominous, shimmering psychedelia of standout tracks ‘Three Frendz’ and ‘Angel Of The North’ elevate the album beyond a quirky, Watership Down-esque curiosity.

No doubt many of these songs will go on to be fan favourites, but while it’s not a step backwards, it certainly is a step sideways for a band who until now have been in perpetual motion.

Like most blasts of carefree romance, its charms may not endure--'Spun', for example, is so saccharine that it's in danger of making your teeth itch--but often in this life, the sweetest things aren't built to last forever.

He flirts with past glories on the throbbing ‘I Am Dust’, but Splinter never sounds ahead of the curve he created.

What The Time Is Now lacks in coherency, it makes up for in sheer enthusiasm.

Like most break-up albums, ‘This Is Really Going To Hurt’ is self-indulgent. There are moments of relatability, but for the most part, Taylor’s fury steamrolls everything.

Though this record is as polished as anything they’ve done before, it somehow feels easier to break through the sheen, and get to the heart this time around.

Sometimes you wish Meloy would just put away his studied thesp-schlock and say, "Man, I'm sick of singing about Victorian peasants. I got dumped once. I want to write about that..." [27 Jan 2007, p.31]

It may be breathtaking in places, but Flossie's Lungs are just a bit too full of bluster.

Creosote’s first album since doesn’t have quite the same woozy charm, trading the lush and eerie textures for gentler, more traditional ditties, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t still pleasures to be plundered.

It all adds up to a thoroughly enjoyable listen that confirms what fans already know: even a middle-of-the-road Dolly Parton album has lashings of charm.

Lavigne has never been pop’s most sophisticated lyricist, but her plain-speaking style makes for compelling listening here. ... The album’s second half is generally happier and blander.

If Little Comets played to their strengths they could burn far brighter.

When they're fragile, Looper are precious, when they're whimsical they're plain weedy.

If there’s a problem here, it’s the obvious 2016 one: length.

It’s smartly done but strangely rootless, roaming far and wide but without a place to call home.

Big Boi is the best thing about the album--and double props for staying true to his entire career's quest of never making the same album twice. But Vicious Lies And Dangerous Rumors as a whole? It's all over the place.

These drifts of pop cultural flotsam feel eerily dislocated, as if there was little joy in the psychic bloodletting. Strangely compelling, though.

Other than the fantastically chaotic "Watcher, Tell Us Of The Night" ushering in a rallying final quarter, it makes for a frustratingly unfocused listen from a fine artist lost in his own magnificent noises.

The pair [Ghostface Killah and D-Block's Sheek Louch] strike up a good chemistry... The rest of the record, sadly, struggles to get out of first gear.

Red may only be a fleetingly satisfying confection, but maybe that was the plan all along.

This being Courtney, there’s also an emotional rawness to ‘America’s Sweetheart’ which you’ll either love or be repelled by.

Stand-out moments grab you with their humour – the immensely memorable hooks on show certainly help, too – but after ‘Motordrome’’s fizzled out, you’re left wishing the engines revved a little louder.

Up there with Cash’s ‘American’ series this is not. But 48-year-old Lanegan is a classy bastard, so he just about gets away with it.

Ben Howard’s fourth record sees the artist move beyond his usual methods and proves, if anything, that he has too many good ideas to stay focused. Of all the problems to have, it’s a pretty good one.

‘FOREVERANDEVERNOMORE’ is never quite an album that is completely comforting or despairing. Instead, it explores the vast reaches between the two and uses introspection as a means of finding stability in the chaos.

It’s yet more evidence that Drake’s art is suffering under the strain of his obsession with churning out as much music as is physically possible. And while 21 doesn’t have the same problem, both halves of the duo are responsible for an album that had the potential to be a classic, and missed.

While the album is full of quality tunes that sound nice in isolation, as a complete package, it lacks the versatility to take it to another level.

The record’s constant dive through history often comes at the cost of consistency and a solid sonic identity, though, for the most part feeling more like a scrapbook of ideas in transition than the work of such an established act.

Justice? Talent to spare, but that doesn't stop '†' being just another frustrating dance music album.

The result is joyous electropop with depth--dance beats, '80s-ish synths and Caila's soulful, voluminous vocals fanning out into gorgeous harmonies.

It finds the band cruising along the middle of the road, with occasional interesting detours.

He hasn't always got the tunes, but this effort shows off more than enough ideas to keep King Monkey swinging for a good while yet.

Though the romantic elements of ‘Discount De Kooning (Last Man Standing)’ are nice enough, it fails to penetrate in any meaningful way. As the record meanders on, tracks such as ‘The Dreamer’ and ‘Anonymous In Los Feliz’ fail to leave a lasting impression. That’s not to say it doesn’t work. It might not offer anything new, but it doesn’t necessarily need to.

It's a grandiose (Rick Rubin produces), earnest affair that sheds the trio's earthy realness for a glossy veneer which is sometimes thrilling (the majestic 'And It Spread') but often, well, nothing more than an unconvincing stab at that most scary of concepts: mainstream country.

Brilliant band then, not so brilliant boxset.

As much as the album is warm, wistful and pleasant, every song is a variation on the others, using similar chords and the same key, although final track 'Long Journey' packs more of a punch.

It’s unspectacularly solid stuff.

At times, it’s truly gorgeous; but at others: it’s bloody hard work.

Uneven it may be, but when his goofy rhymes catch sparks against a noxious mix of grime, electro and funky house it’s dazzling.

It would be unfair to call the album a time capsule of present times, however chaotic those are, as it feels like the uneven collection might morph into something else when revisiting it next week.

Producing an album that distorts time so each second is the temporal equivalent of War And Peace is almost a perverse triumph.

Having now racked up multiple albums of tastefully burbling electronics and inscrutable guitar oddness, Instrument still suits the term: rarely does it ‘rock’ at all, so TRR may as well have progressed beyond it. It’s by no means without merit, though.

[He] flips his hip-hop, rave and reggae on their head, using them to produce cute, beautiful tracks rather than ear-shattering junglist uproar. [20 Aug 2005, p.58]

Despite being a record of two halves, ‘My Turn’ is an enjoyable collection of tracks for his loyal fans. He would do well, though, to stay away from the whiny sounds and rap with a little bit more clarity.

The result is a thoroughly modern pop album that will best appeal to ageing clubbers.

It doesn’t always work, not least in ‘Shotgun’’s iffy mix of Nashville-ready instrumentals and a chugging house beat. On the flipside, ‘Do I Have To Talk You Into It’ sticks so stubbornly to the Spoon template it could be a discarded number from any of their previous records.

Given the period of separation we’ve had from them, it feels a little phoned-in in places and lacking cohesiveness.

The inner battles of ‘Permanent Damage’ are unflinching, and will likely stay with you long after the songs finish. It’s slightly deflating, then, that its instrumental flourishes often fade into the background, making for an album that takes risks without ever quite putting itself out there.

Trouble is, although forced to move on, Howlett had nowhere particular to go, and so much of this album sees him squatting on the floors of other acts. [14 Aug 2004, p.47]

Intrepid it ain’t, but sometimes the straightforward approach has its rewards.

Merely a decent Morphine album.

Not a classic, then, but you could just listen to the good ones a lot.

A welcome change of pace.

Their taste in remixers still tends to the indie-friendly, but their imposing guitar squalls are repeatedly processed into a wildly different beast.

The more experimental side of the record is where things get really challenging.

Britain’s foremost whiteboy funkateer has learned enough since his 2005 major label debut ‘Multiply’ for ‘Compass’ to pull off a neat trick. With his heart as his guide, Lidell gives us a tour of soul through his geographically-removed ears.

The four-piece’s debut is a forcefully soulful affair.

With their brattish Long Island manners, spiky wit and (middle-class) B-Girl 'tood, it mightn't be all that lazy to re-baptise them The Beastie Girls.

Although the decision to release what sound like half-finished tracks purposefully left in the draft folder somewhat misguided, the album doesn’t do anything to tarnish his legacy. Instead, there are moments where it shows how capable of an artist Åhr was, a gentle reminder of the stardom Lil Peep could have achieved.

If the band scraped away the torrential bluster in favour of more subtlety, then their next record could be a portrait of artists. As it stands, they're not there yet.

Overall, MGMT's refusal to co-operate with the listener jars with the crisp and professional production – which, despite Sonic Boom's involvement, is more Van Dyke Parks than Spacemen 3 and leaves Congratulations sitting somewhere in the middle, not complex enough for the prats, but too obscure for the jerks.

Guy Garvey’s solo debut follows the classic pattern--he’s off to play trad-based songs that “don’t fit the Elbow template” with his mates from I Am Kloot (bassist Pete Jobson) and The Whip (guitarist Nathan Sudders), don’t wait up. But as it reels out the old lines it proves quite the charmer.

The reason that 'Come With Us' seems unsatisfying is that The Chemicals no longer seem rooted in club culture the way they were in their Heavenly Social days.

The ramshackle energy and unpredictability of their live show has been sanded down into something more clinical and precise.

It can feel – despite the vivacity and thrilling, shack-shaking garage rock beast that this whole album is – that Romero are stuck in a single gear. There’s a sameness to the songs that won’t trouble any listeners who only want to throw their heads around, pogo bounce and get deafened by riffs.

You feel the need for something other than Bryan's croon, and it isn't there.

It wouldn’t be a Deerhoof album if there wasn’t a barrage of unexpected riffs, squeals and feedback littered across most tracks, as well as a few madcap lyrical excursions.

The Money Store offers a glimpse of sonic dystopia that's utterly convincing.

This is Tom Morello: Unfiltered, the work of a rap-rock renegade who answers to no-one, exploring new terrain well into the third decade of his career, an artist unwilling to rest on his legacy.

Sadly, the energy and abandon that has made Tiga's recent remixes so essential is largely absent. [4 Feb 2006, p.29]

From someone whose appeal relies so heavily on his openness and honesty, the album feels out of balance: like there's a hole where its heart should be.

When the songs descend into repetitive strummed choruses and tired imagery (“Ain’t it so good to be young in America and watch the world burn”, on ‘If The Moon Rises’) you realise a bit of rock-star pomp could’ve livened things up a little.

Songs schizophrenically jump from A to X, from great to merely good, with scant warning or point.