A muddled album that claims to love pop, but seems thoroughly averse to having any kind of fun.

[Danger Mouse's] electronics in ‘Lucid’ detract from the caper and the sub-Lily Allen skank of ‘Jelly Belly’ is ill-advised, while ‘The Running Goblin’’s harpsichord mires it in a midden of shtick.

[It] doesn't really sound like Prince at all. [25 Mar 2006, p.35]

Her debut had some killer pop singles like 'Black Horse And The Cherry Tree', but on Drastic Fantastic her talent and quirks have been mostly hidden under a gloss of studio production and bland AOR.

It quickly grows dreary when there’s not a knowing smirk to match the intensity.

On the whole, this is a mixed bag. ‘LP1’ shows a more grown-up side to the former One Direction member, and cherry-picks from pretty much every genre that’s in vogue right now. The problem is that it doesn’t tell us much about Liam Payne.

Overall, U2 have built a stadium rock cruise liner they’ve zero interest in rocking, and Experience is 50 minutes of very plain sailing indeed.

This barrage of generalised morality is cozened by overwrought production that sees the sun-baked reggae backbone of his previous efforts stripped out to make way for a confusing hotch-potch of styles and an overwhelming sense of desperation.

Combin[es] the chummy West Coast country pop of The Thrills with the plink-plonk pub piano philosophising of Embrace. [3 Jun 2006, p.33]

Sticking to the formula followed by fellow Welsh emo posers Lostprophets and Funeral For A Friend, the generic metalcore verses and overblown choruses are all present and correct.

Their problem? Others have overtaken them. [17 Jun 2006, p.39]

Sadly, it seems that with 'Audioslave' these people who were involved in some very exciting rock records in the 1990s, now seem happy to be making some bad ones from the 1970s.

Benjamin Power, on his first record as Blanck Mass, isn't really breaking their spacey, rushing mould, instead slowing it down and ironing out the thrills.

This isn’t a country album at all; rather it’s an excuse for Diplo to wear some razzle-dazzle Nudie Cohn-style suits and fancy cowboy hats.

Listening to 'Blue' is like meeting your first girlfriend ten years on, and realising that the things you fell in love [with] are long gone. [19 Jun 2004, p.56]

The record peaks with its first two songs.... The rest is Condon shirking off the grandeur of his earlier arrangements with his simplest songs yet, but without showing he’s got the songwriting chops to move on.

File under: ‘shoulda put a donk on it’.

More often than not Origins falls flat, with insipid choruses and melodramatic refrains. Big, bold and a little bit naff, this is another bread and butter album from a mindbogglingly huge group.

Although Cruz’s downfall comes when he acts the player (‘Break Your Heart’, ‘Dirty Picture’), it’s obvious his real talent comes when he exchanges vocal manipulation for balladeering as on ‘Falling In Love’, and disregards romantic cynicism for a rather hopeful ‘The 11th Hour’.

The more this album wears on, the more it feels a world away from the band who once grabbed attention with that charming and vibrant 2003 album. ‘Lovers Rock’ features moments that will satisfy those who’ve stuck by the band this far, but it ultimately feels like The Dears are running out of gas.

File this under 'disappointing'.

They appear to be sincere in their sloganeering so you’ve got to admire them, but, really, the message of a song like ‘New Orleans’ gets seriously undermined by the shiny Busted balloon it’s caught inside.

This album was their biggest and best opportunity to change that perception, but no matter how many freight-loads it ends up selling by, it hasn't succeeded.

They've stuck the bleeps on autopilot, the beats on cruise control, and can only be bothered writing a handful of half-decent tunes. [5 Feb 2005, p.50]

Resembles the Arcade Fire if they were from the Renaissance era and rubbish. [23 Jul 2005, p.50]

There ain't too much here that's going to add to her legacy. Rather, there's the unmistakable sense of someone treading water, with even the OK bits here sounding uninspired.

Problem is, there's a dearth of ideas here that means the whole shebang clings to cloying, torturously repetitive pastiche rather than doing anything particularly innovative.

Placebo have been plumbing the same vein for so long, they've slipped into self-parody and come out the other side with their lipstick all smudged.