It would be alright if they believed this stuff, but it's all done with the detached sneer beloved of hipsters worldwide. They're faux-hippies, not real ones.

It all ends not with a bang, but a shrug.

The first disc here was made with several different collaborators certainly doesn't lend cohesion.

For the most part, the album is sickly sweet and filled with cliché lyrics. ‘Treat Myself’ is a frustrating listen, especially given Trainor’s track record for writing ear-worm pop songs.

There's 100 reasons to worship the Beastie Boys. But, plugging in a wah-wah pedal and writing an album of indulgent jazz-funk instrumentals is certainly not one of them.

For the most part, this album, with its Avatar references (‘Lost Freestyle’) and hilariously bad Kim Jong Un punchlines (from ‘Tanasia’: “Chillin, we’re starting to think about children / And bringing them in the world with Kim Jong Illin'”), just sounds dated and like something Nas didn’t need to release.

Laura Marin and Quinn Luke cram excessive lyrics into songs such as 'Shake', creating stodge instead of sleekness.

Welcome To The Walk Alone may have the skeletal blueprint of pop genius running through it like words in a stick of rock but it verges on insulting.

The sort of glossy folk-pop that makes you want to usher Alice down the rabbit hole, and roll out the cement mixer. [10 Jun 2006, p.41]

In music, there are few things more tiresome than an artist obsessed with the idea of authenticity – they usually forget how to have fun. And this is a trap that Rag’N’Bone Man’s second album ‘Life in Misadventure’ falls straight into.

That it isn’t resoundingly terrible (as background music it’s passable, as long as you can’t actually hear it properly) is due to its general beigeness rather than the sparse flashes that illuminate it.

If Sidewalks is husband-and-wife duo Matt and Kim's vision of a perfect night on the tiles, then partying with them must be hellish.

The Saturday Night Live trio pick up where they left off with 2009's Incredibad.

Mostly, Paracosm is Chromatics if their nocturnal danger was replaced by nocturnal emissions, or Beach House if they got so stoned they forgot to change chords for minutes at a time.

III largely eschews fuzz but has plenty of rough edges.

Even a late appearance from The Weeknd can't save this omni-tonal snoozefest.

The 12-song album’s first five tracks are passable, if not actually quite enjoyable. Beyond this point, though, only the most hardened Moz fan should dare to venture. ‘The Girl From Tel Aviv Who Wouldn’t Kneel’ is an unbearable cha-cha-cha; ‘Who Will Protect Us From The Police?’ is lumpen electro; and least listenable track ‘Israel’ sees him deliver political polemic via the dubious medium of a piano ballad.

The deft Tom Petty chug of ‘Indian Summer’ is anthemic enough, but there’s little else to get excited about.

The Panic Channel... never quite click. [9 Sep 2006, p.37]

Like their too-cool-for-school foremothers, they kind of miss the point of what Italo is about. Unlike them, however, over 10 tracks, they can’t even muster one bleedin’ catchy choon.

‘Get Sexy’ sounds like a lazy, latter-day Timbaland joint, and ‘About A Girl’ is a slice of future-house from Lady Gaga’s chum RedOne. But time was we could expect more than bland consistency from the Sugababes--shame.

‘Vultures 1’ might not be the total dud that could put Kanye’s career six feet under, but it is far from one of his best efforts either. It’s more cohesive than ‘Donda’ – although that’s not hard, given it’s about half its length – and includes some well-curated guest spots from Travis Scott, Playboi Carti and India Love.

It’s Hall & Oates without the casual genius; Boy Crisis without the chutzpah; Junior Boys without the emotional baggage.

As ever, he relies too much on accident to achieve interesting textures, flavours and rhythm, and only two tracks--‘Grapes’ and ‘Cheap Treat’--stand out as cohesive pieces.

Their fourth album has none of the witchy class that makes these others so compelling and comes off like a painfully hokey play-act.

In simple terms, then, the third Razorlight album is utter, utter cobblers.

When it strays from charmingly retro to willfully 'raw' it all goes wrong.