Sound smart? It would be if he hadn’t served it up with such flaccid beats.

Where White’s ‘Shakin’ sweated sassy evil, Moon’s is hamstrung by contrived effort.

Self-loathing, self-pitying, self-centered, bad-tempered American rock. [6 Nov 2004, p.59]

The problem is Shawn Christensen's bellowingly unsubtle vocal style, which batters every last vestige of restraint out of its way as it strains for greater heights of veins-bulging volume-as-passion.

With pace set to 'perky', the occasionally impressive hooks of (oh yes) 'Summer Fling, Don't Mean A Thing' and (oh no) 'Dumped' merge into a glossy mud from which nothing to rival All The Small Things emerges.

Musically, it's nowhere near as life-changing as its subject matter, but MacNeil's mortality menagerie make cute enough companions in the void.

The lead single, the excellent, Bowie-ish wibbler 'We Are All Made Of Stars' is a total red herring. The other 67 minutes and 17 tracks are 'Play' Redux; familiar-sounding "oh-lord-my-dog's-just-died" samples over shopworn pianos and strings, straining to be epic but lacking the crucial element of surprise that made 'Play' sound so innovative.

Immersion is less fun, harder work than In Silico. It feels like Pendulum are trying to be more than an anonymous CD you put on at a party when everyone's too boxed to DJ any more. They shouldn't.

There’s something very ‘mopey American teenager’ about Lightning Bolt.

Jamaica Plain is inessential stuff.

Riceboy Sleeps' is a tedious album of orchestral drones, produced by manipulating piano, strings and choir samples on solar-powered laptops

While Monastic Living might say something profound about this awkward, enigmatic band, if you’re out to explore Parquet Courts for the first time, the facts are plain: you should pick any record rather than this.

It’s a solid enough debut that really comes to life when the band don’t play it safe. However, lacking the star power that’s expected from musicians like these (you’d never know who was in this band without being told) it’s little more than the soundtrack to a great Friday night down the local boozer.

Ultimately 'Porcelain' proves that there's more to great bands than good musicianship. [10 Jul 2004, p.49]

‘Expensive Pain’ has its moments, but overall feels like a rushed project that lacks the quality control of previous albums within Meek’s catalogue.

We feel like we got sold herbal E and it didn’t even get us stoned.

The record veers off along theatrical tangents that recall Muse or ELO as much as Sunset Rubdown but ultimately don’t seem to make sense.

Really, what's to be gained from simplistic sloganeering like, "We don't need no more lies!" [20 May 2006, p.33]

Lil Xan is by no means the worst thing to happen to hip-hop, nor does he symbolise its death. However, he isn’t very good either. Stretched to a full album’s worth of material, Xan’s music, like a certain branded prescription drug, quickly tires those with little tolerance.

There's the odd good song... but these are rare moments from a band wallowing in coarse experimentalism. [20 Jan 2007, p.31]

Some tracks are merely forgettable--‘Days Of Decision’, ‘Lenny’s Tune’ and ‘When You Close Your Eyes’--while others charge headfirst into oddball territory.

Wait For Me, though, mostly confirms even cheap-sounding wallpaper remains, sadly, wallpaper.

Their new stuff is – at best – like a minutely less-annoying Staind.

His production work on this fourth album adds a brittle EDM crunch to their formula, but lacks enough choruses ripped from the candy-curled fingernails of the Pet Shop Boys to stop the likes of 'Chemistry' and 'Real Real Love' sounding painfully dated beside Jungle, La Roux or even Daft Punk.

He’s writing about his time in hospital (‘Hospital!), his new home (from ‘Good Morning Berlin’: “Hipsters with beards eating falafel / Wander these streets like herds of cattle”) and desire to remain relevant in his forties (the title track’s indie shuffle). Well, fine, but such navel-gazing offers us little reason to love his album.

There are flickers of funky light on the lush old school soul of ‘Ground Zero’ and the Motown-esque ‘Other Side Of Town’, but for the most part it’s all depressingly castrated.

Sadly, as 'Balls' proves, age has inexplicably withered Sparks' bow-legged muse; where once was genre-bending acid eclecticism and inspired wit, Sparks now seem content to dole out tired, tinny electro-pop and unfunny puns.

Steele would surf in the morning and retreat to the studio later on. It’s the kind of idyllic setting where days simply just pass by. Unfortunately, too many of the tracks on Two Vines do exactly the same.