An album that not only fudges golden opportunities, but finds this band's whole modus operandi laid embarrassingly bare. [15 Jan 2005, p.42]

Though these are often beautiful and uneasy songs, too many of them feel rudderless.

Yet it all hangs inexplicably together, thanks to heavy doses of charm and wit, its ability to propel your emotions from thrilled to weepy to lovelorn in a trice--and the promise that Kiran Leonard might grow into a properly important figure in British rock.

On the evidence of this stunning piece of music, we'd all do well to give a bit more of ourselves over to the machine.

The prevailing air understatement doesn’t detract from Making Time, but it does mean it just peters out. Woon could have done with pursuing the harder edge of ‘Movement’ a bit more. But he does things his own way and, for the most part, that’s a very good thing.

It's a fine album, but signposts a possible future rather than taking us there directly.

It's still party music, but for a different kind of party.

As debuts go, True Romance is an astonishing statement of intent – if they’ve got any more ideas left after the 10 tunes here we could have a rather special band on our hands.

Obits create the same buzz in your brain that was almost certainly present the first time you heard The Hives or The Vines, the feeling which had you so giddy that you perfected excitement wees to rival a puppy (probably). This time, though, it’s not bratty whipper-snappers but a fine veteran taking the lead.

Their vision is so focused on piano and guitar tone and so opposed to the notion of tunefulness that MGMT’s new stuff seems like ‘Motown Chartbusters 3’ in comparison.

Cool cover or not, 'Strange House' is a strong debut from a band who, many sceptics believed, were at their best in front of a camera rather than behind instruments.

Although it can be overblown, Sean’s passion is unreserved here, the record peppered with Instagram-worthy captions that urge listeners to take inspiration from their surroundings while keeping friends and family close.

Fans of whiskey-drenched, feedback-fuddled blues-rock, form an orderly line.

A melodic masterpiece of boldly indignant malevolent spite.

It might have taken a decade, but this feels like grime finally beginning to grasp its vast potential.

It’s still occasionally a bit too ‘nice’ for its own good, but in a cynical world, sometimes a little hope and buoyancy doesn’t go amiss.

What saves that song ["Slow Motion"] , and indeed the album as a whole, is Monica Martin's honeyed voice; it's full of soul, even when the arrangements aren't.

This is BSP in fine, if not exactly boundary-shoving, form.

As thrilling as Gwen, as badass as MIA. [17 Jun 2006, p.37]

It’s Dionysian disco: dynamic, decadent and utterly brilliant.

It’s ultimately toothless.

It's frustrating, because when they quit mucking about, The Hidden Cameras have the power to produce songs that tickle your heart. [10 Jul 2004, p.49]

As uncharismatic as its creator, it's certainly boring, but no more so than anything Richard Ashcroft has come up with.

But while Gray's voice is still beguiling and unique, The Id is basically Brit-award winning, corporate soul with little identity, too cosy and calculated to have any genuine depth.

Like his predecessors', the results here are decidedly mixed.

‘ELE 2’ finds Busta Rhymes reseated at hip-hop’s top table – until the world comes to an end, of course.

Death From Above still pack a punch, but the bruise is a lot more colourful this time. ‘Is 4 Lovers’ is surely the band’s best work since their debut. And while they may never feel that vital again, they make right now feel like one helluva rush.

Their spooky, sexy, dark folk is kept bare and bolshy, like Laura Marling with sex and humour.

They’ve used their major-label debut to rally the troops rather than just jeer at them from the sidelines. Every song here is a call to arms or an affirmative flip of the table.

It’s a worthy follow up to last year’s excellent, sprawling fourteenth album Revelation’.

On the intoxicating Heard It In A Past Life, Rogers sounds in love with art, nature and life itself.

'News And Tributes' is not just better than their first album, it's a fabulous record from a band with an exciting forward catalogue ahead of them.

Little Joy might not quite have built a castle in the sky, but they’ve constructed a cosy little corner in our hearts.

This beatific bpmfest amps expectation giddily high for the Boston five-piece’s debut proper, and really is the gift that keeps on giving.

‘Such Pretty Forks…’ might not be flawless, but in that way, it’s true to Morissette’s depiction of life – something that’s often messy and tough, but worth sticking with.

What's missing is any emotional contrast to stop all that cleverness from sounding overwhelming.

On their 12th album, Red Hot Chili Peppers not only get comfortable with their own impressive legacy, but prove there’s plenty more to come.

The gleeful squelches on ‘Life Of Birds’ might sound like a cheery Game Boy--but, next to the sinister electro-chill of the rest of the record, it’s a nursery rhyme.

Year... continues to follow that bombastic course, packed from start to finish with grandiose, rousing flourishes and ample proggy ballast.

Large Hadron pop that'll frazzle yer neurons.

It's honest, intense, funny, furious, and on 'Letter 2 Dizzee'--an olive branch to his estranged protege--tear-jerkingly poignant.

There are ideas here that could have been developed into a stunning 10-track album. Unfortunately, Quaristice contains 20 ‘tunes’, many of them elusively experimental ear-tormenters.

It's the sound of experimentation working, it's what what the second Elastica album should have sounded like, and it's a compelling story unfolding, with many more interesting twists still to come.

What 'Disappeared', in all its stealthy innovation and breathless compendium of sounds, amounts to, is a kind of avant-garde musique concrète - difficult noises shrouded in a cloak of accessibility.

It’s the vividness of the lyrical themes and rich, poetic words that ultimately carries the record over, but unfortunately so much attention is paid to crafting the perfect setting for Graham’s brooding lyrics that they all too often become lost, a nuisance among an overly eager wall of sound.

Too often their over-earnest delivery is unbearable.

While there was an endearing humility to Smith's work, this dour offering provides little comfort.

Nothing new here, as you might expect, but a handful of catchy tracks could teach those young whippersnappers a thing or two about melody. [11 Mar 2006, p.43]

Avoid this tosh at all costs.

The record shines during these more upbeat, fun moments. ... The album is less successful when Cabello tries to show the side of romance where you’re falling head over heels, or doubting a relationship.

The whole album is driven by that Nick Cave sense of foreboding menace, an outlaw spirit that would sit well on the Peaky Blinders soundtrack. But while there’s plenty of that classic BRMC ‘tude, and a vintage touch, they’re still full of ideas.

Kid Cudi gives us every part of himself, laying out his insecurities and inner demons in the hope that it might help someone else, his words etched into a vivid backdrop of intoxicating melodies and palatial riffs. No one does mood music quite like Cudi.

On a lesser album, the eclecticism might lead to a lack of coherence, but this record is always threaded through with Beer’s diaristic lyricism. With its consistent, gut-punching honesty and witty wordplay, you’ll always find something special on ‘Life Support’.

Their fight-and-make-up pop is like Dananananaykroyd gone new wave, with the B-movie and comic-book geek-joy of early Ash. But that doesn’t mean there’s no depth, if that’s your poison.

An extremely mellow album, while hardly groundbreaking, it’s quietly beautiful in places.

Despite being a good 30 years out of time, it's absolutely brilliant.

‘Devil Inside Me’ is the album’s earworm that you’ll end up humming, and ‘Solstice’ is a pleasingly overblown proggy epic, but much of the rest is competent yet uninspiring, and the novelty soon wears off.

These are the sharper edges that Neil let out on Biffy’s earlier work, but elevated that the pure ultraviolence of Vennart’s songwriting and madcap riffery.

At times that flow can feel fractured, but the underlying consistency is a singular vision and an irrepressible sense of purpose.

A great record. A great work.

‘From A Birds Eye View’ is a true delight, revealing greater depth with each listen, and Cordae truly seems to be having fun while proving he’s here to stay.

Angles isn't perfect, but if it marks a new phase of creativity and togetherness for the group, then it could be more of a success than even Is This It.

Dougall relies too much on overly simplistic lyrics, and it gets a bit annoying.... But this is a minor flaw in what is otherwise a strong second album from a band in the ascendancy.

It suits them just fine.

The Donnas are utterly convincing...

It’s terrific nonetheless, a coiling gothica sci-fi soundtrack that cocoons Richard Pike’s echo-soaked vocal amid pulsing, binary-code electronics.

[Flowers] bares more on Wonderful Wonderful than ever before, and the result is the band’s best album since 2006’s ‘Sam’s Town’.

[It] can't top the early stuff. [5 Aug 2006, p.29]

Once the dust dies down, though, the remainder of Who We Touch feels disappointingly timid in comparison, and the particularly saggy middle section sees them pitch their tent smack bang in the middle of the road.

Head for Home if you want to hear where drum'n'bass, dubstep, garage and old-school jungle meet in 2013, but really just pick it up if you're looking for more bangers than a barbecue at a firework factory.

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

He sounds small, beaten and subdued beneath the Lemonheads-meets-Diiv slack drawl of the music. The key thing here? Unlike so many of his contemporaries, he also sounds totally believable.

A dazzling debut ready to win the world’s hearts.

New Gods is endlessly lovable stuff.

Sleepy Sun are at their best when they revel in both light and dark, unleashing throatily riffing guitars to disrupt pastoral interludes.

The Bachelor is a thoughtful record whose greatest flaw is only that it’s overthought (though to the fans obsessive enough to fund it, that’s probably a bonus).

On their fifth album there's a newfound clarity in the production that provides an added dimension to their tunes.

Causers Of This’ infects your mind with pure psychedelia, splicing such conflicting sounds as soul, freak folk, hip-hop and electronica, and the result hits you like Animal Collective on a comedown, or Ariel Pink with Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Because rather than an exercise in hype, what Born This Way really is an exercise in the pushing of everything to its ultimate degree. And for all the black, white and silver, it passes that test with flying colours.

'Breakdown' was a kicky little exercise in how to make a great pop record. 'Elevator' shows how to make one of substance. [23 Apr 2005, p.50]

It's tuneful enough but, really, the case for the dismantling of 2010's nostalgic apparatus starts here. Less hypnagogic pop, more over-the-hillwave.

A strange record, but an intriguing planet to get sucked into.

The messy trip-hop of 'If I Could' and screeching synth line of 'First Snow' mean Nausea lacks consistency, but it's a clever and rewarding record.

When Kane rises above that tentativeness, as with the rousing and charismatic title track, the effect is engaging. But for the most part, this solid but unchallenging album is a step towards nowhere in particular.

It’s an album that tries not to shout ‘old school Franz are back’, even though it unmistakably signals that old school Franz are back.

Diet Cig have retained the fast-biting wit that made ‘Swear I’m Good At This’ such a compelling prospect, but here there’s far more depth.

Back with less pressure, Champ packs that sweet sucker-punch we craved the first time around.

Potential cover performers take note: this is how you do it.

Album two demonstrates Lewis’ growing confidence as a frontman in the spotlight – long may it continue.

Albarn's best work has cheek, wit and a smart-alecky desire to shake things up. All this reverence doesn't really suit him.

Now they've reinforced their position as the credible elder statesmen of metal, with a tightly focused, self-referential effort.

With the help of former Coral man Bill Ryder-Jones, Liverpool's We Are Catchers (aka Peter Jackson) has captured the melancholy essence of Beach Boy Dennis Wilson's solo album 'Pacific Ocean Blue' and distilled it in the murky Mersey to produce this confident debut.

Breakfast, for all its modest attractions, never quite transcends its talented-journeyman origins.

By and large this is as consistent a record as the Foo Fighters have ever made.

Damned if they do and damned if they don't, it seems, but never sounding damned enough.

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.

Duffy’s debut is hoovered of personality, principally, because on this evidence, she hasn’t got any.

There’s no doubting the musicianship on display across ‘What Kinda Music’. Misch and Dayes certainly complement one another. But it’s hard not to long for a little disruption to the album’s soothing sonic cohesion. While they were clearly having fun, it was probably more fun to make than it is to hear.