Ultimately, Glow will live or die on the strength of its singles. On this evidence, Tensnake seems to be missing that key part of his blueprint.

[A] groovily electronic, acid-addled collection of throat-tickling, Venusian rhyme formations. [23 Oct 2004, p.51]

'Light Grenades' offers little change to Incubus' formula of having Brandon Boyd perform his brand of strained vocal gymnastics. [2 Dec 2006, p.30]

The decision you have to make with Summer Camp is this: do you want dance music that'll stop your feet moving by throwing some thought-provoking lyrics in your direction? Or dance music that'll make you wanna, you know, dance?

Gratitude shows that he’s a musician who, almost a decade into his career, still has much to say--and a great deal to work out on record.

Away from the chaos, here’s a record that cuts to the core of Doherty with a little less noise and a little more love.

Fans of their debut won’t be surprised by anything on here, but Kllo’s dexterous variations on a theme should win them over regardless.

For all its flaws, 'Up All Night' bristles with passion, energy and, most importantly, amazing songs. [26 Jun 2004, p.53]

Samey and inaccessible in parts. [5 Nov 2005, p.43]

It’s always best to take what M.I.A. says with a pinch of salt bigger than the NHS would recommend but if AIM really is her last album, it feels like a fitting parting shot.

These overly earnest lines [in ‘Weathered,’ ‘My House Is Your Home,’ and ‘Surprise Yourself’] do a disservice to Garratt’s talents as a musician and producer, because the artful melodies and textures on Phase really do shine.

Sublime stuff. [11 Feb 2006, p.33]

He's terribly earnest. [4 Nov 2006, p.35]

It's a record of rare precision; the kind that comes from figuring out exactly what you want. The kind that comes from being all grown up.

Ultimately, 'Ten New Messages' is too myopic to see beyond its own concrete cynicism.

It's a compelling, if far from satisfying, album: the awkward work of a man confronting mortality, global meltdown and fractionally diminished success, but still terrified of appearing pretentious, still stuck with singalong tunes in his head.

Cydonia is a stillborn relic, flawed throughout by chronically stunted ambitions.

As dated as it undoubtedly is, it still makes for a pleasant enough ride.

Mostly Americana and mostly unremarkable. [29 Apr 2006, p.37]

'Vision Valley' is the sound of a band with nothing more to lose, a super-condensed portrait of their career thus far.

There's nothing on Anxiety so arrestingly new or comfortably familiar.

It's only on 'Ghetto Stars' when that ominous whisper comes to the fore, that Mixed Race excites, and a cascade of strings that don't so much make us yearn for past glories as wonder what Tricky thinks he has left to prove.

Like the syndrome named after the titular city, you’ll fall for these tunes with repeated exposure, but you’ll live without them once you’re free from them too.

Alas, it tails off towards the end, and TBS never quite shake the feeling that other people are doing this sort of thing far more thrillingly elsewhere. [20 May 2006, p.33]

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

It's good to have them back--but only just.

Ultimately, comeback albums are about consolidation rather than reinvention, and there’s just enough of the old ‘Smart’ magic here to satisfy the retro crowds. But there’s little sign of a route to relevance, and that’s not something to sleep on.

Despite the air of musical schizophrenia, 'Intensive Care' is OK in a sort of karaoke way. [22 Oct 2005, p.43]

Tender Opposites is a technical delight, sounding like psych-nitwits Deerhoof giving an old friend a bearhug.

[Songs Of Innocence] has only a handful of standouts.... This is a serious mis-step that might win a week's worth of good publicity, but could foreshadow a year's worth of bad.

If you've the stomach to set aside your indie sensibilities and endure the occasional terrifying flashback to '(Everything I Do) I Do It For You', Battle Born holds some majestic moments.

We find exquisite Beatles-indebted pop, moments of effortless lyrical and melodic brilliance and a few tunes which drift dangerously close to easy listening.

Clearly Damon is pleased to be carving a niche in the world of high art, but perhaps 'Dr Dre The Opera: Nuthin' But An ENO Thang' might have served his legend better.

At 30 minutes long, the trip is brief, but it covers so much ground.

With its drill influences and eclecticism, this is perhaps the record ‘Donda’ could have been, proving that Fivio has plenty of scope to transcend drill culture.

A smattering of other tracks aside (including the lush groove of ‘Getting Closer’ and the funk-jazz fanfare of ‘Love Is Everywhere’), this collection doesn’t fully provide catharsis nor connection.

Sébastien invites you to follow him, like a sexy David Koresh, and with tunes like 'Sedulous', 'Pepito Bleu' and the aforementioned 'Cochon Ville' ('pig city' en Anglais), the call might just prove irresistible.

Big tunes welded to even bigger guitars.

Oblivion With Bells is less the comedown than the sound of the party still going 10 years on.

Mostly: total bliss session.

Oftentimes, Davis dips his toes into this new realm of instrumentation, only to return to his heavy comfort blanket, twisted riffs drowning out any tentative experiments. You can’t help but wonder just how interesting Black Labyrinth could have been if he only dove a little deeper.

An album of washed out, happy-sad, semi-psychedelic sounds that glower as much as they gleam, it’s perfect for those 3am mornings when you’re full of alcohol and regret.

Here, Byrne's well-plotted tunes can rule, and Norm can keep himself in the background, going against his natural tendency to overstuff.

It’s bread and butter blues-rock, packed with lyrical anachronisms and clichés, but it’s done well.

Though lacking standout tracks, this is an icy masterclass in how synths should sound.

They produce pretty mutations; their first collaborative record throws up a mix of stuttering electro-rap and ethereal pop.

While its synthetic atmospheres initially intrigue... The music wavers indecisively between structure and formlessness, ending up as curiously misshapen objects, half-finished designs.

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.

With a bit of luck, Broken Records won’t be afraid to indulge themselves a little more in the future, because it would be a minor tragedy to see such a worldly band opt to wallow in mediocrity

A strident, self-assured album.

His sound is furious, muscular and relentless - not to mention camp, dangerous and slightly insane.

When it comes to big, belting choruses backed with equally sizeable orchestration, Graham doesn’t muck about.

An album of impossibly adorable disco - Star Wars "ping p-p-p-ping ping" bits, cheesy synths, George Clinton (!...hmm) workouts... all delivered in a slightly unsettlingly ersatz kitschness, half-hinted ironies, indietastic samples, hip-hop phrasings and The Asian Influence seductive throughout.

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

Bragg and The Blokes' delivery sounds just as dated as the social traditions they lampoon.

The Lover Chanting EP is, admittedly, inoffensive and low-risk. However, it’s a solid enough attempt at breaking away from the ‘band that does collaborations’ tag.

This, his third album and major-label debut, stretches this sea of sound even further, ebbing and flowing from ethereal opener "Never Be The Same," to the folky strum of "For Good."

Blonde Redhead continue to splinter off into an exciting world of their own.

To immerse yourself in 'Violet Cries' is more akin to entering a Ye Olde English fairy tale than some trashy vampire fiction, like discovering a weighty, weathered tome that lies under several thick inches of dust and recounts a distant age.

Winehouse's live performances were (sometimes brutal) indicators of how far she'd gone into her own personal darkness for inspiration. It's perhaps predictable that it's the earliest material here that makes for the less harrowing listen.

They’ve made one that sounds like it was recorded without a care in the world.

Ultimately, too many of these tunes are rehearsal room grooves in search of a hook.

Her voice--treated and autotuned to within an inch of its life throughout--still sounds like that of the Mouseketeer who brought us '...Baby One More Time’, with every breathy “Mmmm… yeah!” and all the oh-so-naughty lyrics, such as the ones above, sounding forced and unconvincing. Of course, on a large number of the tracks here she has the solidly cool-sounding (no doubt expensive) backdrop of futur’n’b pop.

‘Love Goes’ does possess a handful of pop- and radio-friendly tracks, but at its core its Smith’s knack for sap and soul – and their singular, chilling vocals – that forms the base of the record. When it comes to songwriting, Smith oscillates towards what they know.

In the end, MDNA is a ridiculously enjoyable romp, but oddly not for the bits that are supposed to be fun. Instead, it's the psychotic, soul-bearing stuff that provides listeners with some of the most visceral stuff she's ever done.

Pure melodic thrills for a while, but those with low twee tolerance should steer clear.

Speck’s mimicry is little more than pale homage to a real eccentric, highlighting the gentle sadness and underlying soulfulness of Pink’s music. PDA lacks this, and comes across as frivolous.

Its mixtape nature means it isn’t yet the concise album Keel Her might one day produce, but the breezy likes of ‘Go’, ‘Riot Girl’ and ‘Don’t Look At Me’ are tuneful pop pastiches in the vein of Dum Dum Girls and Ariel Pink.

This is an album of thoughtful and considered dissent rather than the righteous rage of old.

Too often, ¡Tré! falls back on a formula--fast, box-ticking choruses fashioned from chords you can count on the fingers of one hand--that Green Day have pretty much stretched to breaking point.

If you scratch below the surface of 'See You On The Other Side' you'll find little of substance. [3 Dec 2005, p.43]

‘Blameless’ and ‘Little Moments’ marshal some nice glimmering synths, but Alec Ounsworth’s mewling vocal--while unquestionably distinctive--remains a bit of an odd proposition to achieve the requisite Everyman appeal.

The more you delve into it the less you find, because it’s all affectation.

He splits the difference on ‘Music To Be Murdered By’, indulging his immature ego (griping at bad reviews, stirring controversy for the sake of it) even as he offers salient social criticism and admits his missteps. He’s ready to pass on hard-earned wisdom before running his mouth like he hasn’t learned his own lessons. And he offers casual fans a hook or two before embarking on another lyrical work-out.

‘The Battle at Garden’s Gate’ is a mixed bag of heavy metaphor and lazy observation.

They're having their own sonic keg party here: coasting through the fuck-ups on the basic likeability-- the sheer shaggy melodic charm--of the hosts.

The only criticism is that the lyrics fail to make the impact implied by titles like ‘Feed Me, Jack; Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love’. That aside, this is an unexpected delight.

It’s still a brilliantly sleazy punk rock’n’roll album that feels, sounds and smells just like you want The Bronx to be, and the fact it’s so pure and elemental works strongly in its favour.

There's still signs of the nutso techno loony who prompted NME to invent the term 'drill'n'bass' back in the mid-'90s. [14 Oct 2006, p.35]

The record boasts maybe his finest solo single to date in 'Brittle Heart', plus a clutch of mid-tempo rockers that scrub up nicely--even if the seedy Soho glam of yore is replaced by a leadenly earnest tone.

As it is, and considering the upheaval following Adam Kessler's departure, it's best to look at Portamento as a marker of the potential brilliance that album three could bring.

By the end, they've told a story of adolescence spent crumpling at the hands of others, while having to pick up the pieces all by yourself.

Isis’ lewd lines on this debut arrive, then, as the law of diminishing returns for all things brazenly sexy begins to set in.

The Amazons will do little to dispel any of the criticisms of the current state of rock, but there’s just enough here to suggest that when the band are at their most electrifying, not much can halt their inevitable rise to the top--despite what the old guard say.

Just because Brain Thrust Mastery doesn’t attempt to shoehorn some hamfisted social commentary or poverty-ending rhetoric into its 11 tracks doesn’t make it lightweight indie fluff; far from it–-We Are Scientists are serious about having fun.

There’s enough musical ambition, heartbreak and menace on The Big Dream to keep the Lynch nerds absorbed.

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

A fine mix of fantasy and reality, made by a band who never run out of ideas, sung by a singer too smart to fall apart and too excited by rock’n’roll to stop being stupid.

They're a confident band, but the tragedy is they're at the top of someone else's game.

Full of distortion-drenched vocals and slacker guitar lines, Yucca is a brilliantly messy thing.

New Jersey's The Static Jacks haven't got the most ambitious creative palette.

Round the back nine (‘Golden Fire’, ‘Kilmore’s End’, ‘Overnight’), the attention to detail slips, and they end up with a load of meat patties of twee that just come across as Owl City in fashionable shoes, a whiny inner-child deserving of a smacked botty-bot.

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

Ultimately, though, Rip This prevails through bloody-minded ear battering.

Ultimately, we’re left wondering: have Liars lost it, or found themselves?

There's certainly nothing here that'll match 'Wonderwall' or 'Live Forever' for pub karaoke ubiquity, but with this record Oasis are at least tentatively stretching themselves in new directions. [28 May 2005, p.61]

Banjo Or Freakout effortlessly mates electronic distortions, low-end theory and achingly gorgeous pop melody – with emphasis very much on the latter.

In a cleaner, more mature, concerned-about-its-blood-pressure manner, Head Carrier revisits Pixies’ prime, primal age, melodically pumped and squaring up confidently to its admittedly formidable forebears.