It's an album full of the sort of drippy ballads and droopy soft rock that should induce an involuntary gag reflex in anyone under the age of 45.

Talk about a fall from grace. [4 Jun 2005, p.58]

The most achingly trendy record you'll hear this year. [1 Oct 2005, p.45]

Having already redefined garage last time around, he's conjured up an album equal parts R Kelly, Ali G and Terence Trent D' Arby, which will only send him further into the stratosphere.

The whole thing fizzes with a wired guitars-on-sleeve honesty and an artful intelligence more akin to The Mars Volta after an emergency jazzectomy thanThe Datsuns’ deadheaded dolt rock.

A modernist alt-rock chill blows through it, but Surfer Blood’s spirits stay cautiously upbeat, even indulging some Foals-y math-limbo guitar fripperies on ‘Other Desert Cities’.

This latest project succeeds by further propelling the rapper’s soaring momentum even while in lockdown.

You won't listen to it again and again; yet the time you do, it'll be a blast. [4 Feb 2006, p.29]

Few giant leaps nail the perfect landing, and Morrissey’s two-footer into full-blown electronica stumbles occasionally. But there’s also plenty of reason to hold your political nose and cross the Twittermob line.

‘True’ is the only real misstep on the record’s first half: a preachy self-love anthem that feels like it might’ve come together without Marina thinking how the lyrics sound when sang out loud, but it’s quickly passed over when ‘To Be Human’ arrives.

The Hacker is still a dab hand at dark electro, his rich, chewy tracks bubbling like molasses in a cauldron; Miss Kittin still veers close to self-parody.

This is easily the weakest DMX release to date.

Not a misstep for Eno, but not quite the best of both worlds, either.

If you were merely whelmed by FF’s anaemic third, then this album of dub versions could be the infusion you’re looking for.

Despite the odd catchy moment such as ‘Die Happy, Die Smiling’ you’re left thinking that those yodelling fucking elf-botherers Sigur Ros have got a lot to answer for.

For the most part, the songs furrow a similar path throughout the 20 tracks and, unlike most double albums, which are either loaded with fillers or come in two bloated parts, ‘CYR’ feels like a single complete record crammed full of pop anthems. Pumpkin detractors may well hate this record’s simplicity, and they’d be right to criticise it for sounding same-y to a point. But there’s no denying Corgan’s ability to craft a tune.

Moments when his former wretchedness is recognisable rescue the album.

Their first new music in three years, is a cohesive listen.

Flitting between ambient sequences and army-of-guitars maelstroms, this 71-minute magnum opus was recorded in Berlin and Iceland, but loaded with rampant Anglophilia, evident in a Joy Division homage and John Lennon interview clips.

Their mid-career crisis record full of poor-man's-Bjork wailing and dour shimmer rock, notable only for the funky mantra of 'Kali Yuga' (George Harrison exploding), and 'Point Dume' (the noises you'd hear in the night if your flat was haunted by Brian Wilson).

No acoustic stinkers. No Live And Unrehearsed At K-ROQ radio sessions. No ropy early demos. No remixes. Just Green Day, playing solid, dependable, familiar idiot-savant punk-rock.

There are bits of 'Amputechture' that sail perilously away from good honest prog into the realms of free jazz. [9 Sep 2006, p.37]

If soukous and Congolese rumba sound exotic, the reality is as bland as yam quiche.

In making this (undoubtedly scary) leap away from what’s expected of them they’ve pulled off the second album reinvention of 2010.

They're not so much fiddling while Rome burns as clattering bass and drums magnificently while they take a torch to Redcar.

Their rootsy rattle'n'roll fails to connect with anything more grabbing than a vague lyrical nostalgia.

It's functional, but dispensable.

While they’ve never been terribly fashionable, they’ve always used that to their advantage, projecting a underdog siege mentality whilst simultaneously selling out arenas. Concrete Love, however, is nothing to beat their own drum about.

No Romeo may be sweet, but it doesn't leave a lasting impression.

As a reminder of Eminem’s vocal showboating, ShadyXV is impressive. The problem--and it’s a persistent one--is that where once his anger was energetic, now it simply betrays lethargy.

The Strypes maturing isn’t surprising or disappointing, but the loss of the identity that made their ascent so startling is. That it seems to have been swallowed up by an unoriginal and dated indie sound is all the more galling.

Ultimately, it’s this blend of new-found maturity and crowd-pleasing choruses that transform Ezra’s second offering into the perfect progression from the sound of his debut.

Though it boasts hard-hitting moments (see the supple uppercut of ‘Been A While’ and the dizzying double-jab of the JME-featuring ‘Call the Shots’), this sequel lacks the punch of its predecessor.

It’s too long (16 tracks), musically all over the place (veering from Littlewoods advert pop-house to Smooth Radio schmaltz) and, above all, wants so hard to be liked that it sounds like an earnest school project. However: for its occasional tedium, it would take a hard heart indeed to reject this record.

Juice WRLD is far less indulgent than XXX, not getting lost in the idea that he’s a messianic creative. This will be the moment that solidifies his status as one of rap’s most exciting new stars.

Duck is far from inventive, but there’s fun to be had.

Mabel’s gorgeous silky vocals soar, the glossy production is stellar, but the exuberance and effervescent attitude that make tunes like ‘Don’t Call Me Up’ so brilliant aren’t found throughout.

What’s My Name dares you to continue listening, to see if you can make it through its first song without spontaneously combusting from second-hand embarrassment, a spectral groan of “Grandaaad” escaping from your ashes as they sizzle and singe. ... But perhaps opening with such a heinous song is actually a genius move. In isolation, they might not fare so well but, after that, nothing else sounds as bad.

The effort in attempting to redefine their sound and head back to the ’80s is clear, but it’s sorely undermined by a lack of originality and ideas.

You know everything is going to be OK within seconds of the surging, tidal riffs of ‘Wraithlike’, and what follows is simply a fine-tuning of what the Park have done before.

One of the best British rock albums of the year so far.

If I Had The Blues But I Shook Them Loose is the band's Everest, not only do they conquer it with unassuming boyish romance, but they've also created the most poignant anthology of what it means to be young and restless in the city since fellow Londoners Bloc Party's "Silent Alarm"--though they're a lot less frosty than Okereke et al.

Even when easing off the throttle, The Warlocks find ways to blow your mind. [10 Sep 2005, p.66]

Ghost Stories is a feeling more than a collection of songs, and takes a willing reception for granted. That feeling's not rancorous, it's bloodless and resigned, but touching as well.

Unapologetic makes a compelling case for Rihanna knowing what she's doing. This most compelling of pop phenomena still has something new to offer.

This record moves way beyond armchair psychology - in fact, there are armchairs that have a cannier grasp of the mind.

It’s clear this ‘Falkirk miserablist’ has finally found contentment.

It's not perfect--but no Big Star album ever was. [24 Sep 2005, p.47]

Mawkish and messy.

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.

If you look at it as a Grand Guignol of rock cheese, this album is huge fun.

As a whole, Meteorites fails to set the sky on fire.

Only the LP’s soaring ‘Intro’ hints at greatness, and despite the raw talent on display, the dose is diluted and the sum total falls short.

Free Weezy Album is one of those records you sift through for flashes of greatness, rather than sit back and let it wash over you.

As debut albums go, it's unnerving that The Enemy are already this good and yet barely old enough to buy their own champagne when the ridiculously high chart placings inevitably come in.

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.

Noble and determined, 'Left' proves that while HOTS are capable of stirring thoughts and emotions, it's only when they reach full throttle that they truly move hearts and minds.

Myths 004 certainly hits the mark for “embracing the chaos” as a “crude holiday scrapbook”, as they promised in a release accompanying the EP. But is it actually an enjoyable listen? Not really.

Kasher wrote this as the soundtrack to his screenplay, but on this evidence it could debut on The Hallmark Channel.

What disappoints, though, is how numbingly comfortable he is within these nostalgic boundaries.

From 'Gimme More's' heavily treated vocals that sound like a sex addict's cry for help to the electro throb of 'Piece Of Me', where fembot Brit tackles the paps with laser eyes, it could really do with a few more human touches.

'Yours Truly...' is a rip-roaring pop record - sprightly, lean and adventurous - a bold leap skyward from 'Employment'.

Enjoyable, fiendishly moreish, while also somewhat disjointed, A Girl Cried Red is most rewarding for what it tells us about Princess Nokia, both as an artist and a person--showcasing an alternate side of an open yet abstruse enigma.

But rather than ending up a bombastic mess, ‘Sleep Mountain’ knows that the devil is in the detail.

A substantial offering awash with humble entreaties and doe-eyed, lounge affectations.

Complete and utter filth from start to finish, and that's as high a compliment as we can bestow on an album.

It’s actually Dire Straits gone trip-hop and everyone involved... should be brutally beaten to death with a tray of Ferrero Rocher.

The album is over-long, too, and a few songs less would have made it a leaner, meaner, more KAPOW-ing beast. All that said, when Jwl and Shunda’s flabbergasting spit is on form, it’s as compelling as a new, untired voice in rap always is.

There is little, if any, advancement in the band’s sound, which leaves them predictable after three albums mining The Jesus And Mary Chain and Phil Spector’s girl-group production.

They're silly but their songs demand to be taken seriously, just like Prince, Ultravox and Bowie. And yes, they're like MGMT--in that they're great.

Somewhere between a funk soul Killers and an Interpol with lyrics that actually make sense. [11 Jun 2005, p.67]

And it sounds... bloated and uncomfortable. Time for another re-think.

An album packed with skyscraping highlights.

Full of banging beats, big noise and abundant wit and joy. [26 Jun 2004, p.55]

Scratch dances merrily over the electronics, but the two parties rarely connect in a cohesive way.

It is pleasant, and largely forgettable.

A tasteful set of sorrow-wallowing wet-indie covers produced by James Ford.

[He] returns with exactly the same sound he's been torturing us with for years. [9 Jul 2005, p.58]

Selecting a few old R&B bangers, he’s created some tracks that will be on playlists for years to come. Tory Lanez has modernised cult hits that are, in some cases, nearly two decades old. And despite the use of these classics, the album still feels like his own.

Unfortunately, Lupine Howl's debut long-player errs on the side of the canine, wolvish thrills hidden behind some positively vegetarian noodling.

From production so glossy that you could use it to reapply your lipstick to Sisqo's tortuous way with words, there's little here in the way of sex or sensuality.

Try not to grin inanely as the banjo-led big band play "The Bare Necessities," sob to Wilson's lounge lizard harmonies on "When You Wish Upon A Star" or find lions sexy during his restrained "Can You Feel The Love Tonight?"

On the laidback, spaced-out strength of A New Tide, they’re still as pleasantly beguiling as they were 11 years ago.

Aside from hollering his name or catchphrases--“Another one!”, “Bless up!”, “We The Best Music!”--there’s no doubt Khaled’s formidable connections were the driving force behind Grateful. But, even with a dream team like this assembled, Khaled hasn’t located the ‘major key’ to the masterpiece he desired.

While it’s stronger than the messy ‘Born This Way’, Artpop feels little more culture-quaking than a good collection of fun, silly, well-crafted pop songs.

By Benga’s own high standards it feels a little flat.

Given that it documents a romantic life that’s apparently hurtling out of control, My Mind Makes Noises makes for a remarkably trim and measured collection of songs. Both hands are on the wheel, and this album will crank things up a gear for Pale Waves.

A record that occasionally shows steady growth, but this potential remains largely untapped.

It may not be game-changing and it'll be slaughtered by those who have a hatred of hipsters/fun. But it's harmless entertainment, and London gets full marks for what he's best at--experimentation.

It’s post-rock burning its beret, Americana for the post-apocalypse.

Gauntlet Hair’s reference points are sublime, of course, but when they come up with the grudging funk of ‘Simple’, it’s something that’s all their own work.

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’.

Completely lacking in imagination. [1 Oct 2005, p.47]

While the overall sound is brighter, it's also largely rather weedy, and trading in the once colossal stoner riffs for languid neo-folk doesn't really suit this five-piece all that well.

Unrelentingly maudlin and hell-bent on ramming every potential silence with soporific guitars and proverbially pathetic fallacy, ‘AM’ only perks up on its two covers.

For the most part, ‘Dark Lane Demo Tapes’ is business as usual for Drake, who plays it safe and falls back on familiar terrain. ... But it’s not just a case of recycling here. There are some proper duds too.

The sound of a legend raging in style.

The formula wears pretty thin towards the end--bee-stung emoting in the verses, splashy catharsis in the chorus--but Glorious is no failure.