If it were not for Katy's distinctive voice--which she gloriously wields with an Aguilera-like ferocity during the last forty seconds or so of each track--Honey would not survive its own sweetness. At certain moments, however, the energies between Katy and the producers mesh just right, resulting in alchemic varieties of urban pop that glow brighter after each listen.

Despite some missteps (sadly, a few egregious ones), Some Loud Thunder is successful in displaying the group’s breadth of talent and ideas.

The lone connective thread found in Gardens & Villa is that of its dedication to build a vigorous gamut of synths. As it turns out, once that defining element is out of the mold, you're left with skeletal compositional biases that amount to very little.

Those in search of classic Barlow would do far better to dig out their battered old copies of Bakesale.

I'll admit, the songs on Babel wouldn't be so painful if it weren't for the god-awful "deep" lyricism of Marcus Mumford.

Even if the album's sonic template doesn't stray too far from his 2011 breakthrough debut LP Within You Without You, Greene chooses to keep the mood so light that it's practically inert.

In their insistence on trying to mix quirky, quiet electronica with beer-swilling pop, without the two informing each other, Athlete too often fall into a formulaic and predictable model.

It’s their most consistent outing since their debut, but it’s never much better than average. BRMC is a decent rock band, and if all we expect from them is fuzzed out garage jams they don’t disappoint.

Much of it is quieter, cinematic, and, of course, better than Our Love to Admire. Thank God. Sometimes we are impressed by not being miserably disappointed again.

In the love affair of listeners to this EP, an overly ambitious singer-songwriter who seems to be far more into growing artistically then creating genuine songs will force fans and detractors alike into the arms of another.

From referencing Harold Shipman in a song title to taking a moral high ground to the view of secluding yourself with drugs, Songs for Our Mothers presents an insignificant manifesto.

I'm With You is the sound of a band that continues to coast off past achievements.

Bloom’s vocal debut with Glow & Behold is solid without ever being magnificent, staying within its means and applying a decoration to a sound that is cleaner and melodically stronger than its predecessor.

Robinson certainly bolsters There Is A Way's meaty riffs and hooks; those guitars sound a bit more Kerrang than NME on this second album. The band's songwriting too is more restrained and conventional, but always high octane – they scream overwhelmingly through the whole album without really letting you pause for breath.

An LP with a long gestation period but a short attention span that revels in 1960s pop music and is as fun as it is jangling.

Wild Belle’s debut is a respectable exercise of ethereal pop.

For all the interesting noises that the band have come up with in the studio, the production really doesn't do them any favours, cramming them into a fairly narrow space and stripping them almost entirely of any sense of atmosphere.

Fresh with a 4th record label (Leeds-based Hatch Records), this latest coming is a dynamic, complete, and assured record, and an exhibition of how grunge music should sound in 2014.

Not as poppy as either Moon Safari or Talkie Walkie, not as out there as 10,000khz Legend, Pocket Symphony instead boasts songs that deserve more attention than previous numbers without performing the prog histrionics often found on their more experimental works.

Ultimately The Weight's on the Wheels works on the whole. Its finest moments are excellent examples of the wry electro-pop that TRF are certainly proficient at; at its worst, however, the album lacks any evidence of an evolution in sound or style, suffering from mediocrity rather than being distinctly poor.

There are times in which The Ark Work sounds aimless in spite of its slight technical achievements, yielding a sensory overload of strobing compositions channeled with unrestrained imagination.

While lyrically ponderous and sometimes grim, (“Am I a waste of life?/I ask the night”), Hubba Bubba satisfies an impulse pleasantly.

This record is half as clever as it thinks it is, and utterly inessential.

Very rarely, this album finds a moment of excitement. And when they do, you have to savor them, because you aren’t going to get another one for a while.

It’s a confident, fantastic and ultimately very rewarding record that should be met with an open mind.

The band seems to have decided musical chops and precision production are more important than ideas, turning Time to Die into a startlingly streamlined affair that passes without leaving much of a mark.

Aside from a few crunching riffs and a smattering of neat melodies, there’s very little to recommend within Drones.