Not a dud in the entire meticulous love letter to a da-do-ron-ron era.

It's still epic – and a bit grandiose at times - but in a charmingly human and believable way.

Levi pulls off his flamboyant persona because he has the meticulously structured songs to carry it.

Singer Glen Hansard moves from quiet introspection to earnest Jeremy Enigk-like wailing and back again, all the while reminding you just how rewarding a listen The Cost is.

Calla deal in that dark romantic narcissism guys like Nick Cave and Tom Waits are known to wallow in on record after record.

These are explosive epics that don't get tired, tied together in an album that's both instantly accessible and grows on you over time.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear Jill Cunniff had crawled under a rock and refused to listen to any music since her old band, Luscious Jackson, split in 99.

A resounding disappointment.

He's turned the clock back to the Fun Trick Noisemaker era of playful psychedelic indulgence that was the Apples' stock in trade before the unsavoury aspirations of indie-rock stardom took hold.

Too often Bloc Party aim for an overly expansive epic Coldplay quality that compromises the focus of their songwriting.

Phantom Punch is a wobbly ride through tracks that, for the most part, hiss and snarl with the leather-jacket swagger of his garagey backing band while Lerche either nervously essays a pseudo-rock "growl" over top or reverts to his customary loungey warble, both of which sound equally absurd.

It requires a certain level of self-denial to hate Fall Out Boy, as in, "No, I don't like huge hooks, soaring choruses or wild-eyed expressions of youthful ambition." If so, congratulations, you're 800 years old. Or a Joanna Newsom fan.

Sykes's closely mic'd vocals add a confessional quality to her melancholic delivery of cold raindrops and empty sky imagery that's endearing in small doses.

Otherworldly.

As with similar high-concept projects, most of it doesn't work, and the most successful pairings are often the ones you'd least expect.

Not every track is a winner, but fans of their brash debut will still find a lot to enjoy here.

A very good showcase for Jones's evolution as a writer and musician.

It's all soaring, boring hooks, ringing guitars cribbed from the last two decades of sad bastard Britpop and wussy vocals polished to a sleek finish that makes them ideal fodder for Hollywood soundtrack supervisors.

There's still space for reliable 'Driver fare: paranoid, vocab-intensive rhymes, self-deprecation and absurd imagery woven into a frayed lyrical tapestry that begs to be unravelled.

A dreary dump of sad sack pop blather that makes poor use of the substantial talent on hand.

Not everything works... but even the flawed experiments make for an enjoyable listen.

Most of what Barnes throws together here doesn't get beyond annoying pastiche, and he still lacks the chops as a wordsmith to magically transform mediocre jams into memorable songs.

There are worse artists to jack than David Byrne and company, but after all the breathless hype, you'd expect something a little more innovative.

In reconnecting with her former Eric's Trip bandmates, Doiron rediscovers her edge, wrapping her warm, frayed vocals around awkward and occasionally dissonant melodies, layering multi-track self-harmonized phrases over heavyish rock-focused arrangements and crafting dynamic songs that leave you with a satisfying sense of being shaken up.

Brilliantly catchy.

A Wu-Tangy darkness permeates the whole album, which is cluttered with gems both musical (live sax and jazz flute) and lyrical.

A few flashes of brilliance, but no sustained heat.

More for the dedicated convert than the curious.