While the rest of the band have proven they can write solid music, it's singer Geoff Rickly who presents the biggest problem, and that's mostly because the man simply cannot tone down his over-emoting.

It's clear that Skinner has worked on his flow a lot. He sounds less loosely conversational and more bound to the rhythm.

The gusto with which Springsteen delivers the many verses of Froggie Went A-Courtin' leaves me wondering if the millionaire everyman is simply unaware that his country is at war.

Although Harris does her best with some tasteful harmonies to save the session from the usual Knopfler over-egging, there's only so much she can do.

TBS's main problem is that they write precisely two kinds of songs: energetic pop rock with whiny vocals, and midtempo power rock, again with whiny vocals.

A likeable, though inconsistent, record.

Two-thirds of the songs fail to cohere.

Rather than try to duplicate the new-wavy sounds of their current output, the trio smartly keep the sound consistently raw, and lead singer Kelly Jones hasn't sounded this inspired or dangerous since 97's Word Gets Around.

Many of the familiar signifiers are gone, yet their well crafted and characteristically tuneful compostions still have a recognizable Calexico feel.

Amazingly, though Elan Vital easily could've become their resounding Sandinista flop, Zollo's clean vocals, knife-sharp melodies and subtle politically charged songwriting help secure its nomination as Pretty Girls' London Calling.

It's more exciting than most everything made by glitch gurus on their laptops today.

Dreamy and hypnotic, alternating between sparse and lush, these tunes' tempos tend to stay down, and things can get pretty stagnant, but there's a great sense of ambience and mood.

Actually, that's the vibe of the whole album: retro mid-90s LL.

Sound The Alarm shows that while they're still very much an acquired taste, these guys are much more capable than many would have liked to think.

The result still falls within the confines of lilting indie pop but this time goes beyond cutesy pastiche.

Mostly, though, it's the usual whining about his tortured life as as a once-celebrated pop star and being unloved in a harsh world, but with fewer droll song titles and clever couplets.

Surprisingly impressive.

Molko still manages to carry songs with his affected, nasal delivery as the band provides a steady backbone.

RJ puts aside his cinematic loops to deliver his roughest and toughest beats, over which Blueprint spits the party and bullshit blues like a man watching his most celebrated contempories fiddle with iced-out jewellery while their country burns before their eyes.

Some nice instrumentation, with mandolin and other strings makes for an odd juxtaposition with the stunningly inane lyrics.

While sometimes dreamy and ethereal, South are able to bridge quieter moments with danceable, gloomy pop – simply speaking, a great achievement.

While the bouncy good-time foolery is charming enough in small doses, Islands' relentlessly giddy glee gets annoying awfully fast.

Aside from a couple tracks with standout hooks (Wild Gardens, The Better Plan), their songs are forgettable.

Every song has a lovely flow, with a steady cadence and easy accessibility that no fan of poppy indie rock will want to do without.

It's time to move some units, so quirky's out and tunefulness is in.

This is Ghostface's best album.

His voice is bland and has little variety.

While Lerche could pull off Bacharach's breezy lounge swinger persona, he lacks the pipes, the pain and the maturity to deliver the smooth retro romanticism these jazz-inflected ballads require.