'Apropa't' sounds as organic as a dump and as lush as a drizzly sunset.

In isolation you can imagine any of these songs may have appeared over the last 10 years giving a warm comforting feel, but listened in its entirety the effect is strangely soporific, a steady morphine drip running from start to end.

You'd probably want Missy to wash her hands before she got anywhere near a real kitchen if this album is anything to go by. The perv.

Blueberry Boat is a frustrating, niggling, great idea of a record.

Most of this album, basically, doesn't work.

Iggy's own production fails to lift it out of the nu-metal quagmire - sometimes the perfectly executed power chords and unimaginative guitar licks feel every bit as raw and dangerous as Bowie's Tin Machine farrago.

'Pocket Symphony' fails to grab in the same way that previous Air albums have and places too large an emphasis on mood, texture and composition to ever really be anything other than polite background music.

Ultimately, this is merely a straight-down-the-line rock'n'roll album.

'Chops' isn't wholly disastrous, but it's all too often a reminder that, for roughly his first decade onstage, Childs was an infuriatingly insular and mildly indulgent performer, and it now appears that he was able to make such genuinely fantastic records in spite of that because of the healthy influence of his band-mates.

This veers between quite good and bloody rubbish with only a couple of flashes of brilliance here or there.

It does at least manage to include several of the things we hold dearest about Michael Jackson the singer, and it also steers clear of anything as laugh-out-loud as 'Earth Song'.

In fairness, if they'd released this in place of, say 'TNT' we'd probably have been all set to hail it as a truly delightful and conceivably seminal record. Instead, we find familiarity breeding just a touch of unexpected contempt.

There are moments of brilliance here, sure... but there are a few too many weak skits and a few too many weak tracks here to make this anything other than a mildly cool summer thang, and summer is, like totally over now.

A waste of good beats.

Where they used to be more wild and interesting they seem to have mellowed with age.

In their quest for paper, The Roots have lost their way.

'Love' is trying to be all things to all people and suffers for its lack of ruthlessness and direction.

The key flaw with this album is that it doesn’t have any of the bangers that GC can do so well.

Whereas previously his songs felt carefully and beautifully crafted, here he seems content to merely plunder a whole host of archaic musical styles and immerse himself in self-congratulatory jams, and a result you end up with a less than satisfying hotchpotch of songs.

'A Weekend In The City'... fails because it tells us nothing new.

'Trading...' may be better than we had any right to expect, but the fact remains that there's nothing here that would've catapulted him to public consciousness were it not for his astuteness and the Donnie Darko connection.

A little wanting.

A frustratingly self indulgent and inconsistent double album that pitches itself somewhere between the classic country rock of 2001's 'Gold' and the lovelorn despair of 2004's 'Love Is Hell'.

There is much to get teeth-grindingly irritated about with this album.

There's no let up in Kuperus' constant yelps around the difficult end of her vocal range, and it's this that, ultimately, lets 'Gimmie Trouble' down and disappointingly makes this otherwise excellent Adult. album feel rather indulgent and immature.

The Sea And Cake are ultimately an infuriatingly inoffensive band.

There is no doubt [Martin] has talent, but there are just too many retreads, too many regurgitated ideas, and no fire, no raw anger, no big hairy bollocks.

It feels too clinical, icy cold, almost sterile.