This is still a lovely, lovely record, on the surface at least; I'm not sure it'll stand up quite as well to heavy rotation as its predecessor.

We know what these artists can do separately. We've even had a glimpse of what they can do together, and when held up to that (and I'm not going to pretend it doesn't hurt me to say this) Do It Again just doesn't stand up.

The Moon Rang Like A Bell starts off with captivating momentum, a potential to take you on a whimsical, emotional journey. But along the way it seems to have sacrificed that sense of purity first apparent in its experimentation.

Too often, though, this feels like folk music on cruise control despite the attempts to introduce subtle electronic elements to the background of many of the songs, like a Fence Collective recording gone a bit wrong.

The message behind the music is much more clichéd, and much less interesting.

There was a sense of duty in pressing play on Luminous rather than an organic excitement or desire.

It's encouraging that there are some clear signs of expansion on Brightly Painted One, but the question now is whether Tiny Ruins really have anywhere else to go.

Garbus' sound is still a little too vague, still in need of some real streamlining; the promise remains blindingly obvious, but the execution, for my money at least, is still missing.

Even given the mixed results it's good to have them back. Listen without expecting the impossible and you'll find ample to enjoy.

It is the lack of cohesion between music and voice that remains the most prominent feature of the album and its biggest stumbling point; leaving May a disappointing effort from an artist that we know can do better.

The album suffers from a bit of an identity crisis, it is an honest album as the name suggests but it seems Future has difficulties in being an artist who feels the need to balance his street upbringing with his skill at writing, what are essentially, hip-hop love songs.

This has infinitely more charm than Kane, albeit with a very familiar love of a predictable lyrical couplet.

It works well enough as a snapshot of where Everett finds himself as he approaches middle age, but the overwrought agonisation on the past and infuriatingly samey instrumental choices make it a difficult record to love.

Much like funsize Snickers bars, there's a gooey joy to be found in the brevity, but especially for us this side of the Atlantic, there are bands who have improved on the formula of twee-punk/whatever you want to call it.

Carey is making music that concerns itself with nuance, and yet he has made the audio equivalent of cutting a victoria sponge cake with a chainsaw, doing his best to serve it up to a nervous gathering of increasingly swearing nuns.

Whilst it's certainly performed with skill and respect for the golden era of soul music, there's a sense that it's a bit too tightly controlled.

Unfortunately after [the first two tracks] the album settles into a post-coital snooze that it doesn't really wake from.

The hummable, sing-in-the-shower refrains are there, but ultimately, its Wildewoman's lack of identity that limits its appeal.

As a fully formed whole it's lacking; as nucleus around which a future proliferates and ideas expand, it's seriously exciting.

Awake is a very environmental album, but not a particularly emotional one.

An uplifting and varied listening experience, if only some of the other tracks didn't have a habit of passing you by.

It's a pity they remain slavishly committed to a successful template and too often Atlas feels like a memory of a memory.

There's nothing bold or groundbreaking about Let's Wrestle but it plays to its strengths. It's almost what you expect it to be, but not quite.

The record's very nice, but swimming alongside adequacy rather than soaring for the top isn't a wonderful career move.

There are hints of previously visited melodies, familiar heard-befores and usual arrangements, but perhaps what it lacks in innovative compositions and originality, it augments through euphoric beautiful moments that feel undeniably genuine.