This is a missed opportunity, but it's commendable that when both parties are not at their strongest the results can still satisfy.

Though Brightest Darkest Day isn’t a world-changer, you have to admire this pair’s indisputable dynamism.

The album captures little of the Opera's live spirit.

As ever, his lyrics sound better the less you think about them, but you know The Killers are getting it right because most of the time, you don't need to.

An album of controlled explosions that reclaims rock for the oldies and gives the kids something to mosh to.

O'Brien's voice is beautiful and his songwriting often adventurous, but there are times when the aim isn't as true as it could be.

The raspy sonics can’t mask some of their most shrug-worthy songs to date.

Occasionally it's beautiful--the acoustic breakdown in 'Thoughts' is unexpectedly sublime--and often beguiling.

A quantum leap it ain't--and Glass could do with putting her fangs back in--but (III) has just enough up its sleeve to keep Crystal Castles on track.

It's audaciously hit and miss, inevitably, but 'Out Of The Game' is anything but shy and retiring.

The enjoyably fluffy, pacy tunes here match Best Coast’s debut, but the content makes you want to scream ‘Get a f***ing life and chill out!’ at the speakers.

'Never' walks a fine line between experimental and exasperating.

A witches' broth of soothing vocals, swooshing 90s synths and computer drum beats.

Throughout, Niblett’s lonesome, PJ Harvey-like voice and grunge-bitten guitar are central, while disorientating snare cracks serve to underline her forlorn tales of domestic crises.

'Port Of Morrow' is a glorious and confident return, even if it lacks a little darkness at times.

Too often inaudible, the band’s uncathartic noise can still test patience as well as nerves.

A who's who of re-mixers have been cast for the job, and there's value in finding their take on Nick Cave's already unique sound.

Anger, bitterness and scorn spike the discomfiting atmosphere at every turn.

So, all in all: not a bad album, but most of the time it’s more harmless midge than lethal mosquito.

While there are individual moments that are up there with the band’s best, Right Thoughts falls short of the return to form the opening tracks suggest.

No new tricks, but there's life in these old dogs yet.

[The album] is a natural progression from the first, as the band’s distinctively jangly, incessantly upbeat guitars are remodelled in increasingly eccentric ways.

It's slicker than anything Katy's done before – maybe not as long-term-lovable, but certainly worth living with for a while.

As engaging as an album of mood swings can be.

A riot of dumbness, 'Hot Cakes' is predictably brash and Queen-like.

Shulamith picks up pretty much where that album left off, mixing elements of yacht rock, soul, hip hop and dub into a smoothly melancholic whole--but at times Leaneagh’s vocodered emoting makes you wonder if this isn’t just Dido for the blognoscenti.

It's the inconsistency of Future This--particularly the band's newfound tenderness vs. Their miscalculated explosions of noise--that make it a largely baffling listen.

The suave Londoner’s debut is a deeply ridiculous affair, but something about his Cave-meets-Cohen shtick endears.

Occasionally there are garish synths nauseating enough to induce a hangover on their own, and it's only then that WHB remind you why nu-rave is a genre best forgotten.

Basically, you can listen to all 11 tracks of This Is... Icona Pop and have a reasonable time, or you can put I Love It on repeat, forever, and have the time of your life.

It is hard to care too much about something this safe.

Though Shangri La is at least entertaining, it’s without that lasting, killer incision that will guarantee longevity.

For a Tarot-themed rock album made by an immortal megalomaniac, it's actually OK. Especially the loud bits.

When it works – as on the heartbreaking 'Together' and a barrelling 'The Magic Position' – it highlights his gifts as a songwriter, but on the dreary 'Bitten' and a seemingly endless 'Vulture' it makes you long for something simpler to mark his brilliance.

The band's fifth full-length is a sluggish drone of guitars so muddy they sound like they were recorded in a bog married to pseudo-spiritual waffling from singer Dave Heumann.

Surrounding himself with talent that far surpasses his own doesn't hide the weakness of many of these tracks.

What lets it down is that it is unutterably, irrevocably and unswervingly dull. Dull, dull, dull. As boring as the hum of a fridge.

Form And Control is a pleasant enough offering, but there's nothing phenomenal on show here.

It's largely uninspired and generic dance music, all industrialised dystopia and insouciant dehumanisation, making U&I an often prosaic return.

Unfortunately, the result is usually a bit syrupy and mawkish.

So with their fourth LP, where they burst from the tracks with peppy numbers like ‘Holy’ and Biffy-esque choruses on ‘The Woodpile’, it’s a mite disappointing.

[An] intense, skeletal, and actually-rather-dreary debut.

The five songs here are awkward bedfellows.

Don’t Forget is just possible to enjoy. But only in mod-eration, of course.

Initially it is exciting – the title track and 'Hips And Lips' pack a visceral punch – however, repeat plays reveal that 'The National Health' offers nothing particularly new.

Secondhand Rapture feels overlong, hampered by a lyrical palette that seems to mirror the relationship struggles of a Twilight film.

At his best, Oberhofer packs emotional punches in the maniacal vocals of 'I Could Go', underscored by proggy synths, billowing flutes and a chorus that stomps around like a giant drunk toddler. Somehow, Oberhofer's melodrama makes getting dumped sound fun. If only he could keep it up over a whole album...

Grand and grizzling, 'Gossamer' begs for adoration, but too often leaves an uncomfortably bittersweet aftertaste.

Sadly, Siberia is lacking any genuine spark.

The gripes of her debut album--chiefly that the quality of her songs didn't always match the strength of her voice--again prevail here.

Mostly, these are exquisitely constructed slow jams--especially recent single ‘Cookies’, The-Dream-esque ‘Crazy Sex’ and the cashmere-soft, Kelly Rowland duet ‘All The Way’--but the pace becomes stagnant after a while.

while the likes of Animal Collective and Yeasayer can sound like they’re from other times, places and planets, Delorean sound more like they’re making music for a lacklustre university recruitment video.

A band so capable shouldn't have settled for a debut as average as this.

Sledgehammer riff-filled rock doesn't need to be clever, but it sure as heck needs to sound like it's driven by full-pelt, carnage-causing energy. And that's where Band Of Skulls' second effort falls short.

The Kasabian-ish 'Danny Come Inside', with its predatory stride, and the tautly atmospheric 'Had It Coming' are rallying gear shifts; disappointingly, the remainder of 'Milk Famous' seems to be on cruise control.

Magic free and generally shapeless, TEEN have some real growing up to do.

‘A Ton Of Love’ shows they’ve not lost their knack for passably impersonating Echo & the Bunnymen, but really, you deserve better than this hazily indistinct angst.

Although she retains the cool cleverness of an indie icon, this New Yorker's detached demeanour eventually ends up sounding, ahem, trullie dull.

Solo Piano II is an enraptured performance but, unfortunately, it's not always an engaging one.

Mostly, though, the music on Sistrionix is plain bad.

It is violently un-confrontational, startlingly uninventive and no fun whatsoever.

The Brazilians’ fourth is a tuneless, tiresome rabble of a record that does just that [make you feel glum].

Effectively, it is emo for Blacksmiths. This would all be semi-tolerable, were it not for the sickeningly overwrought poetry bobbing on top.

Borrell 1 is a disaster that could obliterate any appeal Razorlight once had.

You'll only get a kick out of this record if you think all music made since 1976 is terrible and have absolutely no desire to hear anything new whatsoever.

Most of the tracks are about as blank and sterile as an airport terminal.

Listening to Babyshambles’ horrible third album is like being stuck on a roundabout with no exits.