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.

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

White Denim continue to teeter there.

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.

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.

The moments of clarity indicate a record that yearns for change.

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.

London Grammar’s polished take on trip-hop is quietly dramatic, sometimes beautiful and well worth a listen.

This is as forceful, salacious and dangerous as they’re likely to get.

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.

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

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.

The five songs here are awkward bedfellows.

It’s an interesting mix of the wide-eyed and sparkly and the beachfront and nonchalant that makes for a hugely radio-friendly record that won’t dent your credibility.

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

Lynch showcases a grim neighbourhood that seems electrically oppressed somehow, synthesised echoes murmuring like residual radiation.

‘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.

Magna Carta Holy Grail is a solid example of a decent modern rap album and nothing more.

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

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.

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

In the end, it’s all a little too demure to really shout out loud about.

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

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

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

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

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.

At times it can be a bit round-the-campfire twee, but when they’re doing something as cut-yourself-sharp as ‘Wall Paper’, it’s easy to forgive Concrete Knives for the odd moment of artistic bluntness.

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

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

All designs are firmly fixed on a glorious technicolour gem, but it's fair to say results are mixed.

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.

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.

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.

Whilst Hegarty's extended speech in 'Future Feminism' fails to grasp wholly, (but will probably fill a void in your pseudo-intellectual appetite), the collection as a whole is an impressively captivating soundscape.

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

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

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

The overall feel is of a semi-fascinating compilation album, making Tall Ships easy to appreciate but very difficult to love.

On the whole, Tender Signs struggles to get beyond the level of an immersive period piece.

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.

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

Far more stripped back than the Charlatans frontman's previous offerings, Oh No flits between affecting moments (the rather gorgeous 'Hours') and repetitive down-beaters ('A Case For Vinyl') that seem to go nowhere.

¡Uno! is Green Day's least ambitious record in years and a return to what they do best: short, sharp, scatterbrain pop-punk.

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

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

Occasional cringe-inducing lyrics aside, 'Dry Land Is Not A Myth' gets everything bang on.

Against all odds, 'Some Nights' is a hoot: huge-sounding, packed with tunes and not lacking in humour.

Packed with shimmering riffs, synths and loops which sees the Californian mastermind diversify his much-tipped take on 'alternative 80s'.

The dreamy 'Clone' has a touch of the Cocteau Twins about it, while the title track's polished riffs are pure powerpop. Only occasional moments – the lame guitar lick on 'Breathing Under Water' being one – sound outdated, proving that when it's done well, a little nostalgia doesn't hurt.

It veers wildly between the divine and the comedic, but this is positively imperious preposterousness.

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.

Ultimately, Endless Flowers is a poppier, prettier record than Crocodiles have managed before.

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.

'Matilda' is superb, squirmy avant-pop, 'Tessellate' sports a pleasing, stuttering, polyrhythm, whilst 'Breezeblocks' skitters beneath multilayered vocals.

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

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

Raw, exhilarating and completely mystifying.

Combining moments of instrumental grandeur with sections so stripped-back they verge on silence, Watson delivers the perfect summer evening soundtrack.

As engaging as an album of mood swings can be.

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

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

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.

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

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

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...

It's enough to hold the interest, although we'd prefer Alabama Shakes to capitalise on their more esoteric elements and cut out the cliches.

More often than not Stasia Irons and Cat Harris-White get bogged down in a psychedelic maze, struggling to get their intelligent and issue-led rhymes heard above distracting production.

A strange, interesting, occasionally brilliant album.

There's value in finding their [remixers] take on Nick Cave's already unique sound.

A coy, slow burner, it doesn't kick off properly until its latter stages.

An accomplished, repeatable debut.

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.

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

Sadly, Siberia is lacking any genuine spark.

The Jezabels are so nearly there on 'Prisoner'– they just to focus.

To say Michael Kiwanuka's debut is not the most modern-sounding album would be an elephant-sized understatement.

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

Its Yeasayer-aping can seem too familiar at times, but on the whole Young Magic's debut is a beguiling brain-burp of a listen.

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.

When the wrecking ball stops swinging, however, there are moments of emotional weightiness ('Leader Of The Pack') and glimpses of tenderness ('End Of The Line') that give this LP a more human edge.

Though the grappling guitars of 'Riot In My House' wouldn't seem out of place on an MC5 album, Blues Funeral doesn't always kick out the jams.

A peculiar unwillingness to climax is something that many Shearwater records have suffered with over the years, and Animal Joy is unfortunately no exception.

Be Strong is funny, innovative, uplifting and, most importantly, always fun.

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

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

Mis-steps like the sticky Santana-worship on 'Hanuman' are far less palatable, but when the combinations match up, it proves exactly how impressive this band have become.

Generally Moonfire is an album big on melody, heart and hooks.