Max Martin, Mr "Baby One More Time", has been roped in again along with scores of interchangeable Scandinavians to create an album of autotuned landfill chartpop which you will scour in vain for anything on a par with "Womanizer".

Suggests that McCartney lacks anyone to tell him when he's had a terrible idea.

It's nice that Shaddix is still alive, but Papa Roach remain irretrievably atrocious.

Tthey run the gamut from cheesy to cheesier with Hucknall managing to make every song sound impressively dated.

It's a pop record, which means one killer track would redeem everything. Predictably enough, it never comes.

Nothing to see here.

He specialises in staggeringly banal lyrics ("Grow old with me", "When you hold me in your arms I can feel your heart") delivered in an overwrought cry-baby warble, and song structures with big predictable sub-Keane, sub-Arcade Fire crescendos.

It's coated in a layer of pseudo-authenticity, but ultimately it's a record which aims for Bo Diddley or Johnny Cash and merely attains Dire Straits.

Morissette is the sort of woman who does yoga to ensure she can still gaze at her navel... Self-obsessed.

The sooner this bunch of plums fade back into obscurity, the better.

All Syco needed to do was reprise her staggering first TV audition. Astonishingly, they've dropped the ball.

He sounds utterly burnt out. Poor.