On their new album, they maintain this dive into pop, but with songs that are nothing like as captivating as their back catalogue.

Blue Rev is a slightly disappointing return from such a brilliant indie band.

On Happier Than Ever the tempo never quite reaches fever pitch; instead, Eilish is content with the tranquillity of tried and tested methods - tentatively pushing boundaries, rather than cranking the distortion up to 10.

Asunder, Sweet and Other Distress’ is good enough, by post-rock standards. But it really falls short of the bar that GY!BE set themselves before they took a break from the game.

While these tracks aren’t necessarily bad by any set definition, it’s worth looking at them through a critical scope and for grand moments like these that once carried so much weight early in their career, we have to begin asking ourselves just how many times can a group reduplicate their sound before their efforts simply become white noise.

God’s Favorite Customer isn’t afforded the opportunity to shine with Tillman’s usual charming spirit--that’s not because the turmoil of heartache is too mundane a subject for the philosophically-minded Tillman to master, but because in order to master it, he needs to do more to whip up his usual reckless innovation.

While no wheels have been reinvented, The Show is far from a bad record. If you’ve spent any time trying to imagine what a new Niall album would sound like, you’re probably pretty close.

For an album which so clearly sells itself as a capital C concept Album, the narrative is indecipherable; each track dropping a handful of new character names, and the final song seems to give up on it completely. Tillman is a fantastic songwriter, and so some of the new material is gold regardless.

The Chronic and 2001 were simply collections of great songs and the order didn't matter much; Compton, conversely, is one giant song presented as a specifically sequenced album. While it succeeds as such--a lush, expensive-sounding art rap song-cycle--it fits the Doctor about as well as a baggy t-shirt. Dre makes great songs, not great albums.

Ultimately, while Grey Tickles, Black Pressure should be a career-definiting opus, it just seems unfocussed and uncertain; Grant's barbs aren't as sharp, which means too few of the songs stick like they should.

Although the songs are largely solid, there’s a recurring sense of deja vu. ... Being Funny in a Foreign Language sees The 1975 lose touch with the reality they are usually so skilled at reflecting. Ever one to over-intellectualise, Healy is wrapped up in so many repeating layers of fame and meaning and memes and buzzwords that any real meaning is out of reach.

While well-refined, the composition of some of the tracks sometimes comes off as slightly formulaic and a little predictable.

Time has its highs and its lows. It’s an album that doesn’t take itself too seriously. The lyrics may be tongue-in-cheek, but the craftsmanship of each song is nothing to smirk at.

As a whole, Inventions plays nicely as the backdrop of your psychedelic dreams. In pieces, it fares much better and commands more attention.

They’re all interesting concepts and ideas that work, but together they create a disjointed and bizarre listen.

It’s an album that feels made for technical appreciation, rather than necessarily engaging the listener.

Thirstier seems to spin out of control in the name of artistic development. The daring dip into electronic garners mixed results.

There is no question that this is a work of devotion, even a work of love, but as a document of raw emotion, it is lacking, it feels overly considered.

This is a noisy articulation of pain to be felt once but barely experienced after. It exists to shock with the intention of empathy; unfortunately, empathy takes time and is hardly elicited when all things warped and wicked are at the forefront.

It may not always live up to its title, but it’s certainly an interesting branch of what will hopefully continue to be a long and fruitful partnership.

The 'what if' factor looms large on CHAOS NOW*, but not to the detriment of enjoying the thrilling outsider pop music that Dawson provides both in his overarching messaging and unsteady sound.

Palomino is a return to their familiar and comforting poetic and melancholic storytelling powers.

It results in a pleasant, but mostly quite forgettable listen.

If you're a fan of Frusciante's work in the California funk outfit, then there's not much here you'll enjoy, but if you are into electronic, drum and bass then you'll be right at home.

The album’s been in gestation for two years, and yet with a few exceptions the ten songs here sound like offcuts. It’s not that Fuse is actually that bad – but it feels like a futile exercise, a series of turns down paths which don’t go anywhere.

For the most part The Curse of Love doesn’t offer any of the pop hooks that made early Coral albums so enjoyable.

Unfortunately, despite the gravitas, at times it feels a bit like you’re listening to a late-night free jazz jam. When it hits the mark, Rose Golden Doorways rears its head and roars in a concrete wasteland, but there are moments of chin-stroking weirdness that fall flat of the eldritch dread Rochford and co are trying to create.

Some of Creeper's tricks may have become repetitive and predictable, but whichever direction they take after the SD&IV cycle, they probably can't go wrong as long as there are plenty of Greenwood's vocal contributions. The interludes create smooth transitions, guitar crescendos build a gorgeous cinematic effect, especially on the EP's centerpiece "America At Night" and the anthemic "One Of Us", which sounds a bit like Green Day.

Like the tracks themselves, the album as a whole contains a breadth in the way of sounds and styles, but less so in depth. Confused and trying on more hats than a grandfather at a beachfront souvenir shop, Cautious Clay flickers with interest and leaves without a second thought.

With skills and interests cemented across various styles, he’s figuring out in real time exactly what he does best – providing floor fillers to club crowds or elevating his performances through complex production. Perhaps when he sings, “Where are my wings? / they’re loading”, the artist is acknowledging that he’s still to assume his most resolute form yet.

Jenny from Thebes, depending on one’s fascination with The Mountain Goats’ 30-odd years of winding lore, may either have the connotation of your dad and his group of friends finally getting around to making that album they always talked about, or, where charity applies, stay just high enough above passability that it can be recommended by fans with the asterisk, ‘one of the better ones.’

Here, finally, is some of the ebb and flow, some of the emotion that’s been lacking on the album up to this point. What a shame that it comes so close to Slow Focus’ end.

Talk Memory excels as an advertisement for prodigious jazz technique, but it just doesn't excel as a BADBADNOTGOOD record.

Although it's great to hear the forever prodigy in a better headspace, more mature and precise with his words and emotions, it was the youthful messiness echoed in past efforts that made King Krule far more intriguing than what listeners will experience under the lingering gloom of Space Heavy.

Overall, although there is quite a bit of filler on Rabbit Rabbit, the album does contain some enjoyable songs, with Dupuis and Molholt demonstrating their obvious talents for solid guitar riffs at several points.

It doesn’t necessarily stay in your head all day but when the drawling rhymes cut in there is attitude and thought provocation in buckets.

The stories she unveils here can get dull and repetitive – as they are designed to be relatable to as wide an audience as possible – but the way she tells them is, more often than not, captivating enough to sit through the 3-minute runtime.

An album clearly made by a mercurial talent, but who still sounds at his best quietly knocking out unassuming dancefloor gold.

Don’t get me wrong, Endless Summer Vacation is a good album with each track deserving of a listen, but in the same breath, the majority of them aren’t worthy of a replay either.

Radiate Like This is a characteristically joined-up effort from the close-knit group, underscoring the strength of their musical bond – its only hindrance being the occasional pang of déjà vu.

Joy'All ends up being a bit of everything and never establishing a clear enough character. The injection of joy is refreshing yet contrived, and all the simultaneous changes seem too big of an undertaking for her collaborators, who are not able to cultivate her sound.

While there are moments of significant note here, Glowing In The Dark as a whole doesn’t feel, or more importantly sound, like the album that will finally solidify the band in delivering what is their true potential.

While there are undoubtedly highlights on Sympathy For Life, it seems like fans will have to keep waiting to see the band fully commit to their dancefloor ambitions.

Overall, TYRON is not quite the same intense powerhouse as Nothing Great About Britain. The strength of the first half gives way to half-hearted examinations of one’s place in the world. But Slowthai still delivers a compelling record which seeks to discover and establish a self-portrait that’s a little messy but worth praising for its efforts at rough-around-the-edges ingenuity.

There's a lot to like here. "Bucky, Boris and Dent" aren't long for this world, but their memory lives on thanks to the song's chipper melody. It's just that a good chunk of the tracklist unfolds along a steady procession of waltzes. They're all gorgeous, too, smooth and shiny as a commemorative dinner plate. The spacey interludes will keep you on your toes, but anyone who's looking for a hoedown might get bored in a hurry.

This natural movement away from jazz has led them to a sort of awkward middle ground. It feels like To Believe is a beautiful soundtrack to a film we don’t have the visuals for. And it’s just not quite enough on its own.

They haven't put all the pieces together, but the evidence suggests that Geese are still capable of laying a golden egg.

Despite strong results in the past, this time these elements have ultimately combined to make a sort of erratic psychedelic porridge; boring in more than a few places, and a bit much for anyone other than the genre's keenest fans.

Miss Power is a solid instalment from Constance, with real high points across multiple genres. The voice notes are a little heavy-handed, and “YUCK!” risks losing the crowd, but Constance has still shown herself as an exciting voice in indie and alternative pop.

At only 32 minutes and housing five interludes, The Age of Pleasure is slim on ideas and music. It would be more successful if she followed the same pattern of zinging between genre and form effortlessly like on Dirty Computer, but this record largely sticks to reggae and funk, leading to a slower, more lax mood.

These are songs with the glossiest pop sheen steamrolled over them, erasing any wrinkles or mishaps – the exact thing that made her so endearing to begin with.

Punk will likely not be remembered as a great Young Thug album, but we should appreciate that we get to hear him tinker with his sound for when he finally puts it all together again.

A Bit of Previous fails to standout. Whilst carrying the same overall feel of If You’re Feeling Sinister and The Boy With the Arab Strap, it lacks the depth and storytelling brilliance that originally made this band so exciting.

The sound of the album is too monochrome in general, with ballads and epics all drawing from a similar palette. That being said, there are stunning moments too.

Ultimately, Indian Yard doesn’t really leave the listener knowing Ya Tseen. But some songs do hint at a distinctive identity.

As heavy, hard rock records go, Once More ‘Round the Sun isn’t necessarily a bad one; it’s just that it seems, like The Hunter before it, to be nudging Mastodon further and further away from what made them stand out in the first place.

The Feminine Divine can’t match those first three deathless classic albums and falls just below the convincing return that was One Day I’m Going to Soar. Still, there’s enough of their unique brilliance on display to make this a qualified victory.

Long-time fans--particularly of King of the Beach--will find plenty to like here, but it’s difficult not to feel that Williams, by now, has scraped the bottom of the pop barrel; his future, as No Life for Me suggested, looks brighter when his stylistic eye wanders elsewhere.

Royal Blood’s debut is an easily digestible, unfortunately thin-sounding, slightly disappointing rock record and an exciting, fresh, invigorating pop record both at the same time.

It might not be all we'd hoped for, and could certainly benefit from some variety, but there are just about enough standouts here to keep admirers interested.

It’s an overdose of things that would, individually, be fantastic, but are made lesser by their combination.

Most reformed bands are creatively barren, hawking around twenty five year old songs, so for Medicine to break this cliché is a great, great thing--it’s just a shame that some of the interesting sounds they create here couldn’t have incubated for a bit longer.

Tempest is an epic talent, definitely, but this doesn’t quite nail it down.

Songs is the sound of a talented man with a little too much focus on trends and on a too-wide cache of influences, to the point where even he sounds unconvinced by his own music.

In short, it’s a bit of a misfire.

GRIP is stylish and moving, yet lacks a sense of provocation.

Daniel shows potential for Real Estate to take their music to the next level and in a way, that’s both its biggest plus and greatest minus.

The berserk, nihilistic energy that made Andrew W.K.’s name is gone. In its place is something more affirming but more ponderous. Song after song goes for big, anthemic goosebump moments, but the melodies aren’t memorable enough and the sentiment, even as sincerely as it is delivered, feels forced.

Try Not To Freak Out is a decent album, but on the whole, there’s really not a great deal to say about it, unfortunately.

Hypnotic Eye is little more than a decent record with a few ideas above its station.

Whether due to the pandemic or not, Contender however suffers from a lack of consistency mirroring the context in which it was created. Despite nuanced shifts in their sound, the blueprint remains much the same.

The Shadow I Remember suggests something is incomplete, the band failing to consistently scale the heights capable at their gut-punching best.

The best moments of the album work by adding a more considered approach to material that, in the wrong hands, could sound slapdash. However, the albums least remarkable moments are plodding at best and mawkish at worst.

This debut record still sounds like a band caught between two stools, not sure if they’re still full-on punks anymore or softer, introspective shoegazers.

Overall this record feels like a pocket in time and the breeze of nostalgia is welcome in parts but is wholly unsatisfying.

There’s too much telling and not enough showing across More Light‘s 70 minutes.

Marlon Williams is a perfectly pleasant listen, but we’ll have to check back to see what Williams can do when his personal experience catches up to his subject matter.

It doesn’t as a whole compete with its first offerings.

The album in it’s conventional format may be too limiting for Nisennenmondai here and therefore, this is not their greatest advert.

Like other Matmos albums, it relies too heavily on the concept behind the album for merit. Plastic Anniversary is an impressive experiment with intriguing results; it's not, however, an album you'll likely find yourself revisiting time and time again.

Whilst it is a pleasure to hear Tycho again with new ears, it's difficult to argue that what is being heard is anything new.

The album proves that Exploded View are at their best when they refuse to be constrained by reality, to listen to consensus or to obey, and instead, exist in the dazzling reverie of their collective dream.

Unfortunately, there are too many missteps for this to feel like any kind of progress on their debut, even if the sentiment behind the tracks remain essential. Sløtface clearly still have much to say; they just need to work out a way of rediscovering their voice.

Hardcore fans will likely find things to be affectionate about here, with Pollards knack for sweet melodies with a rough edge still just about shining through, but the safe production and tired performance means Earth Man Blues is ignorable for those outside of the '90s indie sphere.

The resulting project is weirdly disappointing; a bold creative decision ends up splitting the collaborators’ contributions down the middle, and BBNG bring surprisingly little vigour or experimentation to the table.

The fact that Pattern Is Movement defies genres is both its strength and its downfall.

While Independence Day doesn’t shine in the same way as the more refined Money Can’t Buy Happiness (executively produced by accolade heavy Dave), it shows a Fredo even hungrier, relentless and refusing to loosen his ties to the street.

New Moon is at times quite captivating and as rowdy as you need it to be, but its weaker moments consistently outshine its brighter ones, leaving the listener with an album half-full of both indelible sonic fury and equally forgettable missteps.

Moody. Loveless. One-paced. Monotonous. Dull.

It’s playful, dark, and produced well enough to settle the most pedantic of audiophiles. It’s clear, however, that putting meaning to Matmos’ sounds here only rehashes tired ideas of neotribalism and criticisms of late-capitalism.

Despite the writing on several songs being undercooked, coupled with production that’s overbaked, Yours Dreamily has its charms, but the onus is on the listener to find them and given the clutter in the styles and songs here, that’s not an easy thing to do.

It’s an uneven soundtrack to some early morning hotel lobby fever dream where the house-band drown in tight-collared Paul Smith suits and over-wrought orchestral-pop mimicry.

There are moments that remind us that Watson can still work a great melody, but Love Songs For Robots is by no means contains his best work.

On Found Heaven, the wreckage of love overstays its welcome; sadly, profundity gives in to frustrating familiarity.

Though its exploration sometimes lacks cohesion, it succeeds in pushing the group’s sound to levels of experimentation.

Either through reticence or reverence for the music, this approach feels half-hearted and only partially realised. If the group wants to keep pushing the limits of Mariachi El Bronx, it may need to look elsewhere.

Most of the time, it sounds like each song has been half-written, then forgotten for a bit, then returned to with too little time to create something truly interesting, forcing Mulcahy to fill in the gaps with basically whatever will rhyme with the sketches of lyrics he had originally.

Food for Worms is frustrating in its lack of direction, but more than anything, frustrating because it could be spectacular.