An album that ultimately sounds curiously disengaged.

Full marks for devotion to "authenticity", but, sadly, authentic doesn't necessarily mean interesting.

It's not dissimilar to Jean Michel Jarre's Oxygene stripped of its most memorable passages, and might well do what it suggests on the cover. But those hypnotic washes of sound go beyond their remit and could have us all dozing off.

Listen still delivers the familiar crowd-pleasing builds and drops, the formulaic song structures.

The music--lots of nondescript ballads, a splash of contemporary disco--is no less banal [as headlines from the Daily Mail].

There is little drama here, just plenty of shorthand (sad pianos), a total absence of risk and, perhaps worst of all, no evidence of the deranged hedonism that catapulted Smith into a funk.

Fifteen tracks stretches them too far, though, and on the likes of Fog, their woahs sound tired, and it becomes apparent that these are pretty empty musical calories.

As ever, the messages are mixed, on many levels.

The stadium punks' ninth album, though, is largely throwaway.

At its least appealing, the music follows suit, dealing in boilerplate pop of varying hues: ponderous-verse-into-epic-chorus balladry; sugary indie guitars on 305 and Teach Me How to Love, dance pop so unmemorable it’s a wonder Mendes didn’t forget he was singing it and wander off midway through. But, just occasionally, something from outside the standard palette of current pop grabs your attention.

Sadly, the album doesn’t sound half as much fun as the journey.

It's filled with meat-and-potatoes beats, which, despite their dangerous titles (Machine Gun, Wickedest Man) are more likely to make you check your watch than lose your head.

He [Biggie] was never boring, unlike this compilation of tired productions and mawkish interludes.

On this sequel, Gibbs mostly sounds bored, aggressively bored or boringly aggressive. The ever creative Madlib chucks in everything he can find to dazzle the listener. When this coheres--in the vicious swamp-beat of Massage Seats, for example--it’s sensational. Often his work sounds too dense to compete with mass-market trap, and struggles to support Gibbs’s gruff rhymes.

For all the mash-ups, Bangerz feels stitched together in the dark, and the attention-seeking begins to grate.

Producer Ed Harcourt has met her mannered delivery and plummy English vowels with string-soaked arrangements but they're more saccharine than stirring.

All most of the candle-held-to-the-sun versions here reveal--from the hushed, sad, fingerpicky take on Blank Space to the hushed, sad, strummy take on Out of the Woods--is a strong urge to listen to Swift herself.

More boring and pointless than Brexit.

Too much of the material sounds formulaic, most noticeably a Strokes pastiche, Darkness in Our Hearts, and the Verve-by-numbers Out of Control.

The usually redoubtable Beth Ditto sounds less like the spirit of riot grrrl and more like a wannabe material girl.

Other than the sultry Stars Dance, much of this sounds like songs Rihanna rejected.

A victory for self-indulgence over quality control.

Best avoided if you're not a Guns N' Roses completist.

It’s a boldly idiosyncratic collection, and generous in its aims, but it’s also an unsatisfyingly structured racket.

Ultimately, Harrison has very definitely found an audience, but many of these Gen Z themes are being explored more creatively elsewhere.

His second album is a narrow, unimaginative collection.

Half-rapped banalities about watching Shrek 12 times and being "crap at computer games" will certainly win hearts, but perhaps only those of a certain age.

At best, it’s dreamily creative; at worst, overwrought.

An uneasy fusion ensues, however, in which Timberlake “gets his flannel on” (Flannel) and mostly fails to combine the rural with an edgy digital aesthetic--a particularly gnomic duet with country star Chris Stapleton (Say Something) is produced by Timbaland. Sometimes, though, new ground is broken.

There's a serviceable hit nonetheless in Remix (I Like The), and the itchy R&B of Jealous (Blue) has some appeal, but the purest joy comes from rap so bad that you'll want to play it for everyone you know.

After a partly successful reboot with 2016’s Walls, they attempt to build on that for their eighth album by using the same producer, Markus Dravs, but there’s only so much he can do when the raw material he’s working with so often falls short.

Tonra's voice is breathy and sweet and unremarkable, breaking sometimes into a wrenched whisper, that should be heartbreaking but, more often than not, is just a bit grating.

There's an innate problem in the way Swings Both Ways swings--like a pendulum, flipping and flopping between 2013 and 1953, a problem that the orchestra can't resolve.

With every crescendo of catgut and steel, their lack of nuance becomes wearing.

It’s all immaculately executed (with help from Warpaint bandmate Stella Mozgawa on drums), just too often desperately unmemorable.

The music is just as you'd expect: uplifting cheese.

This isn’t a terrible record by any means--and at just 20 minutes it’s admirably succinct--but it leaves the listener with a definite sense that Ty Segall might be overstretching himself.

There are outbursts of punkish energy and some occasional snappy hooks, but CRX haven’t a great deal to recommend them beyond the reputations of those involved.

Really, though, her graceless output remains unaffected.

Déjà Vu could have been Moroder’s own Random Access Memories, which had guest vocalists all pulling together to create a masterpiece. Instead, it’s just a bit random.

The impression that Turner and Kane are soundtracking some kind of ironic double-bro-seven flick in their heads remains, however (not eased by Kane’s recent sleazy behaviour towards a female journalist), only partly tempered by Turner’s nuanced lyrics.

With the exception of the poignant and understated Black Lines, Ashcroft’s material is uninspired, drowned beneath bloated production and hardly enlivened by his customary broadbrush lyrics about standing alone against ill-defined adversaries, with the added bonus of a blizzard of clunking weather metaphors.

Success seems to have dulled his considerable rapping talent.

Despite all the disco grooves and psychedelic flourishes, this still feels like someone shouting: “Cheer up, love!” down your ear for an hour.

These prom queen themes have had a more intriguing musical treatment from Lana del Rey.

Their fifth album is a disappointment, however, with the 12 tracks here smoothed of any interesting rough edges and aimed squarely at stadium crowds.

There is a very good reason this has sat in a vault for 23 years: it fails to capture Buckley’s magic as well as the Live at Sin-é EP, which would be his debut release later in 1993.

All too often, the songs are too lightweight to ensnare the listener, their gossamer melodies floating out of the memory almost as quickly as they entered.

One step forward, two steps back.

None of their melodies sticks in the head or, crucially, the heart.

Neon is a smooth, proficient pop product that steers clear of conflict or strong emotions unless they have to do with matters of the heart.

It’s always difficult to ape the heroic naivety of our least-loved decade without seeming insincere, but that’s no excuse for Familiar Touch’s toxic banality.

The trouble is, much of it still sounds about as vital as Coldplay Babelfished into Icelandic.

Even with Pete Doherty clean, and their songcraft to the fore, Anthems for Doomed Youth has the unmistakable tang of opportunity squandered.

The marginally more upbeat and engaging Feel Good aside, it’s all very tasteful but ultimately a little unexciting. As returns go, it’s an underwhelming one.

The elements are there but never really draw you in. Overall, CCCLX doesn’t quite add up.

The few redeeming moments come when she ceases her bellowing and shows a little restraint, as on the surprisingly likable Skeletons.

A bright, colour-saturated record indebted to the loopiest excesses of 60s psychedelia – but the chirpiness is wearing thin.

The impression they leave is fleeting; neat arrangements and accomplished musicianship, but with wit and character seemingly in short supply.

It blows hot and cold.

The name of the game here may be multiplying, but Sheeran knows where his bread is buttered and that is in writing chick lit, not window-steamers.

It’s not a terrible album – it’s better than many bands that Pixies inspired – but it isn’t terribly good either.

It has its moments--the title track has a certain chutzpah--but a lack of killer hooks means there's precious little to get excited about here.

O’Brien’s music, while often smart and sharply played, is rarely exciting as it skips from dusty funk to spiky electronica, and her poetry isn’t quite limber enough to enliven the bare scaffolding supplied by her band.

Things start promisingly with the undulating Champagne Poetry dextrously reflecting on loneliness (“career is going great, but now the rest of me is fading slowly”), while Papi’s Home recalls early Kanye, of all people, with its sped-up samples and laid-back flow. Later, however, that playfulness calcifies into headline-grabbing stunts. ... This is an album destined to be filleted for various #mood playlists, anchored only by its creator’s untouchable fame.

Here, his delivery and beats are pretty dull. More tedious still is the misogyny.

Perhaps the most salient fact of all about this Pixies album is that it combines their three recent EPs without any new, unreleased material. It's a craven cash-in.

Half the time, Cyrus is touting some ersatz idea of “rawk” proselytised by MTV circa 1984. ... Things perk up considerably on the songs that feel more authentic to Cyrus.

Only the closing and sole rap track, the brief but vehement Flyin', gives any indication of Arthur's personality.

The impassioned ballad Mawal stands out as a contemplative reprieve, but it isn’t anywhere near enough to rescue the album.

The best tracks come from producers Floss & Flame and Soundtrakk, but the album sinks under a surfeit of muddled, undercooked hip-pop. Lupe’s ability seems sadly exhausted by his ambition.

Sadly, three minutes of mild excitement are no compensation for the 59 of tedium.

Part two of Green Day's album triptych finds them flailing ever further from the pop nous that has underscored their finest moments, as they plod through a set that's oddly leaden and largely witless.

Unfortunately, there is no great reveal here, in which a burgeoning talent steps up a gear.

Duck crashlands in as confused a space as that might suggest; it’s a very mainstream record, but doesn’t sound sure that it wants to be.

When Kele does sing, his magnificently anguished yelp is mostly stilled. There is far too much spoken word. This scattershot approach just about worked on his previous album, 2042, but this has neither its visceral immediacy nor the wild, unhinged invention of what he does best.

It all adds up to a baggy and frequently baffling record that’s unlikely to mark a historic moment in grime’s renaissance--and suggests its maker’s cultural clout lies squarely elsewhere.

This is not a great album.

There’s plenty of build--see the coiling, gothic tension of Blackout – but little release, and a lack of those big, punchy choruses that were their strongest suit. Only Empty and So We Can Stay Alive hit old heights, and not hard enough.

Know-It-All has sweet spots, but doesn’t match the promise.

Choruses range from slushy ("Oh you will never know how much I love you so") to barren ("This is all you ever asked for, this is all you'll get"), but sometimes there's a shard of sincere sentiment.

Their chief aim here appears to be to bludgeon the listener into submission, by awkwardly welding dated drum’n’bass backdrops on to songs; aping the Prodigy, as on the truly abysmal Slaves collaboration Control; or lazily rehashing their former glories on the bland Emeli Sandé single, Love Me More. Things improve considerably when the production and guest coalesce, typically when rappers are involved.

More often, though, The Brink is slick yet uninvolving, its titles (Time to Dance, Look of Love) as prosaic as the contents therein.

An angry buzzsaw of a record that grates and spits for 56 minutes without respite, it marks no great progression for their music.

Sometimes they sound like an anaemic Coldplay; at others they're a sweatier version of the Shins.

Strings and expensive-sounding gloss are applied by producer Bernard Butler but unfortunately it's Duffy-era Butler, rather than the sweeping soul of his mid-90s David McAlmont collaborations.

Largely, though, Nesbitt's teenage insights are buried in functional, anodyne pop music.

The sextet's debut album is too empty to excite, its odder, quieter moments all but smothered by windy rock. A shame.

Goldwing is just too canonical to tell us anything novel about either heartland or heart.

Embrace's populist sensibilities remain intact: stadium-friendly choruses rise up and grab you by the throat at every opportunity.

For anyone not instantly sold on gravel-voiced Americana, it’ll feel like hard work.

While the results are unfailingly envelope-pushing, coherent songs are few; Zipperface comes closest, but too often tracks go off on tangents just as momentum is building.

Track after track leans heavily on the relentless four-to-the-floor of trance, with Alice Glass's yelped vocals muffled under a weight of sound that's simultaneously boring and abrasive.

There are just too many pop stars here (Pink, Beyoncé, Kehlani) wailing anodyne hooks over glutinous beats. Perhaps the biggest problem with Revival – as with many latterday Eminem records – is the struggle of an intelligent fortysomething artist to evolve while somehow remaining true to the demands of his sniggery core audience of alienated males.

Professor Green’s whiny rap and the tired chart-house riff detract from the power of the narrative.

Flamagra is too considered, burdened, and what were once cosmic, mind-expanding polyrhythms come over as inconsequential and annoying.

It’s best when the pace picks up on the likes of Oh Woman Oh Man , with its rousingly multitracked chorus, or the crisp groove of Non Believer, but mostly it sounds like the same long, portentous chillout sesh.