Its versions of tracks by everyone from Peter Tosh to Gershwin, Taj Mahal to JJ Cale seldom amounting to anything more thrilling than might be heard in the back room of a pub.

Their second album is a veritable atrocity exhibition of forgettable keyboard riffs, muzzled guitars, inane lyrics and the foghorn-subtle voice of frontwoman Tay Jardine.

Even by his own standards this is stupefyingly insipid and pedestrian fare.

Lyrically vapid, auto-tuned and stadium-aspiring choruses like these, with their hands-in-the-air, mugging-with-your-mates quality, are so lacking in imagination that they make "feel-good" feel really, really bad.

His choice is to foreground his thin, trebly voice and treat it with endless effects, which owes more to hyperpop than anything else and is one of the many problems that make this album an exhausting listen.

The combination of reggae, drivetime rock and Bollywood orchestration may work beautifully elsewhere, but not here--and Stone's soulful noodling only makes matters worse.

Funniest pandemic record, hands down.

The album’s sole achievement is its brevity.

Steve Garrigan’s voice strains with sincerity in perfect imitation of Chris Martin. Less forgivable, though, is the way they emulate and surpass the lyrical cliches of their source material.

Pink Ocean locks into an appealing groove; Think Before You Drink is tuneful enough, if an abomination lyrically. But even the biggest Strokes devotee will find precious little worth hearing here.

This collection of “edgy” rock numbers (Postcards from the Past, in particular, sounds like a pastiche of his biggest hits) and dreary ballads is a turkey of epic proportions.

Guetta's trademark union of stadium trance and American R&B is represented in a glittering array of bling-encrusted collaborations (Snoop Dogg, Akon, Chris Brown) but they struggle to impose any distinctive personality on the overall mood of relentless rictus-grin-inducing euphoria.

Ultimately, Famous First Words sets the cause of resurgent guitar rock back… ooh, a good 20 years.

Trainor just isn’t a convincing pop star. While the Britney-lite lead single No has its moments, most of the other songs are identity-free filler.

Sonic reference points for this, his fourth solo album, include on Let Me Go (no please, really, let me go) banjo-virulent arena folk in the exhausted Mumford vein as well as the tritest and most insipid of musical theatre showtunes.

Single Bonfire Heart is very radio-friendly but, like every other song on Moon Landing, essentially drippy.