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.