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.