If this is her last album (as she has intimated), a true original bows out on a more equable note.

Phase isn’t that bad at all; it certainly isn’t bland. The production, in particular, is dynamic and pin-sharp, in debt to a broad swath of UK night sounds (dubstep, garage) and digital R&B, the early 21st century’s hegemonic sound.

The results are intriguing, occasionally frustrating, rarely boring.

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.

Their fourth is a satisfying blend of youth and experience, at its best when raw feelings and twenty20-something anxieties chafe against its smooth, midtempo rock.

Sadly, much of the material is generic.

Co-writer Björn Yttling brings some extra zip to the mid-tempo power pop, but you're still left wishing for something a little more revealing and bold.

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.

While Songs of Innocence is more succinct, glossy and nimble than recent U2 outings, there is very little of the rawness, directness or spontaneity of youth to it--and precious little innocence.

[With] excesses as egregious as the half-spoken echoes of Battle Born, the cheese is amped so far that what this really sounds like is the soundtrack to some lost 90s Disney film.

The biggest draw comes in the folk-leaning songs. Beginning with "Apple Carts" and concluding with "The Dancing King" there is an Albarn solo album of sorts here, hidden among the stern runes.

Overall, a mixed bag.

It’s a good job that Rag’n’Bone Man has the kind of righteous roar that could breathe life into the phone book, because this album spools together a set of reliable tropes with little in the way of topspin.

It’s nice to hear them taking a few small risks. Next, it’d be great to see Smith get really wild.

It [the song "I'm a Sinner"] makes you crave her next album, not this one.

Song after song goes by far too slickly, showcasing Grande's good girl technical ability and her songwriters' hit-making formulae at the expense of lasting memories.

Without the tension created by the jerky guitar riffs of Smith’s day job, too much of the material here, particularly towards the album’s end, drifts by forgettably.

Never overstaying its welcome despite its 16-track length, there are little pockets of unadulterated joy peppered throughout, specifically the buzz guitar-laced opener Headspace, and She Loves Anime’s electro-tinged tale of a boy who draws himself the perfect girlfriend.

The Chris Isaak romance of Dark Horse and the dusty space rock of Black Winds are lush enough, but there’s not enough deviation from shtick, enough convincing deviance in this “ode to the dark heart” of the US.

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.

They are at their best on their more epic material, particularly Broken Bells and eight-minute closer The Weight of Dreams, which moves up through the gears from an acoustic intro to a brilliantly overblown Jake Kiszka guitar solo. Elsewhere, however, the material is more pedestrian, and the quieter moments don’t always sit well with Josh’s vocals (default, indeed, only setting: a histrionic screech).

They've retained the late-80s-Mancunian-indie-plus-surf-pop formula, and though that produced some sparkling tunes first time round, now things sound somewhat thin: each lovelorn and drear ditty seems to blend into the next.

An album more likely to inspire admiration than love, then, but still smart enough to deserve plenty of it.

The urgent-sounding "This Day Is Mine" is the pick of their largely impressive full-length debut, the melodic choruses offset by barked vocals and shred guitar. The more restrained "Roads" merely sounds earnestly plodding.

The songwriting is cookie-cutter, resorting too often to hammering, basic riffs and crashing cymbals; the lyrics are banal, frequently descending into woah-ohh-ohh.

The mood darkens further here--Lynch's croon is mired deeper in dirgey, junkyard blues--and it's harder work too, which rather militates against the carefully crafted unease.

If Insano is to be Mescudi’s musical curtain call, it showcases his capacity to attract big names, without delivering on distinctive songs.

It’s impossible to latch on to any of these songs as evidence of any late-period reflowering.