Unfortunately, most of it sounds like Jason Williamson jogged into a pillar box. The guest musicians include David Yow and Jamie Cullum, a VIP list that draws attention to IDLES' own inadequacy. IDLES' by-numbers rock plod has none of the sensitive jazz swing of The Jesus Lizard nor can it match the unhinged ferocity of Cullum at his most feral. ... Three albums in and the hype has died down. The ideas are drying up. The lack of substance is wholly exposed.

Not only does Sweet Heart Sweet Light hit all patented Spiritualized thematic buttons squarely between the eyes – religion, drugs, sickness and redemption – it is also a record that covers everything with a Wyoming sized scoop of full-fat icky sentiment.

The problem here isn't Dr Luke smothering Marina's idiosyncracies so much as Marina/Electra herself crafting them into something paper-thin and paper-cut annoying.

The World We Left Behind is, on a purely artistic level, the worst album released under the Nachtmystium banner. The major issue is that it lacks the creativity, the devilish glint, and the poisonous confidence that Judd previously injected (no pun intended) into Nachtmystium, his personal vehicle for experimentation and excess.

Ultimately, this is a celebration, rather than an analysis, of several species of awfulness.

There's certainly scant magic here.

For everything else there's Coldplay: reliable, built to move, and able to run on hot air alone.

I hated this kind of Lemonheads-lite, floral-dressed, clompety-booted, neurotic ninny inanity the first time round, I have absolutely no idea how anyone could be arsed to expend the (admittedly small) effort it takes to produce such a pointless photocopy ... [but] not even I can find it in my bitter heart to hate the Nickelodeon-Dinosaur Jr bounce of "Georgia" or the honey-toned amble of "Suicide Policeman".

The covers portion is entirely without merit, Turner having managed to extract every last atom of enjoyment from every single one of the songs he's chosen.

It opens with a piano motif that could’ve come straight from Chris Martin’s candle-scented fingers. The matching vocals are so annoyingly whispered, they practically qualify as ASMR. Halfway through, the song changes tack and starts courting the modern market for anxiety pop. ... More specifically, it makes you think, “Does this sound like a needy Mercury Rev, a ham-fisted Grandaddy, or Wings without the easy-going self-awareness?

Not only are the concepts themselves reductive and half-baked and the lyrics risibly clumsy, but the songs appear to have been composed in less time than it actually takes to perform them.

Yet for all their bluster of writing anthems for a new generation and saving guitar music, the reality is little more than a damp squib.

Lousy With Sylvanbriar is a drab, insufferably uninteresting album.

The Flaming Lips and Heady Fwends is a flatulent folly, humming with the sulphurous reek of self-indulgence.

On Confess his tired, joyless music and moribund, hackneyed and hankey lyricism suggests a man whose concept of romanticism would go nicely with a Nairn cracker and dab of quince jelly.

Another eleven baseless mehs that belong nowhere else than on a blog that no one reads.

This new material represents not only their most heinous effort to date; it might in fact be among the most appalling things to ever exist, empirically speaking.