Wildheart impresses in parts, and Miguel’s vocals are a thing to behold. For the most part, however, it’s a record that struggles to fully hold your attention.

It’s not to say that English Graffiti is musically incompetent, though their impulse to borrow eighties nostalgia is more akin to that of perusing your relative’s baby boomer collection instead of following your cool uncle’s guidance.

It can sound almost laborious in its structural directness mixed with its lyrical opacity.

It’s certainly one of the edgier twee recordings in recent years, almost an oxymoron in itself, one that falls short on its promise to channel its internal chaos with sprightly reminiscence.

While California Nights doesn’t offer a more sophisticated version of Best Coast so much as a blander one, the heightened ambition of the songwriting and production could be an important step forward for the band.

Kindred’s arrangements are a heap of disjointed sound fragments glued into a form that exists solely to support the glossy veneer.

For whatever faults lie within the grooves of Hexadic, the cards were at least interestingly dealt.

Kintsugi is unfortunately as bland as they come, and no good amount of mourning, sonorous guitars can excuse the fact it’s becoming increasingly difficult to find a relatable common ground in Gibbard’s repressed impulses.

There are times in which The Ark Work sounds aimless in spite of its slight technical achievements, yielding a sensory overload of strobing compositions channeled with unrestrained imagination.

All We Are has potential, but it's squandered on their debut in an attempt to make a spacey, moody soundtrack.

The “that's life” solemnity that throbs in Vestiges quickly fizzles into a series of narrative incoherent niceties, and becomes a far more rewarding listen when lyrical fragments are taken out of context.

Restarter is still quite a strong sludge-metal album that can stand strong with many of their peers, but it’s sad to see them sacrifice much of what made them stand out so strongly from them in the process to merely become one of them.

Somehow, because Uptown Funk is so, so good, Uptown Special is even more disappointing.

Always professional, but rarely memorable, What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World, much like its fudge of a title, ultimately balances out as a fairly middling work.

What Nights possesses in skillful precision and tight musicianship it lacks in songwriting polish, though it’s easy to dismiss when it hits you with its triumphant highs.

It’s largely inoffensive and bland, with a few above average moments, and has a tendency to fade into the background.

Grohl and Co. have celebrated the veins of American rock music from coast to coast, but their fear of over-administering each city’s sonic roots into their own blueprint has hindered the progression of Sonic Highways into a cohesive unit, and instead resulted in a challenging listen.

What we find with Tough Love is an album just as conceptually focused as Devotion, yet too willing to waste Ware’s sophisticated emotionality on tracks with no depth or purpose to them.

Listen is set to force you into either accepting the band’s new identity or hitting upon the realisation that the band you originally fell in love with have moved on.

El Pintor isn’t a rekindling of old fires, more so a chilled, mutual acceptance from a band that is letting things roll as smoothly as can be.

It’s an incredibly well-observed, poignant look at what it means to be Jenny Lewis right now, yet lacks the indefinable quality to make it a classic.

It needs a more tangible emotional charge. What it most sorely lacks is spontaneity.

Less a statement on White Lung’s potential than its ability to rush through an album, through its attempts at relentlessness, Deep Fantasy underwhelms.

The record lacks vision, direction, clarity.

Careers can be perceived as a step backwards, or as an opportunity for Citron to find her voice, even though it may not make that much of a difference considering there’s very few variations in the tradition they dutifully follow.

Though charmingly lo-fi and sure to satisfy any enamoured female fan, most of these tracks drag on too long without any payoff.

In Conflict is either one of those records which invite thoughtful criticism, with the repeated phrasings and imagery occurring throughout the record (not to mention the swooningly lush orchestrations) suggesting vast rabbit warrens in Pallett’s psyche worth considering, or render it entirely pointless, given that it seems set on creating something immaculate, and then mercilessly deconstructing its creator.

One or two irritations apart, Teleman have created something on a shoestring budget that intrigues enough to demand attention; there’s a way to go before they explode but Breakfast certainly represents a solid start.