'In Your Honour' is as rancid and moribund and as redundant of ideas as it is possible to be.

Experimental it ain't, but this summer in a shiny flat box it is.

While there's some fresh experimenting and choral loveliness, it sounds formulaic and tired by Electrelane's standards.

If you're bored of 'Danger! High Voltage' like us, there's plenty to plunder, though ultimately you'll be filing this album away in your "don't play anymore" library after Echobelly and before Electric Soft Parade.

The album is a parasite, a pollutant, and should be kept well away from children and old people.

While the record lacks any of [Queens of the Stone Age's] belligerent twisted rock weirdness they have definitely pumped up the Good Charlotte-style teen anthem choruses.

Staunch fans won't be disappointed, but it's hard to envisage new ears pricking up on hearing 'Octopus' woeful musings.

It feels too clinical, icy cold, almost sterile.

Blueberry Boat is a frustrating, niggling, great idea of a record.

'Fatherfucker' is one motherfucker of an album.

So while Hamilton Leithauser believes he's made a record comparable to the legendary 'The Basement Tapes', it seems almost churlish to point out that you'd be far better off digging out a copy of 'The Basement Tapes' and listening to it, than going out and purchasing 'A Hundred Miles Off' and listening to it once.

Unfortunately a lot of the record falls a wee bit flat.

Fischerspooner might be harking back to a more colourful age, but '#1', more than any other album apart from, perhaps, 'Original Pirate Material' is very much The Sound Of Now.

Turns out what the world was waiting for really was those that saved guitars finally making a record that truly reaped the rewards of their efforts. Is this it? OH GOD YES!

'The King Of Nothing Hill' manages to effortlessly stir a Trans Atlantic cauldron of retro flavours, sleazy soul, avant-garde darkness, soundtrack cool, breaks, head nodding jazz sophistication and electronica sus.

Far too often, 'Wiretap Scars' feels limp, lifeless, bereft of dynamics.

The Champs' music is so exhilaratingly, grin-inducingly, fist-shakingly wonderful you cannot help but want more. VI delivers in spades.

The cool thing about Solex's sampledelia is that she can do it with humour and still avoid the high-frequency buzzing, 60s hi-fi demonstration records and bongwater bubble traps.

If you are the sort of person who thinks of cannabis in terms of how much you smoke a day rather than how much you smoke in a month or a year, then you are going to like this album very much indeed.

If there's one thing that unites 'Illuminated By The Light' it's how sweaty a vibe it gives off.

However, despite all the smarty-pants ideas, let's be clear on one thing. You FEEL this on a GUT level, because 'Untilted' packs a punch that rips through your speakers.

They have made this album many times before and one assumes they will make it many times again.

However essential it was to make, it just doesn't feel essential enough to keep on hearing.

It nods in so many directions that our heads should be spinning, but the gel in the system is a linear production ethic that weaves the threads whilst keeping it refreshingly rough.

With a secret nod and a flick of an amulet, JJ72 have wandered into Mercury Rev's sacred ground of mystical contemplation.

Somehow Blink 182 have captured the space created by Green Day.

This might be quality above innovation, but it’s also maturity above cliché, and above all, passion over cynicism.

Not only is Folds singing better than ever, and not only is his song-writing oozing confidence - but the musician in him is also at the peak of his powers; the piano playing is just mesmerising.