A rock-solid album that improves with each listen.

All too often the guitar-led tracks expose their limitations.

There's precious little here not to like, and it's as satisfying an experience as any of the ambient survivors have produced in years.

Basically, this is a fantastic band releasing twelve brilliant songs, and it's not only the best guitar album you'll ever hear with no guitars on it, it's one of the best this year generally.

It feels like a mix-tape or compilation, an in-joke or doodle between the participants rather than a completed work for public consumption.

So, while this might not be Tricky at his total best, it may well be the best you're likely going to get out of him.

Badly Drawn Boy's been sketchy before, but never quite this artless.

There's nothing that catchy here - Manson seems to have used all his best hooks already. But it's not terrible, and it sounds good LOUD.

But this album isn't just really gratingly saccharine, yet simultaneously bland, it's wilfully so.

'Chops' isn't wholly disastrous, but it's all too often a reminder that, for roughly his first decade onstage, Childs was an infuriatingly insular and mildly indulgent performer, and it now appears that he was able to make such genuinely fantastic records in spite of that because of the healthy influence of his band-mates.

There is little to recommend here.

A totally modern album that manages to nearly ignore his wilful, malicious past and embrace the California smog/sun with a polished fervour that is almost nauseating to witness.

For anyone with even half a hankering for electronic heaven, this is non-stop introspective wonderland.

This album, if it came from a newcomer, could kill a career stone dead.

Hidden amongst the bilge, there are six proper songs here, with words and everything. But they only serve to prove how erratic Belle And Sebastian have become.

‘America’s Sweetheart’ throbs, chugs, thunders, blasts, romps, rants and rocks.

A little wanting.

This album is just a purer distillation, a more joyous exaggeration of the smaller, more tasteful thrills offered by every posturing indie rock band out there.

While there are some moments of greatness (the menacing, psychedelic 'Dog Sleep', the mournful, pretty 'Don't Cry That Way'), the majority of this double album is dull, turgid and instantly forgettable.

The problem is that I Created Disco goes on for nearly an hour and barely changes tack once.

Iggy's own production fails to lift it out of the nu-metal quagmire - sometimes the perfectly executed power chords and unimaginative guitar licks feel every bit as raw and dangerous as Bowie's Tin Machine farrago.

Resembles nothing more than a U.S. major label executive’s idea of what dance music should sound like.

How anyone can describe Leeds' The Music as a "best new band" is beyond me. Unless they're over fifty, sport a footballer's perm and weep at Almost Famous.

Excruciating, toe-curling Pain, the sort that makes you want to leap through windows or run over children.

Now we see. It is all clear. DMX believes what they say in Def Jam board meetings. He actually believes that what Mr Budden and Just Blaze did earlier this year is what one should do in hip-hop right now - meaning, shout popular thug slogans over irritatingly OTT beats for an hour or so.

On first listen 'Harmonies For The Haunted' seems slight enough to be a collection of b-sides and discarded songs from the first album.

Yes, it's eclectic and he hasn't just slapped together a ragbag of Ibeefa anfums, but this record essentially suffers from a lack of ambition.

This album oozes wackiness.