This is a very capable attempt to update that swoonable sound, and the arrangements do offer a few contemporary touches.

It is not a substantial offering, nor does it plough a new furrow--but it is a buzz.

It's often barely there, notably the final minutes of "Lux 4". This is musical homeopathy.

Although it is both loud and quiet, it neither rocks nor swings.

Save Rock and Roll features unexpected excursions into rave-pop, and numerous celebrity cameos, but enough airbrushed pop-punk to prove they haven't forgotten which side their bread's buttered.

Recorded in Hollywood, which figures - there is a near-visual sense of overstatement to the bleakness.

Enough promise here to keep listening.

Their festival-friendly rap-rave-metal goes "the-generation-that-are-going-to-change-the-world" political.

Ward's at his best when he ditches the troubadour formula, as on the glam-pop romp he takes through Daniel Johnston's "Sweetheart".

Most of the beloved Feat features are featured.

It's two-thirds pretty good, all the same.

It's a shame the God-bothering pomp of John Legend collaboration "The Believer" spoils it all at the end.

Suggests and afternoon in Ikea. Snorbital.

Slipstream is welcome, despite large portions of it sounding generic to the point of self-parody: funky, strolling, sunny California blues-rock with lashings of soul.

Well, they were demos once; and here they are, in all their functional glory.

It is derivative and woebegone and its musical twists are seldom hard to predict, but it is also finely crafted and devoid of the phoniness which can make such works unbearable.

Nice is the word.

When he shuts up, and lets the shambling jangle and daydreamy exotica take over, it's great. When he sings, it's murder.

Bracing stuff.

Just when the world is no longer particularly bothered about a new Arctic Monkeys record, they've finally released one worth being bothered about – at least in parts.

An almost comically deep, rich baritone croon, it carries echoes of Scott Walker, Nick Cave, Elvis Presley and, more prosaically, the guy from Crash Test Dummies.

Spalding tries to breathe new life into the dead form of smooth jazz-fusion. And nearly succeeds.

Lakeman writes, sings, plays, produces and mixes, which may or may not explain the rather dry, stoney sound of the album and the rhythmic forthrightness of the playing.

The ballads will be the tracks from Little Red to own the charts for the foreseeable future, but it’s on the 5am dancefloor that Katy B’s second album will score its biggest impact.

Ultraviolence is more of the same, but less.

[In French] it's beguiling and sexy. When she crosses the Channel and sings in English, she's a ten-a-penny kook-merchant.

Over rudimentary backing beats, in that "ya feel me?" accent, his humour often hits the spot. However, the going-through-Customs skit, followed by a track about having his urine tested at the airport, is as tedious as it is righteous.

What We Saw..., then, is the usual Spektorish mixed bag of literate genius and "look at me" showboating.