As such it's not so much a bad record as a weirdly redundant one: four talented, passionate musicians do a perfectly reasonable job of making a record that sounds a good deal like vintage Springsteen, but fail to really leave their own mark on the music.

Mojo sees Petty steep himself in Americana again, adopt a live-in-the-studio feel, and generally rock out. The results are initially quite perky, as the band crash and charge through songs, but after a couple of plays everything becomes rather dull.

As morose meditations on the miseries of fame go, it comes across like a rap version of Woody Allen's Stardust Memories or Deconstructing Harry.

Whether or not the addition of Burrows is solely responsible for the improvement in consistency on this fourth album isn't clear, but Barbara is their best work by far. Current fans will be glad and new ones may be easier to come by.

Harcourt is a singer of uncommon charm, and Lustre is a welcome reminder that when he's on top of his game--which he is for roughly half the record--you'll want for little else.

Her songs fall easily on the ear, her rhyming schemes are adroit and she writes intelligently on serious subjects.

This utterly unnecessary but partially satisfying "complete" (says the sticker on the sleeve) singles collection manages to fall at the first hurdle by not including their first (and best) 12" from debut album Definitely Maybe, the shameless cocaine elegy Columbia.

Ultimately it's so much less than it could have been, given the talent involved.

Still, it’s a largely terrific return that retains all of the weirdness and edge of their debut but allows the tunes to win through at the expense of unnecessary glitch and red-raw distortion.

This is a firecracker of an album, no doubt about that--but its longevity is appropriately limited, its stretch across the hardcore spectrum deliberately hamstrung.

Teenage Fanclub's first album since 2005's Man-Made, coming so soon after the death of Alex Chilton, has the warmth and poignancy of a tribute, even if writing and recording was all wrapped up by then.

Consequently and unlike most covers records, If I Had a Hi-Fi (which, rather neatly, is a palindrome) sounds wonderfully fresh and easy, but also yields some unexpected pop trinkets.

The biggest criticism that can be labelled at White Crosses is that its best two songs are its first two â?? a politely rousing title-track that sheds its skin at the first chorus, followed by lead-off single I Was a Teenage Anarchist. The latter handily epitomises everything that people liked about Against Me! in the first place â?? a brightly intelligent polemic, only this time itâ??s trained on the close-minded futility of scenester punks.

In fact, every track on this superb album is a winner--and, draped in the quiet glamour, fun and stateliness of bygone radio pop-rock, evidence that Ariel has emerged from his bedroom to exact his revenge on Hollywood's Hills.

It's at once a work of larger ambition and greater focus than its predecessor, beginning brilliantly and continuing in the same manner for its entire length.

For the most part, this is a fine debut and speaks of even finer things to come.

It's not the album that will define Deer Tick as a force in their own right, or McCauley as a songwriter on a par with his heroes, but The Black Dirt Sessions is the best set yet from this still-rising quintet.

Peggy Sue have firmly moved from kooky and wonky soul-smith-stresses to blazing a path through fully realised songs waging war with life.

Nevertheless, what the album lacks in depth, it more than makes up for in the length and breadth of Weller's imagination.

There was always the hope amongst their fanbase that the band might give up on their commercial dreams, instead ploughing the oddness that always set them apart from the pack. Album number four delivers on that hope.

Rokstarr bounces to a beat that feels fresh and vibrant.

The Bride Screamed Murder, you see, all works when it really shouldn't, demonstrating once again just how the Melvins can somehow ensure their own very special brand of weird never quite becomes the norm.

Should he ever stretch himself as a musician the results could be fascinating – think The Beach Boys before Pet Sounds, and what they felt capable of afterwards – but right now he's operating in a comfort zone that should guarantee continued commercial success.

See You on the Moon’s mid-tempo anthems hover with a decorative shimmer that matches their wispy bedsit sentiments.

Sleepy Sun aren’t above dispelling the perceptions of over indulgence, and they may always be tarred thus, but Fever at least proves there’s a renewed clarity to go with the lozenge-smooth lethargy, even if it isn’t totally clearheaded.

A bewildering but fun bedlam seems to be their default setting, if the first half-dozen or so tracks are anything to go by.

This album doesn’t bristle with the sonic daring of Dangerfield’s usual work; instead, it offers love songs, largely unadorned with stylistic quirks or brash arrangements, a document of a life pulling into focus.

These 11 tracks wisely elect not to outstay their welcome, ensuring that repeat experiences are enjoyable, if not markedly memorable.