Chunky but not over-egged at 14 tracks, Bury Me In My Boots is packed with honed tunes, new ideas and loveable old tricks.

Retro rock with rage and aspiration. Follow that, Astley.

Ready To Die suggests Iggy is anything but. [Jun 2013, p.90]

While Showdown and the Lennon cover feel almost jaunty in their lightness of touch, his cover of Guns N’ Roses’ Patience is a broody, brooding acoustic ballad, lonely and haunting.

Alcohol And Cocainemarijuananicotine, is borderline endearing, while Love Thyself reminds us that Taylor-Taylor can still write pop hooks whenever he can be bothered. [May 2024, p.77]

By-the-book, yes, but still a page-turner.

It’s not all hits--there’s the borderline derivative glam-metal of Two Birds, and the wholly less arresting pop-punk of Side Effects--but this is loud, proficient punk rock which should leave even the most curmudgeonly listener fist-punching with glee.

Temples' fourth leaps from the speakers tapping veins of electro-psych, hypno-kosmische and soft-focused unreality. [May 2023, p.81]

Kudos to Pure Love for taking a ludicrous concept of comedy commercialism and successfully straightening its face. [Feb 2013, p.95]

[The album] runs from garage rock to impressive reggae-tinged fuzzstompers. [Sep 2013, p.93]

A lot of this record sounds like Psalm 69 if you turned the drum machine to the ‘Blur’ setting, a snarling hyperspeed punkdustrial vomitorium of choppy samples and churning metal riffs. It’s not all armed audio warfare, though.

There’s an intimate warmth glowing throughout the 20 tracks on these two discs as Steve audibly lives every subtle nuance he sings or plays, maybe still with some disbelief that he’s now able to headline Wembley Arena by his lonesome self.

Stripped of the sonic chaos of Mastodon and ATD-I, the rhythm section are free to just let go and pummel, proving a perfect foil for Sanders’ caveman roar. Meanwhile, the frequent quieter, more considered moments, such as the creeping, ghostly Dublin, have an underlying sense of spaced-out dread.

Anyone not expecting a retread of his former glories will find enough here to enjoy. [Summer 2018, p.90]

Long-overdue, and quite delightful footnote to San Fran's illustrious rock history. [Dec 2018, p.87]

Rundgren tricks abound in the sonics--he’s a master of the synth and the Beach Boys chorus, but the overall mood is on point.

The winners prove to be the moments where the participants hold back on the bombast to groove. ... Alas, Stevie Wonder’s Higher Ground suffers from heavy-handedness, a fate that awaits I Just Want To Make Love To You. Not quite a harvest for the world but no spoilt crops either.

Thanks to the band’s own accumulated expertise and the masterly stitching qualities of Danger Mouse, it’s a tightly woven affair, never messy or maudlin or self-indulgent; a dreamcoat of many colours, a marble rye of genres.

Lowery's man-child playfulness feels overly mannered at times, but the album settles down in its latter half. [Sep 2014, p.91]

This lone soldier is at his best when the cavalry arrives, with Jagger honking on a languid You Di The Crime, and Keef tussling with Jeff Beck over a fine Cognac. [Summer 2018, p.89]

It makes sense with the book on your lap, but otherwise, the album may not convince. The acoustics are peculiar on tracks like Pride and the vocal mic seems compressed, rather than expansive. Something to do with surrender, perhaps. What remains of it, when you give yourself away. [May 2023, p.80]

predictable guests like Royal Blood, Biffy Clyro and Slipknot's Corey Taylor deliver disappointingly straight, dutifully respectful covers. Fortunately, artists less bound by metal convention fare better. ... The album's less celebrated deep cuts also encourage adventurous reworkings. [Sep 2021, p.84]

Strange Fruit is a nervy choice, respectfully done. Like most of the record, it's also pretty redundant. [Summer 2013, p.92]

Though the record’s real strength is the deft vocal interplay between Elsenburg and Jana Carpenter, who imbues things with a new sense of depth and, on Chasing Horses and the achingly lovely Tyrekickers, a nuanced sensitivity.

Songs From The Black Hole is unlikely to mean much to anyone not already dialled in to Prong’s gnarled, existentialist world view, but it’s difficult to begrudge them this indulgence. [Jun 2015, p.92]

Ghost hammers Merseybeat into grotesque new shapes and closer Easily Misbled, an elegant mariachi acoustic noir, is a refreshing respite. But too much here is sub-Dinosaur Pile-Up slush, dredged, ironically, from Britrock’s bottom end.

A must-buy, if only for the brilliant soap-opera twist of watching Johnny Borell rise from the ashes. [Nov 2018, p.81]

They approach this fourth album with typical irreverence. [Jan 2019, p.89]