This factory runs on goodwill. In less cataclysmic times the exercise might be mawkish, and while a cover of Lean On Me is well-meant it feels a little like eating too much cake icing.

Chaosmosis is not an explosive comeback, but it does at least contain flickers of the band’s lysergic disco-punk magic.

The result is both shamelessly derivative and gloriously entertaining. [Jul 2013, p.88]

It's a pleasant enough album, but not a crucial one. [Jan 2020, p.85]

What it lacks is a pulse-quickening ‘showcase track’ – a Fire And Water, a Mr Big, a Running With The Pack, a Burning Sky… a (to continue the 12 o’clock theme) Midnight Moonlight, even. It’s all rather countrified and subdued. [Oct 2023, p.84]

The Anglophile lingo (‘He’s such a dear boy’), opiated nursery drawl and woozy organ of Charlie’s Lips is deep in homage to Barrett’s Floyd, just as the Hammond in You Never Learn is to Al Kooper on ’65 Dylan duty. More interesting is the tendency to trancey, transformative repetition on the likes of the autobiographical, sick-bed sweaty Little Stars.

Strip away all the sumptuous studio texture and these lyrics--about savage love, violence and revolution--are sodden with adolescent gothpunk cliché. But this scarcely matters when the future arena anthems Magnetized and We Never Tell hit their stride: lusty, energised and refreshingly shallow.

Universal platitudes makes Ricochet feel like Disney-fied protest compared to some of the thornier acts and topics grabbing headlines right now, but there's no denying the message of unity is on point. There's a maturity to Ricochet's sound. [Sep 2025, p.81]

The Residents are just as tricky and bewildering and (occasionally) irritating as they ever were.

It feels retro, a description you can bet Flat Worms would be proud of.

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]

While this ninth starts well it ultimately nags 'could do better'. And they have. [May 2023, p.81]

A mixed bag of variable results, then, though Reid’s voice remains consistently magnificent throughout.

His new album is also self-penned, with mixed results.

This slender exercise in flimsy whimsy boasts plenty f charm but few substantial songs. [Jun 2021, p.78]

They're clearly having a blast, in every sense - there's enough noirish sarcasm to make that clear - but there's also a punk nihilism at play that makes this debut album a compellingly unsettling listen. [Sep 2025, p.77]

The ultra-catchy pop-punk of old is there in spades, but they're taking a cold hard look at America on This Is Not Utopia. ... Not all gambles pay off. ... A fun romp with a serious undercurrent. [May 2021, p.91]

A fun album, but one in need of trimming and extra heft. [Aug 2022, p.69]

Punk can be a relative term, especially when applied to California. In comparison to The Pogues, Flogging Molly sound more like The Nolans. In fact, the Saw Doctors are nearer the mark. But all their rousing expat energy, best heard on The Hand Of John L Sullivan, can’t disguise a controlled finesse.

High Flyin' is fine, a romp, a moment captured in time. ... It remains more a curiosity than a necessity, though. [Jun 2023, p.82]

Occult Architecture is pleasing enough, if a little deodorised at times.

It's still awesome, of course, just don't expect to enjoy it. [May 2013, p.85]

Alas, by front-loading the album with the kind of numbers U2 would be proud of--witness Reverend--Walls grinds to a halt in tedious balladry, rather than scaling new heights.

If you compare this to past triumphs like Come My Fanatics and Dopethrone--albums that pushed doom metal into heavier and more joyously drug-addled territory than ever before--Wizard Bloody Wizard falls a spliff or two short of the mark.

They need just a little more musical and emotional grit to avoid fully surrendering to pastel-shaded midlife mellowness. [Jun 2021, p.76]

A solid addition to the canon, but not quite a classic.

Thomas might have this new album down as the James Gang teaming up with Tangerine Dream, but PU exist in a world their own, one that bears only passing resemblance to reality.

This is feeble stuff, more Benny Hill than Russell Brand. When they hit the target, The Darkness are untouchable, but too much of Pinewood Smile feels like a half-hearted wank when it should have been a mighty ear-shafting.