It’s refreshing to see that the band aren’t content to solely focus on nostalgia trips, and there are some great moments here - the dark driving force of ‘Wyttch’ stands out - but with such a hefty run time, it’s difficult to really tap into the heart of ‘Cyr’.

Wicked Nature goes on for much too long, leaving it just as forgettable as the rest.

‘(self-titled)’ is Vegemite: the same, but different. When he strips it right back - ‘Prior Warning’, with its bleak reminiscing reflected by a sonic hark back to the London scene in which he made his early name, and the stark ‘Dangerous Game’, where Marcus’ voice allowed to linger for just the right amount of time - there’s a warm quality to his songwriting that seeps through.

For listeners craving substance served side-by-side with flash, Lower Dens’ world is one worth exploring. The band may be at their most accessible, but they’re not about to make it easy.

The positives are overshadowed by petulant observations to politics which is hard to take seriously when dire lyrics like "Yabba dabba do one, Son."

There's a lack of progression from previous albums that makes Heavy Mood a bit of a disappointment.

It's just so inoffensive and pleasant sounding that it barely registers.

This debut feels far too uncoordinated, un-moderated and incoherent to do more than dazzle and confuse in equal proportions before leaving the listener to make sense of what just happened.

CocoRosie certainly revel in their unorthodoxy but this doesn’t always make for enjoyable listening; perhaps if their Tales Of A Grasswidow knew how to breathe, their macabre hymns might pack a little more pluck.

A patchy debut effort.

It’s almost as if the record has been pieced together from three parts: first, a series of demos (which may indeed fit with the record having begun its life during the singer’s series of low-key fan-booked gigs throughout 2020); second, a handful of tracks that posit Elias as a scratchy, troubadour Mick Jagger (a look which suits him completely, pun intended); and third, a pair of gorgeously-recorded and perfectly delivered cover versions (Spacemen 3’s ‘Walking With Jesus’, retitled ‘Sound of Confusion’, and Townes van Zandt’s ‘No Place To Fall’). Unfortunately, these follow a series of tracks on which Elias tries on others’ identities a little too obviously.

The beauty lies in the flaws, the imperfections, and A Long Way To Fall is way too immersed in picture perfect punctiliousness for this to make any lasting impression.

Ultimately, ‘Ripped And Torn’ is a little disappointing - its sounds are solid, refined and rehearsed, but feel relatively misguided, with the band seemingly unable to determine exactly where they’re going.

As a whole, it feels slightly temporary and detached, largely thanks to its uneven pacing and experimental streak.

Javelin's sense of ambition is certainly commendable, and despite its shortcomings, Hi Beams still provides some examples of dizzyingly odd pop.

A puzzling, and largely forgettable collection.

The reality though is that your ability to get on board with this record will depend more or less entirely on how you feel about its lyrical content.

Orangefarben has very little distinctly objectionable or sinister about it. There is still the impression that something is lying dormant under the initial cheerfulness, but for those craving true, raw darkess, Baenziger's demons might not rear their heads quite enough.

'Weapons' has no shortage of big choruses, slick production and crunching riffs but is let down by tired lyrics and too many forgettable songs.

Full of campy affectation presented with a shiny flourish, 'Do Things' is not fundamentally a bad album, but the constant happy-go-lucky nonsense, along with the un-imaginative songwriting, just seems a little contrived.

‘Into The Blue’ largely finds itself coasting on one level. The standouts are the songs that break out of the formula.

Where other works were distinctive and refined, These Spirits feels confused and clunky.

For the most part, it’s instead a case of either too much, or not enough. By stripping the layers back and presenting the songs in a wholly straightforward manner - slick, with Julie’s voice centered as if she’s embarking on a perfect three-minute pop song - flaws appear where they shouldn’t exist.

There are a couple of sweet spots on ‘Ice Melt’ in the form of the shimmering ‘Balloon’ and the creamy ending title-track, but not enough to warrant a whole album’s worth of material from what could have easily been shaved down to an EP.

A couple of times they get some wind in their sails, namely ‘War Dance’ and ‘Turned to String’, but the overall feeling from this is that No Age are, ironically, starting to show their years.

We’re left with a contrast that never quite works. Instead, it’s where the concept is applied metaphorically that ‘Van Weezer’ finds some green shoots.

This is a record which will no doubt appeal to long-term fans of the band as it revels in the same sonic territory as their previous output, and it works as a party-starting soundtrack with its simple lyrics and vitality, but there's a distinct lack of any real depth or enterprise.

The supergroup’s self-titled record might feature the dirty rock of the former and the latter’s penchant for synth-led tangents, but by each party’s style rubbing off on the other, they’ve also sanded them down.

Musically confused, frequently lyrically painful (closer ‘Erotic Letter’ needs to be heard to be believed), its ego is so overpowering it ends up as a sweet relief against a backdrop of po-faced, fence sitting peers.

For those open to more electronic sounds, this will likely be a great release and to those who are dubious of change, the band have accounted for that with a handful of numbers that more or less embody their established sound.

‘It Won’t Always Be Like This’ is inexplicably reanimating the era’s penchant for plodding, drive-time indie-rock.

Uninspiring, unexciting, largely forgettable--this is nothing more than Kings of Leon by numbers.

This is an album that sounds like it could've been recorded at any point in the last thirty-odd years.

'Look To The Sky' sees him returning to the spotlight with an album that only fleetingly hints at his past glories.

But like a fine pastiche, the presented elements are enjoyable, but there's a detached lack of soul and ardor.

Fans will hear echoes of his best work, but for most this is a stale, uninspired outing for the legendary figure.

If not already a fan, what would one get out of ‘The Demise of Planet X’ that doesn’t already feature in their back catalogue, beside a few more timely references? Much like the state of the country they wax lyrical about, Sleaford Mods are stuck in a rut.

Theatrical, over-blown, and just a little contrived, any promise of real substance sadly seems to fade after the first four tracks, and never quite returns.

TV Priest's debut is good but not necessarily enough to poke through the maelstrom quiet yet.

Only rarely can the listener form more than an ephemeral bond. ’Keep It Tight’ and ‘Friend Like That’ have an all-for-one gang mentality akin to chats with old friends. Unfortunately, it otherwise feels like watching strangers from across a dance floor.

For all of the frontman's dynamism, he can't save a frustratingly slow, out-of-date computer.

They're drifting between The Killers and Two Door Cinema Club in a sea of meaningless tunes with no depth whatsoever.

Earth might be musically faultless, but it lacks the bite of his day job.

It's punk rock by the numbers.

The band’s strongest assets - three fantastic vocalists in Rebecca Hawley, Emily Lansley and Lucy Mercer, and a focus on tight bass-and-drum grooves - are ever present, but there’s enough sugar in ‘Big Wows’ to make even the sweetest tooth ache.

'Out Of The Black' represents that failure [to push their sound forward].

'Incorruptible Heart' is a frustrating listen. You are left with the sense that there is a brilliant pop group waiting to burst out but for the most part, they are sadly suffocated by the arrangements.

There’s a solid background of obviously skilled musicianship on fifth LP ‘One Man Band’, but even on the snarl of ‘Never Taking Me Alive’, it all feels very safe.

It’s all pleasant, but feels inessential and - at times - dated, not least because the lower-tempo tracks veer dangerously close to sounding like chillwave. Domestication has not robbed Sébastien of his adventurousness, but the killer instinct that defines his best work is missing here: ‘Domesticated’ is a meandering listen.

For while standout ‘These Depopulate Hours’ fizzes with what has made the Glasgow group so inviting in the past - a bubbling menace underpinning everything thanks to a screaming synth - and ‘What Makes You A Man’ employs curious sounds to back its ‘80s influences, it’s not matched by what’s found elsewhere.

In many ways Perpetual Surrender is the average British weather forecast; patchy, dull and cloudy with occasional sunny spells. Room for improvement.

The last third of the record is more streamlined, with the sweeping, subtly metallic ‘Kill Or Be Killed’ offering a welcome throwback to the days when Muse were at their best, but it’s not enough to redeem this all-too-OTT offering.

Much of the album either grates or bores.

A lot of the time Warp & Weft is just very slow, and whilst there are a couple of earworms to be turned up here and there, it's mostly pretty stodgy.

All in all, it's interesting but frustrating in equal measures, however it is sure to please fans who know what they're in for.

The keyboards are the same tones, the chords are similar intervals, the vocals are heartfelt without the lyrics really saying anything, and perhaps most tellingly they don't deliver the goods on a pop hit to rival 'Buck Rogers'.

Specter At The Feast runs out of steam before it runs out of songs. Not a terrible album, just one lacking in inspiration.

Given its significant personal story - not to mention its lofty title - ‘Death & Love Pt. 1’ could have been an opportunity for the band to explore meatier topics of mortality and aging; instead, this feels like a frustratingly safe exercise in walking well-trodden paths.

The range of influences on the album ensures this is a rather uneven listen, unhelped by the cast of vocalists.

The irony is that perhaps in trying to grow old a little too gracefully Jimmy Eat World have lost some of the youthful exuberance that so endeared them to us in those heady days around the turn of the millennia.

It’s as close an approximation of before as they could possibly get - the result of 12 tracks being plopped out of a Black Keys song generator - but, five years down the line, you hope that people will demand more than that.

The issue is that, in conflating deliberation with maturity, ‘Today We’re the Greatest’ ends up feeling a little bit middle-of-the-road.

The majority of the album is not different or progressive enough to be exciting--and it's not enjoyable enough to make up for it.

At times, Tucson feels life an afterthought, lacking in the kinetic intensity and corrosive experimentalism of earlier releases.

So while there's nothing vastly wrong with From The Hills Below The City, there's also nothing vastly right.

At the end of The National Health, you won't be disappointed, but you won't be itching for more.

A more succinct approach to these re-assembled works would have done wonders, though as it stands leaves these ten tracks merely as a curiosity for long-standing Mogwai fans only.

Winding orchestral flights propel ‘Innocent Weight’, in part redeeming an effort that covers little in the way of new ground, while timely lyrical takes command attention yet lack the frequency to shake off neighbouring songs sinking under their own unwieldy mass.

It’s a lot of… well, not much; a studio folly of sorts, (unsurprisingly) impeccable in sound but meandering without direction for the most part.

‘CollXtion I’ posed Allie as an exciting new songwriter, but this record fails to push boundaries in the same way.

Channelling zeitgeisty pop is by no means always a bad thing; but when omitting the earwormy choruses it needs - and removing your own personality in the process, it’s only ever going to fall a bit limp.

Contact is a disappointment because it's packed with untapped potential, which never seems to be fully realised.

‘Unlimited Love’ certainly won’t win over the naysayers. As the laid-back funk and wordplay of ‘Poster Child’ attests, all their usual tropes are present and correct, meaning whatever your view on the Chili Peppers, this record will only confirm it.

Following two discouraging albums, Need Your Light represents another stumble in the New Yorkers’ career. A disappointment.

It’s both over-produced and underwhelming.

The epitome of indie clichés, Drowners have done nothing to break their mould, and On Desire does little to appease the want for something more.

There are a couple of fleeting moments (the chorus of ‘Wait’ is a hooky, soaring thing) that remind you of the unabashed earworms that the Kaisers can produce at their best but, for the most part, Duck is actually a bit of a turkey.

Forget the fact that even at its best moments the album still kind of sounds like a RATM reunion minus Zack de la Rocha, the biggest issue with ‘Prophets Of Rage’ is that it’s not as radical as it thinks it is. Is it competent and confident, energised and engaging? Sure. But there’s nothing new here.

At best, it's eccentricity gone wild--there's no shortage of weird noises creeping in throughout--and at worst, just confusing.

Ultimately Someday World is undeniably disappointing. For something that promised so much and to deliver so woefully little is an injustice to each respective side of the partnership.

Despite opener 'Shape' being a colossal Bjork channelling beauty that comes close to breaking point, the bulk of Interiors is restless but unassuming.

This latest effort is not without its merits but is fundamentally too long, whilst its interludes are a cheap, unnecessary annoyance.

Featuring some fairly rudimentary drumming, and predictable solos, this is the musical equivalent of 'painting-by-numbers'.

It’s all too nice, too safe, and ultimately, too predictable.

On paper, Junto (Spanish for ‘together’) should make for an eclectic, flag-waving affair--but sadly many of its disparate parts blissfully miss the mark.

Perhaps it’s even a more accessible album for smoothing off the edges and toning down the vitriol, but it’s also largely forgettable in a way that Frank Turner’s best could never be accused of.

Instead of its wide-eyed optimism rubbing off onto others, this album has the effect of canned laughter bouncing off the walls. It’s a hundred nutritional yoghurts being mushed into bland liquid nothingness.

Without close inspection, without consistent rotation it does every bit as good a job at sounding fast and heavy as anyone could be expected to. It’s just hard to know what makes it Creative Adult and what, despite shouting so very loud, it wants to actually say.

Transfixiation, named appropriately, demands a trance-like attention across its duration, but very little sticks once the ride is over.

There's little doubt that Mudhoney intend this to be an obtuse, difficult listen--the lyrical allusions to GG Allin certainly suggest as much--but its lackadaisical approach leaves it feeling toothless rather than effortlessly cool.

'Mauve' isn't a bad album. It's competently made, it's mixed pretty well. It's done well. But it's been done before, and better.

Not only safe, Music Complete serves to dilute New Order’s output.

The Silver Gymnasium lacks some of whatever it was that made previous albums like 'Black Sheep Boy' and 'The Stage Names' so special.

For the majority of tracks, they succeed in their goals. It’s only when looking back at the whole picture, somehow the pieces don’t quite appear to fit.

Branching out musically is a bold step that pays off in flashes, but the riff work in ‘Welcome to Hell’ and ‘Jailbird’’s brief guitar solo confirm that, at heart, Crocodiles are strongest with guitars in hand.

In an age where any era of music is within a second’s grasp, The Lemon Twigs’ reliance on nostalgia is at best dated; at worst, pure laziness.

While there’s a certain amount of showmanship--he’s certainly still got skills--more often than not it sounds like he’s simply going through the motions.

Not a lot on Spreading Rumours makes sense. It doesn't match, even in its apparent desperate attempt to sound like the bargain bin of an Urban Outfitters.