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.