We Started Nothing sounds exuberant and chiefly concerned with pleasing itself. Which--as is always the way--only makes it more pleasing to others.

Buy into the notion that The Teenagers are in fact a satirical comment on the "Shockwaves Generation", and this is a dry, impeccably observed album, closer in spirit to Arab Strap than any of the nu-rave favourites.

Charmingly forgettable.

It's genuinely sad to note that "Everything's The Rush" sounds a little too much like hard work.

If not a beginning to end classic album, it's full of potential classic tracks.

A drab and depressingly familiar proposition.

An entirely satisfying sophomore effort.

While great songs is something “Waiting For The Sirens’ Call” obviously lacks, it’s still a cracking New Order album - albeit one performed by a group all pushing 50 and mostly written about Bernard Sumner’s yacht.

They now have more in common with Jane's Addiction and the Red Hot Chili Peppers than they do their former mentors Papa Roach.

It's blatant commercial product, something for everyone.

'Golden State' is easily the band's most accomplished record and should stand as one of the best British rock albums of 2001.

The Time Of Our Lives is a great pop EP drowning in a sea of bilge.

It's a mixed bag certainly and while nothing else here scales the heights of the single that's made his name thus far, there are plenty of moments of pop confection steered with a degree of sophistication to suggest he's more than a one trick pony.

There are a batch of mighty tunes here, and a sound that, while hardly de rigour, melds some of rock's freshest, brightest lights to their own street-wise, archetypal city swagger and 'Mockney' wit.

Crucially, if you stick with a formula, the least you can do is improve it. Unfortunately "Chuck" doesn’t and there’s nothing that’s even remotely equal to "Fat Lip" or "All Messed Up".

It's hard to imagine how Hands All Over could have been any more underwhelming. In truth the only exceptional thing about it is just how average it is.

The full band approach seems to weigh things down so heavily you can almost see the red welts on the shoulders of its two leaders.

Why the hell is Ronson being applauded as a wunderkind for basically recycling big beat and hiring some horns?

Only by The Night will undoubtedly sell bucketloads but there's no escaping the fact that creatively, Kings Of Leon have stalled.

Ultimately fails to capture or update the magickal mysticism of the music it seeks to draw from.

He is unrepentantly romantic throughout the album, though never quite twee or overbearing, which is quite a balancing act.

His tenuous grasp on reality and good taste slips and he plummets into a tawdry, gratuitous and self-congratulatory flurry of misogyny, expletives and reggae.

Therein lies the danger of building an iconic persona on your current obsessions and an unerring belief in everyone else's interest in your thoughts. When it hits gold, it's magnetic; when judgement lapses, the convictions seem tired.

Put simply, this is B-Movie rock: from the death rattle vocals, to the clichéd riffs and hackneyed subject matter.

Mostly, Donkey is undone by a dearth of really memorable, infectious tunes.

[A] slick, silly and thoroughly entertaining album.

There is an exploration outside of archetypal Girls Aloud territory on their latest offering but it barely steers too far from their recipe for success.

At its best “The Silent Hours” is a robust, reasonably straight ahead rock record and at its worst, a lumpen, forgettable distraction.