In a nutshell this is The Beatles most average album with some of the fluff removed.

So despite the new outlook and lofty declarations, why does 'Falcon' fail to take off? The fault lies partly in Fray's parochial outlook.

What remains... is a jerky, cocksure indie group striving to be accepted as a proper grown-up Southern Rock band, without the guts, depth or tunes to carry it off.

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

This "Baby…" is bloated and bursting from its nappies - and that goes for the songs as well as duration.

The mixed messages are infuriating, and the complete lack of soul or identity perplexing.

Really, this isn't really a Run DMC album, they're just guests on it.

You’d believe this was a “Weird Al” Jankovic record had you tuned in halfway through.

There are no surprises or unexpected turns and the overall dearth of spontaneity ensures an empty and shallow experience.

While A Place To Bury Strangers are obviously still in awe of the original shoegaze crowd, Exploding Head is a step towards sounding unique.

These pop-centric cuts are, however, where Snoop seems most comfortable, if not most talented.

She undoubtedly has a great record or two in her. This, sadly, isn't one of them.

Worst of all, it turns out that commercially-minded dubstep is--perhaps inevitably--a much weaker prospect than its club counterpart.

Trouble is, despite the band's concerted efforts to beef up and broaden their schtick with a radio-friendly production, too many aspects scream "novelty act".

It sounds as if the band's batteries are steadily running out. Confidence ebbs, emotions run flat, the songs become more and more inconsequential.

It's not just that 'Love Sex Magic' is the highlight, it's Fantasy Ride's only saving grace.

We should laud Young for taking such risks at this stage of his career but 'Greendale' sounds like the sort of small town you spend your whole life running from. Or the place you go to retire.

What it all adds up to is an effective commercial album, littered with potential singles, taking few risks and adding little to hip hop culture.

With “Human After All” the pair are running both on the spot and out of ideas. In making an album comprised of nothing but their stylistic tics – the over-used Vocoder/pitch bender, the monstrously compressed acid squelches, the crunchy, rock guitar motifs – Daft Punk are like a celebrity chef who serves up nothing but his signature dish. Soon, you’ll stop eating in his restaurant.

There is, however, nothing that remotely touches the pop genius of 'Can't Get You Out Of My Head' and, by the halfway mark, the album's sagging badly.

These half-arsed stabs at nu-AOR end up pleasing no one, least of all the band itself.

It's a workmanlike and often wearisome ambition that proves the record's undoing, which leaves The Secret Machines V2.0 sounding less the stadium-psych messiahs and more like a trio of very naughty boys.

Bloated over-produced soft rock.

So there it is, bizarre, world-weary, beautiful, touching, self-indulgent but never, never dull ? at least not until at least nine minutes into 'Like A Possum'.

The results are hit-and-miss.

The Ecleftic' just tries to please too many people, open up too many markets, and simply ends up diluting the sound in which it purports to be rooted.

Perhaps it's just that the rest of the songs aren't up to scratch, but this album is a simple case of diminishing returns--what appeared carefree and sparkly-eyed to begin with feels more and more calculated as you go on, what first seemed endearing ends up feeling a little irritating.

It's, well, a thoroughly professional record. And therein lies the problem. Method Man, perhaps more than any other Wu-Tang member bar ODB, has personality to burn, and trying to force it into a box fit for any other hit rapper is an impossible task.