An aptly-named collection that will have even foul-weather fans scratching their heads as to where the pop has gone.

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.

Hooks hit their fleshy mark here and there--'Dead End' is a compulsive, '80s-flavoured high and 'High On The Heels'' clipped acid house proves endearingly gauche--but it's cold comfort on a record that fleshes out a promising template to only diminishing returns.

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

He's spitting distance from a brilliant concept album about love and suburbia, but he keeps pulling back.

This may be a much welcomed return for Lady Sovereign from the wilderness, but in the case of Jigsaw, it would seem that she's missing a few pieces to make this comeback a complete success.

Essentially a homage to The Jackson 5/Michael Jackson, Stevie Wonder and fellow Minnesotan Prince, "The Handler" proves that Har Mar possesses a fine R&B baritone, is an able rapper and pens exceedingly funky, party-primed tunes with a perfect pop core.

It's no pop masterpiece to rival The Beatles, Madonna or Michael Jackson's best. But then again, few things are. If however the bench marks are Aguilera and Pink, it's only fair to say that Ms Hilton or rather her album, holds its own.

Driving yet jaunty guitars abound and backing chants fill the required spaces, yet it all comes across too much like a sub-par parody of their former selves.

Ethical incontinence notwithstanding, Xzibit is an undeniably charismatic vocalist, with a gift for pure, jolting, testosterone-packed aggression that leads to some rather magnificent moments.

While Lasers isn't the equal of its superb predecessors, there's still much here to admire; even though the fact that there isn't quite as much to love is no real surprise.

Though he falls short of wholly convincing, the heart is almost always in the right place: a refreshing change from 99 per cent of those more interested in the image, not the message.

While there's nothing as irresistibly catchy as "Under Rug Swept"'s magnificent "Hands Clean", the overall impression, musically speaking, is one of freshness, optimism and energy. But better still, it's smart, and sussed, and frequently funny as hell.

Many of The Libertines' finer qualities are made all too apparent in their absence on "Down In Albion", none quite so painfully as Carl Barat's Django Reinhardt via Johnny Marr charm with a guitar.

In a number of 'mature' developments to their sound they've laid down impeccably produced horns (see bombastic opener 'World War III'), come within millimetres of salacious classic rock in the excellent "Poison Ivy" (watch out for the implied "bitch" in the chorus!) and, on lead single 'Paranoid,' dispensed a chilled-out post-baggy number.

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

Repeated plays just refuse to reveal hidden depths. There aren‘t any. “Around The Sun” is just a really poor album, probably the first one that this band has ever put out.

His records are not without merit and the better songs here more than deserve to find sizable audiences. But there's no sign that music is going to ever be anything more than an enjoyable sideline for a man whose greatest art continues to be created in other mediums.

Does it offer us an exclusive window into Slash's soul? No. Is it a neat CV and a sneaky way of auditioning the next Velvet Revolver singer? Probably. Like any other mixtape from a friend, listen to it in the car, then stick it in the cupboard under the stairs with the others.

That's the thing about Asleep In The Bread Aisle, it's all about promising potential, rather than the delivery of it.

It's a horribly overlong, confused creation and Aguilera's brash personality and lioness voice are often sacrificed in pursuit of its many different styles. But when its experiments work, she's never sounded so interesting.

Derulo's desperation to cover all commercial bases is only matched by an inability to stamp his own personality on them.

Emergency isn't quite the great leap that was expected but does at least carry a few optimistic signs for the future.

It's not vintage and it doesn't finally deliver what the hype of "Psyence Fiction" promised, but given enough time it's an album you could learn to love.

They’ve returned to the clamorous, powerchord-packed rock of their debut, with the inevitable result that it sounds fixed firmly by the formaldehyde of fashion in mid-90s post-grunge.

The Golden D' is Coxon's second stab at recording the most pointless album of all time and rest assured he's getting there.

This may be the point at which even those well-disposed to the nice and the quirky start to note diminishing returns.

Raises the nu-metal bar by weaving maturity, passion and the craft of songwriting into its steaming pile of passive-aggressive chord chomping.