Frequently, it sounds like the band have spent most of that time labouring to make their fifth album as monumental as possible. Where once they swung, however ironically, now they plod. Slowly. Ponderously. In expensive lead boots.

Good or bad, everything here sounds like a lesser version of someone else.

"Riot City Blues" starts fairly poorly and gets progressively worse.

What pulls this album back from being anything but revelatory, however, is not only the typical lazy rock the band are purveyors of, especially 'Fire' and 'Fast Fuse,' but also the diabolical lyrical content that's employed throughout West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum.

A record that surgically removes all trace of sensuality and replaces it with calculated, mechanical, by-numbers bump'n'grind action.

The World Is Yours is one of the year's worst albums.

Had they imploded in some bizarre gardening accident following the release of 'Danger! High Voltage' all would be forgiven. That single still sounds classic and retains the power to get Aunt Peggy off her seat at the wedding reception..... However, the rest appears to be have been cobbled together in a matter of hours.

Musically, it's a mess.

It's a cruel world in which a Nelly sells more records than the Blastmaster KRS but what 'Nellyville' makes abundantly clear is that its creator won't be leaving a fraction of his foe's proud mark on hip-hop once the dust settles on the frantic promotion of this record.

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.

There just aren't enough ideas or songs to make up for the overwhelmingly mean perspective.

Unforgivably bad.

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.

This lumpen, bloated, boring album is as much of a let-down as any of Timbaland's other "solo" works.

This is a genuinely dreadful album.

This is a pompous, blandly histrionic album, faintly monumental in its drabness.

Everything about this album smacks of contrivance and careful planning.

For people awaiting that second Jet album, this should prove a welcome distraction from their crayons. For the rest of us it's a look of bemusement and a scratched head.

Earth To The Dandy Warhols is just vacuous mid-tempo babble and clatter.

Unfortunately for the oh-so-cleverly named Mongrel are nothing more than a patronising exercise in telling the poor listener what they already know: that governments can be corrupt, war on the whole is not pleasant and we all have a right to freedom.

The rest of the tracks bop along with various degrees of offensiveness or inoffensiveness, troubling and achieving nothing.

Represents an ill-advised body swerve from the duo’s idiosyncratic home territory and plunges them deep into the thoroughly becalmed waters of MOR ambient pop, offering up languid, beats-driven, down-tempo tunes that aren’t so much radio-friendly as downright sycophantic.

The lack of creativity on display here is palpable.

How the mighty have truly fallen.

Herein lays Wayne's problem: he clearly has no understanding of rock.

The dominant sound is of flickering sequencers and heavy-handed synth-pomp which showcases Linkin Park's keen interest in the work of Depeche Mode, but also often leaves them sounding about as cutting-edge and dangerous as Jesus Jones.

An album that's desperately hard to listen to, let alone care about.

To live in their world is like being trapped at an idiot's convention and almost – but only almost - as bad as Limp Bizkit.