So yadda yadda yadda, a best of isn't as worthwhile as a group's actual albums, what a shocker.

He's effectively run aground in the middle of the alt-rap landscape.

At most, half the songs on this album are capable of successfully fusing Finn’s compelling narratives with rather less than impressive instrumentation for an effect that’s worth some merit. Unfortunately, it just doesn’t ‘hold’ for the remainder.

Struggles to offer the same level of excitement that previous Jaxx albums provided.

This is an essential purchase for any Rancid fan.

Inevitably, it’s a mixed bunch of tracks taken out of context without the pictures to go with the sounds.

All the essential elements of greatness are here in some small form or other, but Clap Your Hands Say Yeah’s time is not now.

It is a great record, at times. But when the elements don’t quite chime it suffers.

A little too homogenous to warrant many a repeat listen.

Overall, Wake Up The Nation isn't a bad record, but it can be a bovine test of endurance, at least if one is to devour all sixteen tracks in one sitting. Had the quality control officers had the guts to stand up to its creator in chief, this could have been an endearing re-affirmation.

It's a well recorded, well played effort, and it nestles into genre expectation very nicely. But weirdly, with one extremely notable exception, the songs are predictable and average.

Its great moments really are great, and shouldn’t be underestimated. However, when an album is bookended between two potential song of the year contenders with little to grasp in between, it’s difficult to really get too invested in this record.

You know those radio jingles in which they stick a bunch of current tunes into a big-beat mess? This has the same effect – a whizzbang confectionary, serving more to advertise the band’s back catalogue than to be any kind of durable document.

Gargoyle is missing the emotive, musical draw that makes Langegan the tear-jerking, blues-poet that he really is.

Wounded Rhymes is an album that has not escaped unscathed from its wounds.

It is, ultimately, an unimaginative album from a promising band. Better records may lie ahead for them, but for now they will struggle to reach far beyond their existing fanbase.

So slick is the production and so smooth is the transition from one moment to the next that Andorra suffers from an apparent reluctance to take us by the scruff of the neck and rattle us out of our mental Laconia.

Not once does Overpowered really drag its feet, but it never truly impacts with the might one could possibly expect from an artist with such a fine pedigree.

As a whole the record is coherent, but contrast, juxtaposition and the element of surprise are the missing pieces of the puzzle.

Shadows in the Night is an extremely well-made covers album that feels divorced from Dylan’s day-job.

In many places, this record sounds and feels like a migraine captured on tape, and that is not a pleasant experience, nor is it meant to be. Unlike the more luscious, shoegaze influence that's pervaded Black Metal in recent years, this feels like an absolute rejection of that, being as difficult and painful to experience as possible.

It’s just a little too saggy round the middle.

Familiars, then, is unsurprisingly, immensely moving.... But Familiars lacks any real musical inventiveness.

Yes the songs are catchier and slightly better executed, and the music evokes a by gone era but remains grounded in the modern world so it’s not a pastiche, but it all sounds, well, too safe.

The sensitive sections are fine but tritely Musak at times. The power-soul sections feel a bit, sorry but, Jools Holland-y. There's nothing concrete that you can pinpoint that makes it feel false or weak per se.

Because of its unusual structure, Holy Ghost rarely manages to play to all of its strengths at once. It’s a bold choice, both interesting and admirable in its way, but it’s hard to get past the fact that it undoubtedly lifts towards its conclusion--building towards an energy it never properly inhabits.

A little more clarity wouldn't have gone amiss here and there, but there's enough on offer to bring curious listeners back for repeated spins, which is just as well, as More Faithful is definitely a grower.

An album which starts feeling a bit dense and chewy halfway through.

AM lacks that character empathy: rather than being detached--ie, cool, wry, transverted--Turner is removed (impulsive, anxious, dull) and it is this subtle distinction that shoots AM down in its shiny leather metal-toed boots.

Contra is a solidly entertaining, well-constructed album, and if people take to it, the tendency to mock the band will, I think, fade, simply because it doesn't have obviously unfashionable moments to feel uneasy about.

It’s an album certain of what it wants to be, but lacking in the naturalness needed to truly convince, let alone amaze.

Civilian has just enough personality to stop it being completely pedestrian.

If you found Sleaford Mods too thuggish or laddish for your tastes, Key Markets won’t change your mind.

Boldness, you realise, is not the same thing as greatness, and James Blake is not a great album. It has great moments, some of which hint at possible directions after the dust has settled around this release.

As 'Syncn' lilts to a close, it’s hard not to feel that White Denim would be better if they channelled a little of their chaotic diversity towards consistency, and focused upon being the very biggest, dumbest and craziest bunch of garage revivalists, rather than striking towards a uniqueness that is momentarily out of reach.

The result is an awkward balance of personal exploration which they refuse to commit to, and a relentless chirpiness which is becoming increasingly unnatural.

The scope might be limited, but at least one truth shines out: he writes songs of unembellished rawness, sharp as a knife and tight as the proletariat wallet.

It'll no doubt sell by the bucket load; it's one for the completists and dads at Christmas, but first timers looking for an introduction to The Clash should definitely look elsewhere.

Played out in full, the record resembles a depressing rummage through early-Nineties record racks--listenable, yes, but without the nerve to tickle more ear-pleasing teats

Unfortunately, the plodding repetition soon rears its ugly head again, and stays for the duration.

The record isn't perfect either, though it's enjoyable in places.

It is, all in all, a pretty solid front half of a Spiritualized album that sort of transmits intermittently in the middle and then totally falls on its arse for the last three tracks.

Villains isn’t a terrible record, but it’s not a fantastic record either, and that’s perhaps the least kind thing that could be said about new material from a band which we’ve come to expect a lot from.

It’s a clever and often highly entertaining album with inbuilt limitations, but if you buy one record this year whose title is possibly a reference to Bumblebee Man from The Simpsons, it should probably be this one.

It’s left to the previously-released singles to save Dornik from disappointing mediocrity.

So swings and roundabouts, then, but for all Bloodsports’ faults, it’s still pretty good.

Notice the way whole songs skulk past without you ever noticing; how half the material here is ornate but unmemorable muzak, with all the emotional force of a feather. [combined review of both discs]

Troyka have the tools make his dream a reality. Well, they would do, if they'd just stop with that dastardly noodling.

An album that wouldn't be out of place if it had come out 30 years ago.

Future Ruins progresses at a pleasing rate, though it never really pushes beyond its genre confines. Every track here is solid-to-good-to-occasionally-great with a friendly, familiar vibe of a bygone nature without ever really presenting anything new or challenging.

Nothing Is Wrong would have been a better record had that time been spent eking the emotion out of their own lives, rather than their record collections.

Despite its abrasiveness, You’re Nothing is resolutely conservative in its insular aim of pleasing the only audience that matters: Iceage themselves.

There is a really great album rattling around in here and Howard's invention and ambition should be celebrated as such, it's just not quite at the level it could be.

Music doesn't always need to be about preaching, grand-slam bombastic leanings or pushing the envelope forward – that's a fallacy. Sometimes it can just be sonically gorgeous, layered and pleasing to your hearing and thought - just as Marissa Nadler ends up being.

If Pop Levi’s intention was to create an ornate pop star persona, then he’s definitely succeeded. However, his songwriting skills leave a lot to be desired.

Nine of the 13 tracks go over the five minute mark, and despite the combined fertility of Arcade Fire and producer James Murphy’s creative minds, very few tracks justify their running times.

IRM is an album that refuses to cast Gainsbourg as the chanteuse some would like to see her as, and her willingness to gamble with her persona and musical style is laudable. However, this risk-taking attitude results in an inconsistent jumble of ideas that ends up being much less of a peek inside what it is to be human than the title might suggest.

A number of songs suggest brilliance before stumbling rather into the bland.

Mr M is an honest but tough old ride.

From the very start, The Libertines is the sound of the band at its most muzzled; paralysed by poor production, underdeveloped songs and private lives that have become more sensational and noteworthy than the music.

The fact is that Lovers is an almost unremarkable debut, except for the fact that it hits every target set for itself with clinical accuracy. If you’re in the market for something harder than Celine Dion but a little softer than Dragonette, you could do a lot worse than Anna of the North’s debut.

Overall, Rewind The Film won't be afforded the same reverence as Manic Street Preachers more definitive outings. Nevertheless, in the context of the present, it's the sound of a band growing old gracefully in reminiscent mood yet firmly at ease with their lot.

A warm and personable record then, but one that doesn’t put its head above the parapet often enough to properly engage.

It seems a little mean to judge this against song-based records - if anything, the narrative arc suggests it's 'about' the deterioration of meaning / tunefulness / drama into the inconsequentiality of real life; still, on its own terms, it's rather precious.

Here, the former Supergrass leader is so busy trying to prove something with his lofty themes and overreaching stylisation, that all of the magic is lost.

So This is Goodbye is the perfect example of how aiming for perfection in music can end in alienation.

The strength of ‘Out From Under’ exposes the weakness of the rest of EP; everything is terribly impressive and texturally nuanced etc, etc, but there is not much of anything to drive the tracks towards a satisfying resolution that would make you want to listen again.

While the instrumentals service Barnes well, when guest vocalists--once a hallmark of Leftfield’s work (John Lydon’s vocals on ‘Open Up’ still feel perfect)--the album broaches less solid ground.

This is a perfect introduction to new Gainsbourg fans and long standing followers will find plenty to get behind, it just feels that something might have been lost in translation somewhere along the lines.

It's hard to get excited about a record that rarely moves from its musical comfort blanket. But there are still moments.

While Joyce Manor's fourth record is still a very enjoyable romp through ten expertly written pop-punk songs, the album's plain-view influences, cleaner production and vocal delivery feels like it just slightly misses the mark on being the something truly special the band have threatened their entire careers.

Cage Tropical is a dreampop record. ... And the problem with dreampop records is--well, if they fall short of dreams, then you’ve got to either imbue something other than the divine into the lining (hi, Deafcult!), or you’ve got to work it into overdrive until your listener’s heart flutters like a virgin on the mattress (hi, Ballet School!). And our protagonist simply fails on both counts.

As rich and enchanting as the source material undeniably is, the winding songs of Child Ballads ultimately get locked into an unfortunate paradox: the magic of the narratives require a focussed and concentrated listen, but the sparse arrangements and repetitive melodies don’t invite the ear in nearly as closely as Mitchell’s recent LPs.

Marmozets are a band that thrive on angst. They deliver it through the raw nature of their sound, through their acute lyrics and pounding metalcore-slash-pop-punk. It can feel at times, though, of too much of an exhilarating ride, an endless roller coaster that doesn’t provide enough respite.

[Nels Cline's] noodling is nice and all, but it’s akin to casting Jason Statham in an ITV period drama. Worse still is the treatment of Mike Jorgensen, who has such an instantly recognisable sound on the keyboard; I genuinely don’t know if he is even on this record. Some nice fluttery percussion on ‘Quarters’ aside, the brilliant Glenn Kotche barely is.

Overall, D is a measured if occasionally overcooked beast that proves difficult to digest as a whole.

The dub-littered textures and conceptual frameworks are admirable in their artistic reach, but Jurado’s greatest strengths are found at his most stripped back on Brothers and Sisters of the Eternal Son. Not coincidentally, the songs which he presents with least decoration are the songs which bear the closest scrutiny.

Restarter is a severely underwhelming return from one of the foremost breakthrough guitar bands of recent years.

Their debut was already loose enough, but EarthEE slackens to a level of shapelessness, and is gloomier with it to boot.

It’s tempting to conflate the fact Middle Cyclone is less outre than her last couple of sets with the fact it last week cracked the US top three, but there’s nothing particularly sell out-ish about it, and certainly with her lyrical gifts and that incredible voice still firmly intact, it’s hard to even really be that disappointed.

Some of the weakest, most un-affecting songs that Kurt Wagner has ever written. [combined review of both discs]

For the most part, it feels like either overweening confidence or desire to snare rudderless Oasis fans has led to Kasabian attempting the sort of conventional guitar pop record that they've always so successfully avoided making.

These old balladeer's tales are fleshed out with metaphors and all the tricks of a great writer. The burble of guitar lines complement it all artfully. That doesn't mean the criticisms go away--there is a lack of invention within any genre, and too often the lustre dulls.

Seventy minutes for only eight tracks is excessive, be they remixes or not, and each track is suffocated and diluted until it proves to be just some noise, somewhere.

It is no coincidence that the moments when Dwyer’s writing strays furthest from the familiar format are the least satisfying. It is reasonable to assume that he is capable of far more intriguing and stimulating excursions than these.

Too often you can get a good read on a track in its first few seconds, making moments of genuine surprise a rarity.

A good album is essentially buried here; at least eight songs could comfortably be axed.

There is no question that this is a technically adept, well realised and urgent recording, but what seems to be a lacking is the je ne sais quoi that made Mirrored such a colossal debut album.

It’s not terrible album--it might even make you do a little shoulder shimmy every now and then or remind you of an awesome Depeche Mode song you haven’t listened to in years, but at the end of it you’ll probably find yourself either: a) indifferently bored; b) making bets with yourself on what he’s going to channel next: will it be an oriental theme, a Cuban beat, a doo-wop harmony or will he go rogue with some balalaika? (He doesn’t.)

Overall the LP falters too often.

At heart, he's still a producer not a rapper (which explains how badly he hits the mic at times, more on that later). He's got that hit-making part down pat... it's just that he can't make good hits anymore.

Even after having listened to this album many times, it seems no clearer as to whether it is a collection of underdeveloped song ideas or the well produced outakes of an intriguing idea.

An album that doesn’t sell us short on the pop hooks of albums past, but one that also delivers a healthy dose of politics to the mix without sounding like a six-legged cliché-riddled embarrassment.

A spokesperson for wearied souls, Waxahatchee leaves the rest of us intrigued but far from in love.

Newcomers to the band would do just as well to track down The Ugly People vs. The Beautiful People, which gives a more cohesive impression of the version of The Czars that Best of... tries to convey.

It’s perfectly pleasant background listening, but it yields diminishing returns from close listening.

NV’s live shows are a true spectacle, bursting with human drama and storytelling, building an arc that is disappointingly absent here. It is not just the pop songs that have disappeared, but the sense of definition. ... There are moments of hope.

Five Roses is certainly not a poor album--it's largely enjoyable, in fact--but it fails to inspire awe or create any sense of joy. It’s too slight, and too meandering