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

Tracks like ‘My Step’, ‘Feather’ and ‘Blinking Pigs’ have that unique ability to transcend seasonal musical folly, there's nothing 'now' or 'then' about them - you can listen to them any time, anywhere, any weather and still be pretty pleased.

The Birds of Satan is a fun record--it doesn’t aim to top the charts, be name-checked by politicians, or indeed supersede anything that the Foos have ever done.

Really guys? Next time, try a bit harder.

Liquid Cool is at its best and most interesting, though, when Gonzalez’s sound plays with the way our brains and human interactions have been rewired in the modern age, raising the bar by creating impactful moments via osmosis.

As a temporary deviation from Incubus's core sound, If Not Now, When? is satisfactory.

If anything, the stitching on Push/Pull is much too tight, the tone rigid even when things veer off in wildly different directions.

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

Too often, though, this record slips into a comfort zone that, while making it impossible to generally dislike, renders it hard to get excited about.

It stands alone as an album which is well-rounded--there's not much here which is lacking in quality, but much is lacking oomph.

Not that anyone really expected or wanted a laugh a minute, but whilst these 13 tracks are certainly eclectic in style, the atmosphere throughout, with the exception of the bubbling melodic analogue chug of opener ‘A New Error’, is almost uniformly bleak.

This is hardly revelatory stuff--the days of Sebadoh blowing minds and claiming hearts are now far behind them, but then maybe they don’t have to do that anymore.

Just as Interpol always seemed like a good imitation of a great rock band (no-one in particular, just A Great Rock Band, with all its slogans and hooks, and gestures and shapes), Julian Plenti does a fairly good imitation of a solo-artist showing his sensitive side.

Blood & Chemistry is a sound debut that despite its flaws, will whole-heartedly be welcomed by alternative rock fans.

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

While the album concept may be flawed in execution this daring approach to composing and recording has resulted in an record which, regardless of its indulgences, is at least an intriguing listen and one which rewards patience with some moments of sublime ear candy.

The main problem with No Hope, No Future, though, is that very little here stands out above the accepted and expected norm. At times, there's a feeling Good Shoes have almost resigned themselves to a destined state of mediocrity.

Tellingly, Mark Ronson loves this album. Truth is, it's fine, and perfectly adequate, but nothing more.

The most positive thing to say about Walk the River is that it shows that Guillemots are still capable of producing beautiful, indefinable pieces of contemporary songcraft when the mood takes them. The most concerning aspect is that they're finding these diamonds increasingly scarce among the dirt.

On Rapture he’s traded atmospherics for dominating vocals, making the stylistic leap towards ‘tell don’t show’ music. It’s a move that will undoubtedly bring Tropics to a wider audience, but robs the listener of emotional nuance and understatement; everything that made him interesting, back when he was still making music in his bedroom.

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

Nonkeen’s collective narrative may be charming, but more often than not the record fails to deliver on its many promise.

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

Aureate Gloom stretches spontaneity to the point of feeling rushed. None of these songs are among Barnes’ best.

So after the outré highs and lows of Grey Oceans have played their last syllable, it's hard to know what to think of it, apart from being slightly underwhelmed for the most part.

In its more luminous moments, it also contains enough to suggest that there is still a great album lurking somewhere underneath the Ladyhawke moniker.

Heady swirl, indeed: much of Come Into My House unfolds with all the knacker-shrivelling underwhelmingness of a tepid bath.

Something For All Of Us isn't going to change anything for any of us--Canning will go back to doing whatever it is he does in Broken Social Scene, Drew will remain its fire eye'd leader, and the Presents... series is profoundly unlikely to shift a single unit to anyone not already a BSS fan. But in his own quiet way Canning has both proved and defined himself.

The problem with ‘Push The Button’ is that it’s all so predictable.

Broke has instances of stunningly original songwriting and there's rarely a dull moment, but it's more a kaleidoscopic 'story so far' than a complete manifesto.

While each track sounds different to the one that preceded it, they all manage to fit together as a coherent whole. Barking is still a credible effort and a pleasant listen, but it is also unremarkable and, had it been released by artists whose fame didn't precede them, it probably would not have made any waves.

Birthmarks is probably the most impressive Born Ruffians record to date, but it’s a shame they travelled so far without straying from the middle of the road.

Röyksopp have always married darkness to their beats, but here, across more than an hour, it’s too unremitting to welcome repeat listening.

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.

Quicken The Heart represents Maximo Park settling into a rut, albeit an intermittently attractive one.

Although much of Heligoland suggests that Massive Attack might finally have burned out, the glowing embers of what they once had can still be glimpsed providing a light in the dark.

Resultantly, while the textures are nostalgic, the album is a very contemporary experience. Since you're unlikely to ever get the same 20 plus artists on the same page again, it's best to enjoy the album for what it is: a one-off experiment, more of a happening than a record, that can't (and possibly shouldn't) be repeated.

The message feels less than vital at a time when vitality is so needed, and no, there will be no revolution off the back of the subversive royalty involved in this release. The slogans feel thin, but the music itself is substantive. Whether that counts as a success or not comes down to what you came here for.

As a second album, it is perfectly acceptable and there are many aspects of it to admire. But the static present on much of Ceremonials cannot quantify the record as anything but a regression in broader terms.

While District Line is by no means a classic, it’s a decent addition to the catalogue of a man who could’ve lived out the rest of his days without lifting another finger

When you heard Cape Dory, you probably didn’t expect Tennis to be growing into soulful artistry six years and three albums later, and they deserve an incredible amount of credit for that. But you definitely wouldn’t ever have expected them to sound dreary either, and that’s something of which Tennis are slightly guilty on Yours Conditionally.

Akerfeldt should be praised for breaking free of an often repetitive genre--there's nothing wrong with radical reinvention. But this departure didn't need to be quite so lacklustre.

While The Enemy Chorus may not launch itself into the night sky and explode like the great big sonic firework it wants be, there are enough bangs on display here to warrant taking it out for the occasional stroll.

Like Within and Without, it's no overhaul, but Young Hunger has a much more immediate presence, more direct in both a melodic and emotional sense and generally with a lot more 'oomph'.

LNZNDRF lacks the deft, enchanting musical nuance of The National or Beirut but it does make for enjoyable, if not startling, interim listening.

In all, it’s an album with an admirable sense of ambition and innovation, a band pushing themselves sonically and lyrically in new directions; that they at times come up short is therefore a shame.

You can't take it too seriously--if you did you'd find an album riddled with clichés and vulgarities. Just take it as it was intended: 30 minutes of fun from one of the world's most entertaining rock stars.

If you like Mogwai for the sounds they make, for their instrumental dynamic and ebbing/flowing moodiness, you'll probably like Mr Beast - there's certainly little to object to. But if you love Mogwai... perhaps Mr Beast isn't for you.

As the album ends with disco floor fillers by The Ramones and Blondie by way of Yeah Yeah Yeah’s and Franz Ferdinand respectively, you know you have had a fun if not entirely unforgettable experience.

For all the sonic acrobatics though, it’s a record that feels like it’s missing something vital.

They try hard, Coldplay, but it just isn't enough; their fourth album might just be their best yet, but it's still a long way from being the epochal classic that Chris Martin is desperate to create.

It’s possible it just too hard to produce a record of straight classic songwriting in an era that has heard it all, but Blind Pilot make a good stab at it.

A couple of tracks at once would probably be the best prescription to suggest, rather than ingesting as a whole.

Sadly, the album at large is plagued by many of the things which have seeped into Folds' sound over the last ten years: the seriousness, the restraint, and the descent into middle age.

If there’s a problem with the album it’s possibly in the even-ness of the tone throughout. The vocals are soft, tuneful and pretty, the tunes are melodic and often hooky but it’s not until the second last track--‘Snaps’--arrives with a bit more attitude and grit that you realise that this is what has been missing up until this point. That said, almost every track here would work as a single, or heard by itself on the radio – they’re all decidedly easy on the ear.

[There are no] outstandingly bad offerings, just several more forgettable ones than can be briskly ignored.

Sequitur feels very much like a whistle stop tour of the history of ambient/electronic music.

It's frustrating, because if you took Our Ill Wills' best moments and condensed them into an EP we'd easily be talking an eight or nine, but as it is, the second Shout Out Louds LP is a Jekyll and Hyde record that ultimately flatters to deceive.

While sometimes left wanting for redeeming bells and whistles, where Big Bells & Dime Songs sporadically strikes gold is its distillation of tumbleweed folk Americana.

Briskly performed, smartly assembled and largely unmemorable, Diamond Hoo Ha is a lot like half-asleep sex; you’re vaguely aware this is supposed to be fun, but you keep drifting off, and you might have to ask the person sitting next to you if it actually took place come the morning.

Jurado's strengths--ability to tug at the heartstrings without seeming mawkish or sentimental--are intact, but bolstered by what you might assume is Richard Swift's input. Unfortunately, it doesn't last. The rest of Saint Bartlett isn't bad, it just reverts to type to such an extent that it pales in comparison to the earlier moments.

Every Open Eye seems neutered, the rough edges sanded back on an album that fits a mould more than it breaks it--which given the band’s confrontational media stance seems something of a waste.

Well, there is a lack of faults, sure, but there’s not a lot that grabs hard.

The best moments are those which eschew any attempt to write proper 'songs' and instead simply try to convince the listener that he or she is travelling on an epic, wobbly, thrilling and frightening, mind-expanding journey through outer space.

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.

With everything from the classic symphonic sounds of brass and strings to the creative dimensions of electronic sampling, synths and the violinophone, Mum certainly are experimental. The ambitious nature of which could be too much for some people though.

Although Liima’s first offering is somewhat of a mixed affair, it is worth sticking with, for both them and us.

As an album, Poetry Of The Deed is a listenable, more than competent collection. The difficulty lies in it's lack of character.

The results, in this still-formative period of their development, have been predictably mixed.

For the most part, Bush is another re-hashed and tweaked Snoop album. It is expanding into new territory, but delivering the same result.

Whilst Bad Witch is definitely guilty of too much looking backwards there’s enough to keep us focused on what lies ahead.

Good rather than great, and enjoyable if rarely fully captivating, what's clear is that Barthmus has a talent both as a producer, arranger and writer that could well pay dividends a couple of records down the line.

Overall, this album isn’t bad, it’s very easy to listen to and it’s quite likeable with some beautiful moments. However, it doesn’t bring with it the life-altering, head-over-heels feeling that I’ve had before with previous BFL albums. Perhaps my expectations are too high but it would be great to see a bit more grit and energy for the next release.

There are muddled, muffled messages here, whispers of golden horizons and awards cluttering the shelves; it's just a shame that the filler is so predictably repugnant and the brilliant gems so widely scattered.

The USP of Attention Please lies in Wata, Boris' lead guitarist: she sings on each of the album's ten songs, the first time a Boris full-length has been entirely female-voiced.

The Singles Collection 2001-2011 proves that at times Albarn touched on a warped pop genius, and to his credit comes out of the project with his reputation as creative wanderer intact, but from the off the constructed barrier meant that there was always little to really love, songs hidden too much behind their glitteringly presented shells.

With such a sprawling array of instruments on offer, Places Like This is surprisingly one dimensional.

This album will infuriate many but bewitch some.

Pollard hasn’t delivered an all-enticing album in a while, and with all of its hidden gems, August By Cake suffers from having too many songs that just aren’t fulfilling enough.

With the musical inspiration behind it all available to hear, the whole exercise ultimately seems a bit pointless and leaves Danger Mouse looking more a dilettante than a genuine auteur. Nonetheless, Rome remains an occasionally breathtaking pastiche.

The diversity of the influences found on What Do People Do All Day? is both the strength and the weakness of the album--a fascinating and beguiling collection of sounds, ideas and influences but a collection which never seems to fully belong together in its own company.

This won't be Evian Christ's greatest moment, but it could be a crucial stepping stone.

While Broderick’s prescription is perfectly phrased for its purpose, as a stand-alone collection of music it has accompanying adverse side effects, i.e. it's not really a very enjoyable listen.

On this record it’s all too common for the songs to merely float by, neither enticing you to pursue nor burdening you into reflection, which is a shame as Ólöf is more than capable of writing stunning songs.

Ultimately, while Abandoned City’s atmospheric appropriations of various strands of dance music make for interesting listening, you might wish they appealed to instinct as much as they do the intellect.

The sound of this record is one that may have gotten them a record deal, but will not get them much of an audience.

At times it feels like pastiche, at others like an impromptu late night jam session: legendary to those who witness it, mind blowing to those who take part, but slightly less fun to listen to sober.

Stopping short of outright pop and heading in a direction that has yet to fully materialise, let's hope things eventually progress for Ra Ra Riot as well as they started.

Some of the songs like 'Miss You' and 'In The Grace of Your Love' have genuinely good moments and are enjoyable whilst they last. However, it's hard to escape the feeling that this is a band struggling to define themselves in a musical context that no longer needs them.

Boo Boo is fascinating as an exercise for Bear, and proves that Toro Y Moi has yet another viable direction to take their music in. At some point, Bear may need to chart a clear course for the project but for now it’s fun to hear him freely experimenting with new sonic palettes.

The band ensure they make music, which matches their aesthetic: airy, welcoming story-telling indie folk, which just happens to be painstakingly well considered and recorded. Ultimately though, where all this world building and curatorship comes to fall short is where it matters most: the songs.

Despite the harvest festival charm that carries the record, its heart is here, at its starkest, most honest moments.

On a cursory listen to Dig Out Your Soul, it's hard not to think 'yeah, it's Oasis' and then unwittingly switch off - not through boredom or distraction, but because it's all so comfortable and, well, familiar.

Enter The Slasher House sounds like a direct sequel to his swampy solo album, and wrongly marginalises the influences of his collaborators.

Ultimately, expectedly, Rock 'N' Roll is a functioning collection of… well, rock'n'roll songs, and, save for the odd cringer, entirely passable.

It all adds to the feeling that there's no particular point or guiding aesthetic here.

If the other Killers allow it, Brandon Flowers has brought a few decent additions to their greatest hits set, but cull those three or four tracks and what remains is an occasionally interesting, sometimes unintentionally hilarious mess of a concept album that's about as tasteful as the city that inspired it.

After an auspicious introduction Oblivion With Bells has disappointingly descended into an irreconcilable docile abyss.