Simulation Theory largely sounds like the work of band who have the pressure off and are just going with it--definitely not a bad thing.

There are enough sturdy ideas in Walk It Off’s first half – just about--to ensure Tapes ‘N Tapes’ good ship stays afloat for a third bout, and it’s definitely a record that’ll reward repeated plays, but with the twilit otherness of "The Loon" largely evaporated here, it’ll need a change of tack to put the wind back in their sails and set the blogosphere to reeling once more.

It’s as accessible as his debut, that much is true – Tricky’s welcomed the pop infection that’s spread through his system since the bleak Angels With Dirty Faces – but it lacks a standout single voice.

A fascinating album and one which will reward with an attentive ear, just don't expect an instant, agreeable listen.

Hammond does successfully replicate the pop-rockin’ sounds of the past and does it with considerable style to spare.... But like many students attempting to impress their teachers, much of ¿Cómo Te Llama? fails to push things past the established curriculum set by the originators.

The blueprints of a fun time are here; the melodic and rhythmic groundwork is all in place. All we need now is to have Matt and Kim bring this ruckus in person, rather than through the middleman of mp3.

There are some brilliant tailpieces on Black is Beautiful and some wonderful impressions of a travel sick Alan Clavier, but they're hampered by too many dead ends and retreaded ground.

Hate them all you like, but Snow Patrol have some great songs and enough money now to forget all about the tripe they’re currently peddling at their massive group of new fans.

It doesn't seem content with just being an enjoyable album, which makes it impossible for this listener to be content with its failure to live up to its own hype.

Like all of R.E.M.'s most recent albums, Collapse Into Now is flawed; a reflection, I'm speculating, on the fact that that band's working process is now flawed.

While Daughter of Cloud houses a number of Barnes' most flamboyantly weird musical ideas, they're also frequently some of his hollowest.

A comparatively sterile shadow of its predecessor.

Dead Confederate are good at ballsy, sinister, twisted rock‘n’roll, and this they deliver by the bowlful. Unfortunately they show their weakness when they step beyond this brief.

This isn’t a half-formed album as such, just that it’s statued unchanging tempo and unvarying instrumentation leave potential developments lying by the roadside.

While it might not be a consistent classic like Heartbreaker or Gold, there's flashes of those earlier triumphs from Adams' career on Ashes & Fire.

Dando fucks Varshons up just enough to stop it being an actively great covers record--in recent terms The Condo Fucks’ mighty "Fuckbook" stomps over it--but not enough to detract from the truth that the thread drawing the successful songs together is the still-beating talent of Evan Dando, non-dickhead version.

Despite these forays into a wider world, and the dreamy, vulnerable and hypnotic subtlety of 'Stone', you can't help but think that NYPC have still got one foot firmly anchored in the glowstick glimmer of past glories.

For an album so heavily influenced by architecture, it’s sorely lacking in structure and shape, and ultimately fails to make an imprint in spite of its broadened horizons.

Drawing Down The Moon marks a welcome return for Azure Ray, and makes for an oftentimes exquisite listening experience. It's just a shame that, when it comes to the songs themselves, much of the beauty is only skin deeP.

Perhaps with a little more nuance they can exploit the potential of their partnership to be one of the most intriguing electro-pop duos around--but on Ice on the Dune that potential remains unrealised.

While there are moments that have the summer days – and daze – of ’99 flooding back, too much of this sixth long-player proper sounds disjointed and manhandled.

Holly Miranda makes nice music, sometimes really pretty, but it doesn’t say anything real or move emotions to anywhere even nearing an extreme. As a result The Magician's Private Library fails to tick that most important box: evocative.

You’d need DNA evidence to separate Free Energy from the influences they’re so clearly in thrall of, but it’s all so blusteringly fun and care-free that they make you feel like a curmudgeon for even contemplating giving a shit.

Dept. of Disappearance is a good album that makes for a pleasing listen, despite its lack of ambition.

The music frequently bludgeons the listener into wondering why the song wasn't cut dead about three minutes ago.

Despite the one or two stabs at youthful exuberance evident here, this is an AOR album through and through.

Too guarded to reveal much of Mulvey's personality. Too low key to remain long in your memory.

The album proves itself to be as an unusual cocktail of all of the band’s previous guises--Urie might have gone mad with power, his band purged to its brittle skeleton, but when it comes together, it can still occasionally be thrilling.

The lyrics ring true enough, but not forcefully enough to really resonate with any depth.

Slightly less shambolic guitar playing and overall song craft seems reasonable for two musicians now decades into their careers. Lots of lyrical double entendres are a request, but if they can’t be ribald, then witty will suffice. It’s really only at the third post that V for Vaselines falls.

For the moment, In Light is hamstrung by its creators' raw ambition.

Intriguing regardless, and almost guaranteed to capture your attention for a short time at least, even if it isn’t as engaging as it perhaps should be.

This album is full of emotive and nuanced performances, the aches of her heart resonating powerfully. However, the sheen and the bombast of much of the production reeks not just of a kind of entitlement, but of desperation.

Despite Angry Cyclist’s shortcomings, the peaks are high enough to earn its place in the band’s long, lustrous discography.

Jake One may not be the "perfect beat-maker" he proclaims to be, but on the occasions when he finds the right connection, he can be tough to beat.

Despite many excellent tunes, a continual emphasis on effects makes the album slightly grating in parts, feeling a bit like a Wire and Frampton Come Alive! recurring super group nightmare, in which the best and worst aspects of Seventies rock music are forced to combine to beat the Russians.

If you got concussed during the first Pearl Jam tour and have only just come out of your coma, boy, have we got a great new sound for you.

Beautiful Thing can be marked down as an interesting experiment but not a great record. It may end up being loved by hardcore fans of his song-writing but there won’t be a lot here for casual fans to come back to.

Though Way is at his most engaged in years, there's no major reinvention here. If anything, his first solitary missive registers as much as a tribute to influences as it does a focused reboot.

Disquiet, the group’s fourteenth album, is their most direct and to the point release in some time.

This is the sound of a well established, accomplished singer and production crew that have earned their right to do what they want to a high standard.

Some might sneer at its twee nature--especially in light of the extraordinariness of the recently departed, but Spilt Milk captures an ageing songwriter catching a second wind and reflecting with wit, charm and humility.

It requires TLC, and some listeners–-and I count myself among them–-are just too heavy-handed to stay in its company long.

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

As it meanders towards its conclusion, the LP melds into a uniform mesh of pleasantly forgettable ditties.

There is an amiable and glowing exterior to Warm Blanket that does offers some occasional sustenance--just don't expect anything to really get your teeth in to.

There are some great moments on this record, but by the end they’re lost under swathes of synths and looking for a sense of purpose.

As the record progresses, however, it’s hard not to feel that the band are using the same tricks over and over again. This not only makes the second half of the record intrinsically less vibrant on first listen than the first but also undermines earlier tracks on repeat listens.

The first half of Torches is its collective zenith, and although things pick up towards the end of the album by the strategically placed 'Pumped Up Kicks', you can't shake the feeling that Foster has simply stretched the party vibe over as many songs as he can before the momentum runs out.

For all its many laudable attributes, Tales from Terra Firma proves ultimately frustrating: a skilled, capable and talented band still unaware of how best to channel and control their creative energies.

While it would be hasty to suggest disregarding the main conceptual focus, the truth is that Come Back to the Five and Dime, Bobby Dee, Bobby Dee's virtues lie in Ferree's considerable talents as a singer and songwriter, and not as a testament to a forgotten star or as a treatise on youth, fame and loneliness.

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.

While these songs are often good, they also lack the colour and experimental zeal of Gorillaz’ best work.

We’re unlikely to see the power or the passion of Manson’s classic run again - it’s very difficult to bottle lightning twice - and you shouldn’t come to Heaven Upside Down expecting anything as textured, interesting or frightening as those early releases. That said ... It’s business as usual, but after a decade of disappointment, it’s good to know business is doing well.

It’s a frustrated listen, thanks to unrealised ideas and a potential that you sense has yet to fully unlocked, but there are enough good songs and great moments studded amongst the mire to make Red, Yellow and Blue both a worthwhile purchase to cherry-pick the best from as well as an indicator of good things to come from the Canadian trio.

So, Fly Yellow Moon flirts with, but ultimately averts, disaster by virtue of the strengths we already know Fyfe Dangerfield to possess as Guillemots' principle songwriter: a knack for making bright pop songs on a life-affirming scale, delivered with an infectious and indefatigable enthusiasm.

No other band could legitimately produce this record without being accused of extreme plagiarism, and perhaps that goes some way to explaining why, despite its shortcomings, it is still likeable.

Devoid of a true soul or sense of honesty Lights can be a pretty hollow listen. You could argue that away from the aforementioned hype-led anticipation that this album would surprise and charm; yet without the vested interest of big wigs and shareholders Lights might simply not be here.

You get lost in them but not in a good way, and the hypnotic nature of SOHN’s music makes it very easy to phase out, which is a shame, because the closing song, 'Harbour', is a raw and vulnerable gamble that pays off well.

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.

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

As the album enters its second half a number of elements which made the its first half so enjoyable begin to get tiresome, particularly the over-reliance on piano.

Born in the Echoes isn’t the sound of stagnation, nor the grim realisation of irrelevance, and there are numerous flourishes that can only come from a knowing skill set, but in the end, it’s only just good enough.

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.

Pink Friday wins merely on points, rather than the knockout punch it should have been.

Take My Breath Away begins expansively, but rather than proving to be a promising start the opening track turns out, in fact, to be the highlight.

Its creators will surely insist that they’re proud of their work and that’s all the approval they need. All the same, it’d probably be nice for them if you could imagine anyone who didn’t already like The White Stripes and/or The Kills buying this.

Femi Kuti is still an entertaining performer and One People One World is almost tailor-made for live shows with its sharp performances and joyful tone. But listening to it on its own is a much less satisfying experience. These songs are too similar in tone and message, and unfortunately that makes for an undynamic album.

Although this is a far cry from the standard of their late Seventies heyday, the band have continued down their obscure path with little deviation, creating a sound which, although challenging and on occasion elitist, is there own.

It is both accessible and challenging at times, and a few bloopers aside a perfectly worthy release, providing the purchaser can tolerate Ian Svenonius' occasional lapses into horrendously irritating vocal histrionics.

There aren't quite enough ideas here to sustain a 17-song LP, and despite being a not-unreasonable hour long, it's a struggle to listen through the final few tracks.

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

Twee without being cloying, Bishop Allen have dropped any signifiers that might make us think Tilly & the Wall (the clattering percussion, and urgent male/female vocals), and manage to present their light-hearted lyrics as sincere.

Like most earnest attempts to reimagine the past, it’s an entertaining indulgence. One that exists to stave off the nagging question: what comes next?

This sunny half hour lacks an overarching aesthetic or a big, ten-minute cathartic blowout.

On many levels it's immediately obvious that Nobody's Daughter is neither an awful record, nor a great one.

Once all is done and danced – in under 35 minutes – there’s no immediate desire to go around again.

As a work of pure, confessional artistry it just doesn’t have the frazzled punch of the ‘great’ break-up albums, but if it did, it probably wouldn’t be Coldplay, and that would be a shame.

This feels like Holmes’ record--a studio-created melting pot of awkward approaches, inspired instrumentation, the occasional colossal flop and a few genuinely unique moments. More power to Gallagher for giving him the reigns here and allowing himself to be guided into territory that’s often fresh, sometimes really interesting but, above all, utterly atypical and bizarre.

Funplex then: a bit like that school re-union. Good for a few hours’ reminiscing every once in a while but over-familiarity will only breed contempt.

It's just as easy to loathe this record as it is to love it, but enough moments of merit exist to stifle any doubts over the quality of Rodriguez-Lopez' output as a solo artist.

On An Object, No Age push their weakest attributes firmly into the spotlight; a move indirectly admirable for its continued ambition, but one which makes you wish they’d go back to being punk rock, rather than just punk.

Boys And Diamonds is an album that takes two different roads. A journey down one avenue finds Rainbow Arabia exploring the unrefined, bespoke freedom of African rhythms, ad hoc instrumentation and unfiltered self-expression.

It feels like there are more synthetic things of interest here. There are significantly less organic things--lyrics, sentiments, meaning--that will keep you coming back.

Hawk is the most energetic record yet from the pair, with several pointers towards the sound of the enduring record they may well have in them....That said, some old weaknesses remain.

Just as Only In Dreams confirms this bunch of self-anointed femme fatales as an impressive songwriting outfit, it's stands as a warning that their outwardly-facing facade is wearing thin.

The question remains unanswered, because while it was, undeniably, dull without him, Relapse is less 12 steps than a stumbling one backwards.

Mondo is that rare case of judge by cover, or what you see is exactly what you get.

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.

Lyrically lightweight though it may be, Icky Blossoms can be impassioned and angry, primarily when Pressnall takes on the vocals.

No doubt delightful for existing Rundgren fans, you deserve a medal if, as an uninitiated listener, you make it out of Global feeling inspired like never before.

You can't help but think that The Felice Brothers were stuck in a Catch-22 regarding the development of their sound; damned if they did, damned if they didn't. On the strength of this offering it's clear that while the mix isn't quite there yet, the approach being taken is worth pursuing.

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

It’s a decent, yet unspectacular debut album from a band who do occasionally have the knack for a good tune, even though it might not sound like it is completely theirs.

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

Despite the aggression in their music, it's not uncommon for APTBS to tone things down a few tracks into an album, but watch out for the lull in this one.

There's a profound lack of any surprises, anything you might not expect, any... inspiration.

As an alternative introduction to one of our greatest bands, or a gateway towards getting to know them a little better, it is excellent. If you’re a superfan already, then the novelty of having this particular collection of songs you already own in a nice gatefold package is about as far as it will go.