Perversely given the record’s comprehensive musical overhaul it’s perhaps a surfeit of respect for the source material that proves Anywhere's undoing; for all its undoubted accomplishments there’s a lingering suspicion that this is too safe, too respectable a record to do justice to an artist who remains forever mid-topple from the bar stool in the popular consciousness.

It's a mixed bag all right. At times brilliant, at others unlike anyone else out there and occasionally frankly a bit rubbish.

So far, Sov’s done well for playing to her strengths, but it’s too short an album for filler, and a song about being unable to play the guitar is pointless, however melodic and Northern Soul the cello-part happens to be.

Everything’s well executed, but nothing sinks in; it’s all surface, no feeling.

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

He’s Got the Whole This Land Is Your Land in His Hands is by no stretch of the imagination the most disagreeable Joan of Arc record to date, or the most impenetrable, either; some of the soundscapes here are pleasingly smooth given how scattershot Kinsella’s approach so often is.

There’s nothing on Undress that diminishes her as a songwriter; it’s just that it seems a mistake to strip some fine tracks of what made them so enthralling in the first place.

A patchy return, then, from a band whose prolific status never looked in jeopardy before. While it's good to have The Coral back, it's unlikely that Roots And Echoes will win them any new converts.

What The Portrait Is Finished… evokes is a sense just like that of its inventive title: an ultimately unsatisfying portrait that fails to capture beauty, even though it's clear that true beauty is there to be captured.

Truth and parody meshed together in an altogether confusing and ill-conceived manner.

Young Adults Against Suicide is fun but two-dimensional.

Moments of quality do intersperse these drags.

Without the filter and guidance of a strong writing partner, and without a personality able to temper his every whim, much of this album contributes to the argument that Paul’s output urgently calls for restraint.

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.

It's rammed full of solid psychedelia that no one could really get annoyed at, but conversely, no one could ever fall in love with.

It is in this record’s opening salvo and in its closing stages that its aim, of reflecting the natural beauty of eastern England, where both Rogerson and Eno grew up, comes closest to being accomplished.

Just seven tracks seems an odd length for an album, especially when they are chunky (all between four minutes 40 and seven minutes, most around five-and-a-half-minutes) rather than substantial. Ultimately, it is hard to shake the feeling that My Best Human Face should have given a lot more.

This is an essential purchase for any Rancid fan.

Pattern of Excel is a difficult album. It subverts your expectations and deliberately goes against what convention would suggest in terms of direction and vibe.

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

While Not Too Late is a shade darker than her mega-selling, Grammy-winning template, it's highly unlikely to win all that many new converts, and fans may find this album a little bit of a slog in places.

The album comes in light lapping waves of melodic song. It doesn’t wash you away, it doesn’t lure you in to your death. It’s a nice album.

There's nothing as straight-up enjoyable as 'LDN' or quite as remarkably scathing as 'Smile', but sticking with It’s Not Me, It’s You and penetrating its jarringly slick-meets-Garageband-amateur exterior is wholly advisable. Not perfect by any means, it nevertheless cements Allen’s status as a chronicler of daily existence.

Free The Universe reeks of chasing the success of Baauer’s 'Harlem Shake'--shich, incidentally, came out on Diplo’s Mad Decent label--like a rabid dog. As such, it’s just another notch on macho rave’s bedpost.

While '...Ghosts' is all very pretty and nice, there isn’t quite enough to get your teeth into.

The main flaw with Eno and Holland's collaboration is that words which, read on a page or spoken into silence, might have the space to spark a host of mental images, here frequently seem flattened by the music.

Because however cheesy, however smothered in Eighties patische, what Within Temptation have done is write a collection of killer melodies that are so strong it's almost impossible to sniff at them. I just wish they'd done it with a little more of a personal flourish.

You get twelve colourful washes of sound that work well on screen, but in terms of the band add up to not much more than a interesting EP.

Nine Black Alps clearly do 'get' what is so satisfying about the particular well of alternative they drink from, even if it hasn't really been all that alternative for 20-plus years.

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.

In general, Voices in a Rented Room is a pleasant if undistinguished record, two old friends revelling in each other’s company and mutual talents with the occasional moment of technical or emotional aplomb interrupting the bonhomie.

After the sass and bluster of the first half, the record settles into a rather one-dimensional groove.

Sometimes an all-encompassing desire to satisfy the album’s eccentric premise causes musical havoc. Alt-J have always revelled in a penchant for vocal distortion, frenzied percussion, cinematic strings, and reverberating synths - attributes they largely abandon in lieu of offering more traditional hip-hop elements. And sometimes it just doesn't work.

Stiff is a hard record to dislike--sometimes all you need for a good time is some well produced, straightforward rawk n’ roll, a good throwback album to channel your inner guitar purist to. If that’s what you’re looking for, Stiff more than fits the bill.

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.

It is all too easily consigned to background music if you stop paying attention.

Overall, this is a highly schizophrenic collection.

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.

Without wanting to sound too critical, there is some naive music on Wish Hotel; it feels a tad bloated in places, and there's the occasional miss in terms of instrumental choices to go along with a plethora of hits.

Despite its lengthiness, predecessor The Fool always felt structurally mighty. Warpaint, while a gentler, more complex thing, leans hard on atmosphere and collapses, elegantly.

Danger Days is a record that too often passes by with a few cursory nods of the head and the odd prickle of emotion and swell of pride that is soon washed away by another ill-considered chorus repeat or bashful refusal to drive for the summit. It ambles, it slouches; it says little of consequence.

A collection of songs and 'works', the latter of which clutter the end of the record with a mess of somewhat ill composed 'classical' pieces, Mind Trap largely acts as a collection of initial ideas, with no songs feeling overly finished.

The I Am Arrows project clearly has potential, but at 14 tracks, Sun Comes Up Again can feel like a trudge through the outback of mediocrity rather than an exciting exploration into new territory.

Father Creeper is most certainly not a perfect record, the ride is a trek back in time to the fairground, riding the dodgems, and getting shunted, lumped and banged-up as sounds collide.

Unfortunately, despite his illustrious CV and unconventional route to the release of his first album, it proves to be a competent, but disappointingly conventional affair.

Fellow Travellers is a missed opportunity for a great covers album, but as a shout-out to friends, it epitomises everything that’s endearing and admirable about Shearwater.

A lot of the magic of Kavinsky was the box freshness of his reimagining of the past, but across these 13 tracks the allure of Beverly’s Hills Cop high-tops and alien blasting game soundtracks begins to sound tired and worn out

It's a shame The New Classic can sound so heavily manufactured, if anything because interesting things happen from time to time.

Although by no means a bad record, Driving Excitement And The Pleasure Of Ownership would probably work better whittled down into a pair of EPs rather than a whole album.

It’ll probably sound a lot better when it’s been beefed up and fleshed out live on stage, but on record this album does feel a little overshadowed by earlier moments of McBean’s career.

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

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.

Tick the boxes, add a few strings, loud bit here, quiet bit there--it presents as the musical equivalent of a catering buffet that while attractive, initially satisfying and never truly souring of the palate, ends up quickly becoming a homogenised sprawl that fails to tempt you back for second helpings.

Once More ‘Round the Sun has lots to recommend it, but it’s a very safe LP that simply doesn’t provide fans with much they won’t have heard before.

What Pollinator does confirm is that there’s plenty left in the tank from Harry and Stein; next time, they might better realise that surrounding yourself with bright young things can often be the same as surrounding yourselves with your fans--and that they might well try too hard to please you.

The shorter production time of this album is perhaps reflected in the lack of variety. Of these ten songs, pretty much all of them are piano-or-guitar-led lamentations that veer conservatively in tone from vaguely melancholy to vaguely upbeat (more of the former than the latter).

As a whole, Remain Calm dies too quickly, leaving the listener hanging on the sandy, sunset-lit horizon of 'Mob of Waters'; 'I’ll Keep Going' stretches its melancholic (and mostly static) air a minute too long; and while the concept of 'Xhill Stepping' as dissected electro amuses on paper, its dry deserted dancehall yields nothing but empty space.

It’s easy to admire, but difficult to truly fall in love with.

There's plenty of promise to find within Arbor Labor Union's sanguine psych, but there's still a little further to go before the pinecones become trees with any real weight about them.

Both the Laurel Halo and Panda Bear collaborations are sadly somewhat dreary by comparison, making Tracer sag at its centre.

It's the simplest track on this album, built from ascending string motifs, plonks of piano, and a straightforward beat that offers welcome respite from Rossen's obvious obsession with dislocated rhythms.

Throughout Fantastic Planet her music sounds ordered and restricted. It’s a sound that suits some but, given that previous Noveller records thrived on unfolding at their own pace, the jury is out on how far Fantastic Planet benefits from being constrained by its determination to fit preconceived structural limits.

In a genre stacked with pathological mediocrity, Jackleg Devotional to the Heart is a relatively sure-footed success--at worst enjoyable fluff, at best a provocative, quietly electrifying treasure.

This is by no means a ‘bad’ album... and you’ll be hard-pushed to find a more topical anti-Bush punk album released this year, but after 20+ years and umpteen albums that - lets face it - haven’t really strayed much from their influential style, does anyone really need another Bad Religion album after this one?

There's something impenetrable about it, an obtuse level of abstraction and a slightly joyless delivery that really leaves this listener with no point of entry at times.

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.

But for all its wandering into uncomfortable territories, Small Sound preserves the core of Tennis’s charm, and it's savvy of the duo to (hopefully) consign their elements of feet-finding to a stop-gap EP.

Creating a 19-track album out of Black Lips’ brand of messy psychedelic punk was always going to be a huge ask. And they have nearly pulled it off.

Despite Jello Biafra’s best intentions, White People And The Damage Done seems to settle for righteous belligerence while falling some way short of being a worth soundtrack for the anti-globalisation movement.

She's made a solid album of pleasant, though slightly conventional, country pop songs, and done a good job of it. But after showing such early promise, it seems like a shame that more people won't get to hear what Alessi Laurent-Marke is capable of.

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.

There'll always be a suggestion that Rise Above is just namby-pamby, pretentious, art-for-art's-sake bollocks, and those whose ears pricked up at the Black Flag connection may well be disappointed that it rarely bears any similarity to its 'parent' album, but either way, at least it's interesting.

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

Ethereal, meandering vocals over finger-picked guitar and very soft, low-pitched strings! With slight hints of the mediaeval in the harmonies! Can my heart take the pace?

It’s just a shame to have squandered the momentum of the Brits by turning in a weaker album than the lower key "Fundamental;" a good two decades after the event, the Pet Shop Boys have well and truly entered middle age.

While Head Carrier may right some of the wrongs of Indie Cindy, it still remains a distinctly average affair from a band once considered the best band on the planet. Too often this sounds like a younger band's best impression of Pixies, or worse, a parody of themselves.

Electra Heart is a reasonably fun listen, and even if it falls short of its stratospheric ambition, still has more to say than many of Marina's contemporaries.

This behemoth double LP is a risk that just hasn’t paid off.

Acoustic Dust, really, is one for Youth completists; it’s not that Ranaldo doesn’t possess a mastery of the acoustic guitar, but rather that he’s failed to adequately display it on an album that sounds every bit as hastily recorded as it actually was.

Depeche Mode’s biggest crime is that they're just a bit boring.

For all its comparative brave departures and originality, The Third Hand just isn’t particularly engaging.

The album is in desperate need of more Alex Turner. Too often it feels like a Miles Kane and chums holiday extravaganza record.

That's Why God Made The Radio isn't terrible or embarrassing, it is just is a bit safe.

Frustrating... We know that the Beta Band have one jaw-dropping album in them. 'Hot Shots' was nearly it, but certainly this is not.

Instead of making a One Direction farewell album, they made a Take That comeback album.

It is, when it comes down to it, a sloppy gimmick. One, admittedly, that has a few choice moments, but which would have been much better served if Mercer had streamlined all his ideas down in the first place instead of treating these songs as malleable, never-finished opuses.

Stars still occupy a unique position in the pantheon of the last 15 years of indie rock, but with every No One Is Lost that goes by, they look a little less likely to pull off another Set Yourself on Fire.

It's hard to properly enjoy the songs when you’re constantly noticing their inspirations, like discovering one of those old Shine compilations made up entirely of b-sides you’ve never heard before.

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.)

Pink Friday: Roman's Revenge isn't bad because of Minaj's cross-dressing it is bad because she often tries on some very banal, characterless outfits.

It’s not that there’s a shortage of good ideas on Depersonalisation; it’s just that, in its attempts to sound lo-fi and to shroud everything in darkness, a fair few of those ideas have been smothered.

Collections is enjoyable, in the way that ready meals can be enjoyable, with their sugar hit and empty calories, their disposability and easy consumption.

For all Method’s moments of individual brilliance--“Rappers don’t really ride they piggy back/I’ll trade them all to have 2Pac and Biggy back”--clarity is lost in the sheer number of guest appearances.

Parts of this record sound more like final clasps of desperation rather than any forward progression.

You feel there's meaning to be sought for by the listener in Roberts' songs, but they simply aren't inviting enough that you'll want to open up the gates and step inside.

It's popcorn music, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. But trying to dress it up in big concepts only belies the belief that it's somehow lacking, which leads to its undoing.

A failed experiment then, all the more painful for the potential it showed.

Its fervent technicality can leave it feeling soulless, lacking grit, bite or real emotion. It can become stifling and songs tend to blur together. But there are moments of beauty too.