Imagine The Mars Volta's swollen red super-giant bursting beyond the constraints of mass and time and finally contracting to an all encompassing black-hole, sucking in Lightning Bolt’s heaviest riffs and The Boredoms’ most intense drum work after hurtling them to ‘n’ fro against all manner of cosmic debris.

Pursuing new directions and seeking out new sonic soundscapes is all very well, as is jamming and wailing for 30 minutes and holding 17 hour gigs. However to merely shove over two hours worth of randomly selected work onto two discs with no attempt at continuity or direction is lazy at best.

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.

The combination of Emmy and Tim's vocals is also a consistent issue throughout the record; partly a result of a seeming refusal to harmonise, but mainly because are both blessed with mellifluous tones that, whilst effective on their own, offer little variation or texture together.

The (mostly) astoundingly energetic Family is further justification of this band's fast rise and an album The Cast of Cheers can be proud of.

As an album Candela has everything: it's energetic and adventurous but these adjectives are synonymous with Mice Parade’s constant journeying through music.

The witty and intelligent intimacy of his lyrics and his finely restrained vocals growing richer with each repeated listen.

Although Success is a very solid album, from a band that have already proved themselves consistently capable of churning out suitably bad-tempered and obtrusively loud material, it’s hard to feel it’s anything we haven’t heard before, which makes it far more underwhelming than its generally high quality content suggests it should be.

It’s an example of a glorious spoken-word-music jive that’s becoming increasingly popular. It’s an electronic update on whatever happened to the eponymous Jonny from ‘Lust for Life’s lyrics. It’s a piece of nostalgia.

Quite evidently her attempt to court an urban audience after the disco leanings of this record’s immediate predecessor-–whatever 'urban' actually means nowadays-–Madonna’s sidestepping outside of her shimmer-pop comfort zone has resulted in a well-intentioned failure of an album that will be a commercial success regardless of any critical indifference.

These odd moments aside, it’s tempting to suggest that never before have a band--and a band who, let us remember, this writer awarded a generous 8/10 for their summery, tuneful debut--managed to nail mediocrity so definitely between its tired eyes.

Painted Palms have a natural ability to extract profound noise from otherwise unremarkable places, lyrically however; it's more subjective. Forgettable accounts of youthful deprecation litter the album.

Maybe !!!’s latest effort isn’t revolutionary, but it is rebellious.

While there is nothing even marginally groundbreaking here, Placebo have still returned with another steady record in Meds.

That’s the half of Relaxer that I can live with, the half that strives actively to dispel alt-J’s pretentious front and swing for the top of the charts. But then, my friends, we return to the 'House of the Rising Sun'--because here, on this wikkle precious cover version with the cyclical Leonard Cohen guitar, we’re reminded of every reason to hate the three blokes.

He only truly nails it on one track out of four doesn't bode especially well, but as I say, there's some reason to hope, and if you really don't have anything better than the Pumpkins to pin your musical hopes onto, you probably shouldn't be too nervous about checking out the next EP.

Without any obvious signifiers, Kid Kruschev could resonate for many other voices--which, granted, was also true for Jessica Rabbit, but still satisfying. And while Sleigh Bells deliver no knockout punch this time around, don’t let your guard down, or else.

This is yet another dance album that avoids the pitfalls of stringing together separately conceived singles.

The surreality and absurdity of dance music from the apocalypse is a joyful alternative to the surreality and absurdity of disaster movies and real life disasters.

It's completely inessential at best, or a cynical cash-grab at worst.

No lives will be changed, nor hearts broken, but it does what it needs to do satisfyingly well.

Whether this collection of 12 new versions, five of which have been heard before, works as a coherent album is open to debate. There can be no denying, however, that all of them honour the vision of The Race for Space in its original form.

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.

The best British debut since Oasis? Definitely... maybe. But one of the albums of the year? Without doubt.

There are only fleeting glimpses of brilliance on a long-player littered with ideas that never seemed to get past the kernel stage.

This isn’t a revivalist vanity project, oh no, it’s full of contemporary production and composition, as you’d expect given Cook’s crucial CV.

Fink still seems to be finding the confidence in his voice that when it’s pushed is truly wonderful, but most of time a little dreary and unconscious. That aside, this is a lovely little record for folk fans who like a Seventies scuff.

It holds some charms, but Peeping Tom is overshadowed by Patton’s previous work.

Ultimately, The Rakes have softened their blunt and focused their attention to detail. This is a far more cohesive record but at the expense of the brutal urgency so prominent in their debut.

Travis may have reached the kind heights where each new release is instantly dismissed by many as more disposable, daytime-radio fodder, but '12 Memories' is easily the best post-'Rush Of Blood…' soft-rock record there is.

If this is The Vines’ vision then they have set their sights on something remarkably mundane.

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

Guthrie's creative spark is as bright as ever.

Even if "Time To Dance" doesn't quite ignite the desire to boogie it--like the rest of Mixed Race--awakens something else you might not associate with Tricky: a burning interest to hear what he'll do next.

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

It’s a fatal flaw that rears itself again and again as a bastardised version of blue-collar Americana is force-fed a mass-produced strain of bland modern rock throughout all eleven tracks.

Perhaps it’s the poor choice of producer in Danger Mouse, perhaps it’s the band losing their nerve, but the whole thing feels bound by a laboured tastefulness.

This is a collection of massive-sounding, impeccably-produced songs which mask their dearth of ideas with hackneyed bluster.

If it's not a masterwork it's an evocative accompaniment to a summer's day, a sporadic but persuasive reminder of how spine-tingling Albarn's voice can be, and yet another musical genre ticked off his list with studious accomplishment and loving care.

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.

There’s a relentless energy to the music, a beguiling mix of song styles that, on paper, shouldn’t work...but does.

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.

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

Tiny Rebels sees Kelly test the boundaries of his own artistry, exploring whether something small--be that a solo act, a straightforward melody, a single thought, or even a collection of six songs--can transcend to become something greater than itself.

Overall, Wildness is a really great comeback record. There are a few dud tracks in there, especially in the first half of the album, but these are more than compensated for by the excellence of the remainder of the record.

Ultimately there are only so many excuses you can make for the fact Here Lies Love isn't an out there masterpiece, merely a somewhat outré easy listening album.

Their debut is just minute after minute of hollow pandering.

On the whole, Penny Sparkle won't fulfill everyone's expectations, but few can argue it represents another stage in Blonde Redhead's audacious quest for development, even after 17 years and eight albums of trying.

Sisyphus is almost certainly the greatest hip-hop folk-tinged electronica with a deep techno pop groove record you'll ever hear.

Off the Record is of more interest as a historical document than for the music itself--something Bartos would probably admit.

The entire record sounds like a calmly-executed upswing, both personally and professionally.

We have an album that displays a band with considerable potential, but which is disappointingly lacking in imagination: compositionally and lyrically.

A Long Place To Fall might not be outlandish enough to acquire Ulrich Schnauss an entire new legion of fans, but those discovering him for the first time could find far worse places to start.

The problem with Human (the album) is that it feels like it’s been over tooled for success, that the commercial facets of his talents have been blown up at the expense of what might have actually made him interesting.

On the whole Goodbye isn't really much more than a background music soundtrack, something that would probably sound much better in an elevator than on an iPod. That said, it’s good for running a mile to.

VOIDS is testament to a band who have never rested in their creativity, and have managed to rebuild and recreate while holding at their core the things that made them brilliant 15 years ago. Have a listen.

Whichever road they happen to tread next, it'll be worthwhile following in their footsteps.

Come Around Sundown is musical wallpaper for those who purchase such amenities from the likes of Tesco or Asda. It represents little more than a giant turd amidst a sea of mediocrity, several million of which will shortly be appearing in homes near you.

The album brims with quick 'from the gut' compositions that have been uncomplicatedly produced using simple instrumentation.

It's Madonna's conservatism that drags her latest record down to the status of a ragtag collection.

In its lack of cleverness, the album has a certain wide-eyed innocence, and even the songs about hangovers show a generous perspective on life, of which music critics could do well to take note.

there's no denying Format was made by pop geniuses; maybe pop geniuses being slightly hit and miss, but that's still pretty good.

Red Night is a launch pad, doling out tunes and following each eerie throb with a radio-ready smart bomb.

As an album it's neither bombastic enough to immediately grab you by the throat and refuse to let go, nor subtle and intricate enough to demand and reward repeated listens.

Despite something of a slow start, Letherette builds into an expansive, absorbing album, spanning a huge variety of influences and threading them together impressively within a coherent framework.

None of this is original, nor particularly appealing for anybody disinterested in a by-gone era of music production--still it's enjoyable on a level that no amount of cerebral analysis will ruin.

Taken as a three quarters of an hour lump, the narrowness of her vision is brought into sharp relief, as Keeler-Schaffeler struggles to salvage a bona fide record from admirably restless blogging.

It’s an emotional record.

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.

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

A few tracks towards the end of In Guards We Trust will maybe sound better once you’ve fully absorbed the single fodder of the record, but the psychedelic moments of ‘Your Man’ just don’t hit the spot for me as they may for fans of later MGMT noise.

Whilst materially an improvement on its predecessor, the move to electronica is superficial.

Listening to Barbara is like watching the England football team; expectations are high at the outset and true to form, things get off to a rousing start. However, after the halfway mark normality sets in, there's an alarming sense of underachievement and long before its conclusion, you're dismissing them as hapless failures.

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.

It’s not going to convince anyone new to pick up Duran Duran's records and it doesn’t surpass their previous work.

Nevertheless, the casual listener will have little to soak up from here, only surface bruising. The masochists amongst us already know we’re gonna get our kicks from this.

This... might just be too scatterbrained for its own good.

Contrary to popular belief, there is a great album waiting to be unleashed from the Brooklyn trio in the not-too-distant future. They just haven't given themselves time to make it yet.

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.

Perhaps the highest praise of Lights Out is that it portrays the gamut of romantic and sexual longings and emotions of adolescence with the honesty that you would expect from someone who recently experienced them, but with poise, melodic nous and a musical maturity that doesn't forsake youthful vitality.

It'll take about half an hour before you are asked to leave, but it'll be avery special half an hour that you'll only slightly and in some ways regret.

History of Modern is a record for the die-hard OMD fans only and those who have followed them throughout their career up to their last record 14 years ago might enjoy acquainting themselves with new, but familiar sounds.

It’s a mixed bag then: sometimes they hit bull’s-eye, other times they miss the board altogether, but the erratic results reveal a band dragging themselves out of their comfort zone.

It continues one of the most singular artistic visions of modern times and while it may not push it any further it’s often so damn charming as to make you forget about all that and just drift away into Lynch’s meditative world, in wrong love with the weird.

Treat Where Were You When It Happened? as the, in a very real sense, dry run for their shows. Their fun house is as much Pat Sharp as it is the Stooges, but it’s not without its merits.

For all the nostalgia and bland meanderings it is worth visiting this record for the closing tracks alone--but you might not want to come back too often.

A few clunkers aside, the songwriting is sensational throughout. And Jones’ voice is more cat purringly perfect than ever.

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

Having played with Wild Nothing, Titus Andronicus, Crocodiles and Male Bonding they are finely adept in the art of live performance and worth catching. But the album? Yeah it's alright: simple and catchy fuzz pop.

To be honest though that’s an issue with Towards generally--that so much of this can pass by barely registering a memory.

Big Mess is hardly much more than ten stabs at reclaiming a relevancy that was only marginally theirs to begin with.

Equal parts heavenly aural relief and blood tripping, screaming noise.

Taken as a body of work it is certainly more consistent than Hot Fuss.

Rip This is completely ignorable, and not a fun ambient music way.

While Seeing Sounds is a marginal improvement on N*E*R*D’s second album, and a massive leap forward from Pharrell’s damp-squib of a solo record, it doesn’t quite reach the heights of (either version of) their debut, let alone the pick of Pharrell and Chad’s production work for other people.

Frequently unpleasant, but consistently interesting.

A big stinking pile of rubbish.

A top-heavy track-listing does the album's more abstract curios no favours, and some will find it too much to take in in one sitting. But for me, headphones donned and lights extinguished, each submersion is every bit as worthy as the last.