Questions aside, it sounds badass; dope, even, like any good hip-hop record should.

Despite the Milberg-centric promo materials, The Concretes are clearly not just a solo star plus musicians, but the more singer-songerwiter-esque songs are the strongest here.

A number of plays through and it’s still not clear who, exactly, the band are taking the proverbial out of: themselves, playfully and absolutely intentionally, or us, fans who’ve become conditioned to not expecting the best from a band who, personally, have been a shadow of themselves since that first ‘sequel’ release.

It's the extraordinary ordinariness, sophisticated simplicity, that redeems all this: even when bass drums calmly clatter wall-to-wall like hungover flies in a jar, there's a gentle edge that's mellow and mellifluous, distant yet direct.

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

Even a past-it Smashing Pumpkins ‘reunion’ with only Corgan remaining is more acceptable than this awful mimickery and that’s not a good place for a band to be.

On the whole City Club is full of the type of synth funk nonsense that should have been left alone in the late Noughties.

With at least half of these songs, there is almost nothing to say, nothing to be baffled by, nothing to argue about, and for that sad, whimpering reason, Pacific Daydream can probably be called Weezer’s worst album.

It's an album peppered by moments of brilliance and not held back by its few brave failures and one that no one can have reasonably expected the talented quartet to have come up with.

The music here is more considered and richly teased out.

So while Blue Lambency Downward may not be punk in body, it’s certainly filled with that same defiant spirit.

Yes these notes may occasionally be pretty, and delicate, but for that kind of money you expect something spectacular and groundbreaking, something either heart-wrenching or extravagantly euphoric. What you really have is a record with all the spirit of Microsoft Excel.

Ultimately though, what saves Big TV from mediocrity isn’t its ambition, but its hooks.

These glimpses of something unexpected are few and far between, much of We Started Nothing tonally muddled into a weird new form of MOR: cool for five minutes amongst the fashionable crowd but unlikely to reach audiences beyond those fascinated with the hot and happening.

The first dip into this new Jacuzzi feels pleasant, since Sucker’s sunny party anthems fizzled out halfway through--but XCX lacks the finesse to turn this into anything beyond a mindless massage.

Overall, Distortland represents the kind of mix and match bag of tricks we've come to expect from The Dandy Warhols and while not quite attaining classic status, is a welcome return for a band who've never been afraid to stick two fingers in the face of adversity.

This EP is a welcome reminder of James’s ability to utilise decidedly avant-garde ideas in a manner that, although acutely alien to our idea of musical normality, is nevertheless engaging and inspiring.

If you’ve got the savvy to work out how some of Reality Check is actually occasionally brilliant, then you should also be able to figure out it’s also absolute shit.

Husky's best songs are carefully paced and uncomplicated; when they attempt to aim for cod-psychedelia they produce some turgid tunes.

Everything's The Rush isn't an awful record. Delays don't do awful; they just do okay, and okay might as well be called forgettable, because that's what the first part of this album is.

The lack of bang, where a band like The Whip for instance might do a good job with a similar collection of tracks, is well and truly compensated by its overall arc and atmosphere, its leisurely strides into a lazer-filled sunset proving climax enough without gimmicky drops and pandering.

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.

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.

Granted, there’s a dropped line or two (see the Katy Perry reference in the frankly appallingly saccharine ‘I’m Good’ and the misjudged Jamaican patois of ‘There Was A Murder’) but this remains an album with few weak points, and plenty of strong ones.

It seems it will take a third record for it to be fully realised, meaning that 'promising' once again seems like the right word, but on Where The Messengers Meet the Mt. St. Helens Vietnam Band do a good deal of delivering too.

Carrying almost nothing in the way of flab, Blood Red Shoes is the band standing entirely on their own four feet--a rare occurrence in modern music. They've not reinvented the musical wheel, but their strength as a unit, and as musicians, cannot be doubted.

On casual listen it’s a perfectly pleasant electro-classical record. But despite the considerable technical talents of its creator, it could be by just about anyone.

Kanye’s eighth, deeply egotistical, candidly self-aware, frequently cringe-inducing, captivatingly produced and infuriatingly compelling record.

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.

They just seems to be writing the music they enjoy, about the things they care about, and it’s done them a world of good.

Whilst back then they bounced along with cheekiness and zeal, now they seem to be trying to continue the reggae-meets-Brit-suburbia Nutty blueprint but end up falling flat in too many places.

Some Loud Thunder is a partial success. When it shines, it shines brightly and showcases a skill at crafting - when they have the balls to carry their ideas through - insanely catchy left-of-centre quirk pop a la Talking Heads.

It’s a talent for smallness in spite of showy surroundings, an Englishness that’s as convincing as anything Jamie T, Mike Skinner or Lily Allen has produced, infiltrating the upper echelons of the American music establishment.

What makes a person charming--songwriter or not--is that adaptability to a situation. It’s the sort of malleability we lose as age hardens us or we simply get stuck in our ways. But Eugene McGuinness hasn’t lost it yet.

Overall, this'll be way more easily digested by trad-minded hard rock consumers.

Even though it’s not overlong at only 55 minutes, it still feels bloated and unnecessary.

‘Emoh’ is revealing at all times, but utterly dignified throughout, and it’s a wonderful solo record.

Mellifluous, yet unenticing.

The State Of Things will no doubt be a big hit. But if anyone ever takes the time to give it a good proper listen they will find that it’s a wafer thin album of posturing and poor word play.

Blending careful harmonies with insidious melodies and woeful lyrics with clever vocals, AAF stick a couple of Hispanic influences and some string quartets in as well.

Musically, she leaves things deliberately underwritten, rooted in bass or scratchy guitar as opposed to the shiny-shiny production of her earlier work. It lets the songs speak for themselves, though it does occasionally expose their flaws as well.

This is the sound of a band fired-up and focused, and the result is a Darkness album to be proud of.

California sounds like the work of a band filled with the joy of existence, giving in to every pop indulgence or production trick that could stuff in one more hook before the end.

As good as he evidently is as an arranger for the modern pop market (props, too, for song-penning collaborators Paul Epworth and Anthony 'Eg' White)--lacks lyrical consistency: for every neat tongue twist guaranteed to have you mouthing the words back in the shower the next day, there's some truly atrocious couplet that's best forgotten before it's heard.

Fortunately Grellier includes enough moments of excitement to keep Heritage less of a soundtrack album and more a French disco LP stripped of vocals.

Galapagos will definitely keep the party going, though it might not do much more than that.

Rattle’s greatest accomplishment isn’t to just write music for drums, but to write songs that capture AND transcend this modern era we live in.

Nash hasn't just tried to continue her legacy as one of the UK's most iconic, honest and innovative pop sensations… she has completely rewritten it.

Though few would have predicted this unlikely pairing and even less would have actively willed it to happen, the fact is that Smith & Burrows have forged a handsome partnership.

If there were ever a reason for Black Rebel Motorcycle Club's existence, this would be it, and despite the false dawns of albums past, Beat The Devil's Tattoo can hold its head high as their most compulsive body of work to date.

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.

He's capable of weaving such a compelling mix of avant garde, classical and pop music, but this time the artist's self-indulgence has got the better of him.

Studiously crafted and meticulously executed from start to finish, if any doubts remained as to whether Fat White Family were the most important rock and roll band of their generation, this should put a lid on it once and for all. For Songs for Our Mothers is of a rare breed of record that's both of its time yet timeless in nature.

Nevermind the continual rebooting of their franchise, this should be the time to quietly lay the series to rest and focus on the box-sets. This band simply have nothing more to say.

With Glow & Behold, Yuck have shown they can be more than the grunge gropers Billy Hamilton billed them as and have survived saying goodbye to Blumberg--a situation that could yet see them become an altogether different and far more interesting band. However, it’s hard to shake the feeling we’re not back where we started.

On record Yes, It's True feels insubstantial, which is disappointing because when they don't go overboard they can still craft interesting music.

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.

The album is a sprawling, confusing, self-indulgent mess. Nonetheless, there are real glimmers of brilliance here.

Mercifully, this album shouldn’t even be a footnote – it’s no nadir, for sure, but it sure isn’t any good.

There are a few weaker offerings scattered across There Is A Way, 'Good Time' and 'Apostrophe' are the main offenders, but nothing that spoils a clearly accomplished record.

All in all, Empire is a rather decent garage rock album.

There’s nothing to break the mould here, nothing that stands out and surprises like ‘Dakota’ did.

It’s enjoyable, but it leaves me wondering if TLC could have pared-back the nostalgia kick to allow their new songs to stand out in their own right. The new songs here may not launch them back out into the commercial music stratosphere, but they definitely deserve to stay in orbit.

It’s not as good as its makers’ first, given the flatness of the overall production which falls well short of capturing the dynamism of the band’s live show.

So, after all this time is she still worth the time of day? Without a shadow of a doubt.

It isn't highbrow or ground-breaking, but it is fun and uplifting.

This album is Grubb’s most cinematic and balanced offering yet. It slowly burns through his moods, explores his Western panoramas and phantasmagorical musings.

If you like 'The Wrong Girl' or 'I'm Not Living In The Real World', you'll find plenty to enjoy here. If you tend to shuffle past the B&S that isn't pure Stuart Murdoch, you'll just find your punnery tolerance levels severely tested.

‘Ratchet’ sets a fairly hedonistic tone, only for things to immediately lock down.... It all makes for an intriguing opening, two sides of Bloc Party on display in addition to their strengths and weaknesses. How curious, then, that the Nextwave Sessions immediately switches the focus to that Sessions bit, ushering in a strangely repetitive run of glorified demos.

Nearly every track is catchy enough but for an act in the business of cheap, good time thrills, most fall too far from the bountiful tree of old.

Until Coco can hit upon this kind of refinement of her influences in a more general sense, she seems destined to be known firstly for who her father is and only secondly for her own artistic achievements.

The result is like a musical cab ride from hell, a forty-minute endurance test of half-baked cockney cod-philosophy.

As you'd likely expect, they're still as confused as ever.

On the whole, it matches Smith’s cheerier mood. A couple of abstract jam splodges aside, the album is punchier and less dirgy than last time.

For the most part, though, Candy for the Clowns is very good fun; straight-up rock and roll, with no interest in pretension.

World On Fire, while certainly not without charms, is a record that's happy to coast instead of climb.

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.

File under "Music for Somnambulists".

Flaws is perfectly executed and well produced and if you inhale the album in short, sharp breaths, then you may just find the middle of the road a charming place to be, for a brief moment anyway.

Nothing goes anywhere, and yet every song is so long. It’s painful.

The problem isn’t in the songs themselves – there are plenty of choruses to sing along to, and some interesting lyrical snippets – it’s just that Fray has made such an effort to prove that he’s more than a swaggering Gallagher-ite that he smothers the record and doesn’t allow it to breathe.

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.

Like Tiny Masters, these kids are at that enviable point when all this seems fresh and new. You can almost see the process of discovery burning brightly in their eyes. Skeletons perfectly captures that moment.

What you really need to know about Courtcase 2000 is that it's an incredibly accomplished LP--maiden or otherwise.

Last Night is sensible, clean, pleasant. But it lacks that essential injection of endeavour and emotion.

For the moment they have tightened the experimental purse strings, offering a less rewarding batch of songs than they’re capable of creating.

Accomplished yet instantly forgettable--a most fitting curtain call for such a confused endeavour.

It’s a horribly calculated, horrible slice of anthemic horribleness. Throughout, dreadful lyrics are in abundance, pianos are thumped and drums are bashed.

This is a loud, confident album, best enjoyed at high volume.

Get Hurt is the most brooding, ashen release yet, and not quite with their usual sombre charm.

Such relaxed saunters down musical memory lane have been done before, and often better.

It's a tighter take on pop than their early records, but as the storming energy that kicks off Heavy Mood begins to ebb away the group begins to feel oddly charmless.

He's crafted a whole album so stagnantly repetitive that one listen gives the illusion of having already been subjected to the same song again and again and again and again.

He has made the most anodyne and bland pop album possible.

While unrelenting fury is a major feature in the songs here, what really brings From Safer Place to life are the curveballs it occasionally lobs out.

Only ‘Carrion’ remotely rocks in any way, but only through a lukewarm shower wash.

Vices & Virtues is quite some distance from the triumphs of that remarkable record.