Unlike Robbers and Cowards and Loyalty to Loyalty, the Kids have taken a completely different angle on their music writing, taking a similar road to that of Arcade Fire's The Suburbs by adding a slice of pop to their sound.

In the end, Electronic Earth comes off more as a greatest hits collection than an album proper but that's no bad thing.

This is a somewhat underwhelming effort, once again pushing any idea of recapturing that lost magic even further towards the back of their cabinet of curiosities.

While The Terror of Cosmic Loneliness is not a complete disaster, even the most loyal of fans will find it difficult to love. The end result sounds quickly thrown together and unusually bereft of ideas.

Shame on the person who made this. Shame on the people who release, market and play this. And shame on anyone who buys it.

Despite the so-called grandiose statements of intent such as strings, pianos and soul-trained female backing vocalists, this is simply a case of mutton dressed as lamb and those lambs eventually being slaughtered.

The songwriting is solid but although their overall sonic palate has been shuffled, they remain a band largely focused on doing things with a tried-and-tested format.

There’s flashes of very skilled songwriting, but there’s also the cynical, calculated feel of a record built with a certain commercial targets in mind.

Limp and uninspiring, this is a disappointing effort considering the potential the band initially showed back in 2009.

He is annoying, simple as; his repeated ego-stroking irritates like a mosquito bite on an already sunburned forearm – it only adds to the pain.

Overall Animal is a dumb album. Where it tries to be empowering and fun it comes off sounding like a spoilt brat singing the American Pie script through auto-tune.

It's not an especially coherent set; because wonderful as most of these songs are, they'd have been better if the perfectionist band had finished them properly.

Cells is coherent, yet not without the odd welcome respite or a few anomalies.

For now, Strength In Numbers, whilst not exactly redefining the zeitgeist, is a lot better than anyone could have expected.

Wilder Mind is incredibly one-track, so much so that even on your first listen-through, you’ll likely already feel like you’ve heard closer ‘Hot Gates’ five or six times in the past hour.

As The D.O.T., the material on Diary has an honesty of its own, at times perfectly balancing Skinner and Harvey’s styles.

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.

Following on from last year's EP1, this a tougher, leaner Pixies than that of their classic era, missing some of the ramshackle charm on which their most well known work floated.

The downer is that nothing here can touch the early pop gems that can still see even the more stringently alternative spill their JD and cokes, and without that it's all too easy to start thinking this record is a lot worse than it actually is.

This is a bad album. The power ballads have some good elements. You might sing one of these songs at karaoke one day. You should not listen to this album in its entirety.

Despite the self-therapy and tonal lulls, Christopher is a highly listenable affair that produces two truly outstanding moments.

What we have to deal with is a record we already fully understand, a record that we can’t project our own ideas on to, and that’s a shame. It’s nice to dream every now and then, Adam. Let us dream.

This is music aimed squarely for the naïve-at-heart, and the industrial knife-sharpeners are best waved elsewhere than at the entirely likeable Young. If these genteel Casio-noodlings are what the kids are going to be listening to in 2010, I predict a peaceful year for the rest of us.

On Black they sound fully invested into exploring, and more than capable of handling, a new pop sound. This is a unique addition to Weezer’s discography that sees them preparing for the future, however bleak and overwhelming it might seem.

It’s a real shame Witness has come out as a bit of a disjointed mess, as there’s a decent record somewhere in there, but it gets lost in the fog of endless guest productions and co-writes that miss the point entirely.

By aiming to sound like U2 and Pink Floyd, AVA ends up sounding like an emo version of an even more plodding Coldplay.

Succinctly, it's a crap record.

Though the songs are both numerous and short, they’re mostly a solitary musical idea that tends not to be explored too far, well done as it might be.

Lyrically, things grate from the off, with cringe-worthy and rudimentary rhyming couplets being Peñate’s irritating stock in trade. By the end, everything has blended into a graceless, jaunty melange of up-down guitar strokes, bellowed vocals and mid-tempo skanks.

If electroclash left you cold... then this is, idealistically, how it should have sounded.

I was expecting a record full of opportunities to hang BFS out to dry, but there aren't any obvious faux-pas. Fishin' for Woos is solid because when a band is together this long they know what they're doing.

A sprawling debut which is as rich in its influences as it is in its sonic make-up. It is by no means an instant record – unless you happen to find yourself amongst some dynamic scenery or situation – but what it does is unravel, slowly and surely.

A deeply personal, occasionally lifeless but equally insightful passage into the latest chapter of Richard Ashcroft's life story.

Slipway Fires is preposterous, and in a way I actually wish I liked it more.

I have to accept that the band I once loved is now nothing more than a distant memory. Songs such as 'Tangerine' and 'Crash' have long been replaced by the new sound which owes much more to Keane and Coldplay in their melancholic approach.

This is an utterly pointless record with no artistic merit, creative spark or genuine ambition whatsoever.

An unremarkable, yet solid record.

A few highlights aside, it’s hard to understand why at least a half-dozen of these over-glossed R&B-lite numbers ever made it out of their maker’s mind.

If you've heard the singles, which you probably have, then you've heard the best Teenage Dream has to offer

Like Oasis' first album, it's definitely going to bring people together, and it will certainly start mass sing-alongs, but something tells me The Others won't be making it to a stadium near you anytime soon.

With Monochrome, Hamilton seems to have realised that stepping away from the majors and their requisite studio production sludge can only be a good thing. Now, if he can find a new direction to blaze in rather than re-tread thrice-covered ground, he may be on to something.

Not only are these not the greatest songs in the world, they're not even a tribute to them.

Some of their critics will remain unmoved, but the fact remains: Kodaline have acquired confidence in their abilities and are on top form throughout their second LP.

It’s neither poor enough to warrant a panning, nor progressive enough to deserve praising to a degree where recommendation to absolute beginners is necessary.

As pastiche, this all makes for a fragmented and cumbersome back-to-back listening experience - utterly dominated by wild mood swings. But with so many independently functioning songs on offer, certain suites of two or three become hands down irresistible.

This is dead-eyed pop with aspirations of being your comfort food but turns out to be a starchy soulless slop.

Perhaps the worst crime is that Ashcroft never even gives that wonderfully expressive voice of his a proper workout; he hasn’t written anything here that demands he really go for it. Instead, These People is an album that’s so safe, it’s almost dangerous.

Up, Guards And At Em is powerfully akin to going back to a club you haven't been to in years, only to find the same soundtrack playing. And there's few people out there who wouldn't find that boring.

Ultimately, ‘Winning Days’ is an highly frustrating listen.

It seems that despite decades of oversharing, self-analysis, bombast, outrage and drama, Eminem does, still, have something to say, as well as the means to say it.

A voice like Maguire's deserves infinitely better than the calculated dross on display here.

Hurrah for all those who delight in confounding expectations, especially when the results are this unexpectedly, paradoxically delightful.

Over and over again What About Now pitches itself at the same commercially anthemic middle ground as U2, ideal for talent show montages and inspiring moments at award shows but ultimately anemic, soulless and forgettable.

Ultimately Borrell 1 is a better-than-serviceable rock record complicated by myriad preconceptions, all which are further skewered by some fantastically hubristic song titles.

Black and White Rainbows seems to have been produced by the committee who did the backing tracks for the original Guitar Hero--every edge sanded smooth, compliant and utterly indistinct. There are no dynamics to be found on this LP, only ‘on’ or ‘off’.

The rest of the record is a confused meander through some of the lesser known backstreets of this over-familiar band.

Lyrically, the album only deteriorates into further embarrassment.

Unlike other would-be indie-dance pretenders, this is properly danceable stuff; fat basses and catchy percussion beats are punctured by intoxicating keyboard motifs.

Sex Dreams and Denim Jeans really should have been released a couple of years ago when Uffie was at the height of her fame. She should have struck while the iron was hot. She’s missed the boat completely now.

Play Music is a good idea poorly executed.

Again Athlete have purported a musical equivalent to a blank stare. It is there, it may intend to disperse meaning, but in the end it does nothing much, if anything at all. Blah, indeed.

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

It’s a pleasant mess, it’s well-meaning, and there’s enough pop here to satisfy the band’s fans.

As a creative artefact however, its merits are limited, and does little, if anything, to contribute to Tim Burton’s creative vision.

Too many cheesy keyboard presets, no engagement with contemporary 'urban' forms, no distinct personality, one half-decent song, a facsimile of a thing as opposed to the thing itself.

Each track is well structured and well-executed; never staying for longer than it should do or even doing anything on the whole that it shouldn't.

While Don Broco’s desire not to retread old ground is commendable, their stated desire to focus on what makes them stand out as a rock band has fallen a little flat.

Bland and instantly forgettable.

It is laudable for Smith to try and eschew the eccentric frontman label in favour of something more cerebral. But in attempting to reach for the moon, he ends up merely stalled and snagged, dangling awkwardly from an unwieldy scaffold of clumsy platitude and hollow couplets.

Athlete seem to have found a formula in the studio and left the autopliot in reverse.

Absolutely without spark and wholly forgettable.

The intensity on Billy Talent III feels the same as the intensity of the band's live show, awkwardly forced and absolutely repellent.

In truth, it feels rather lightweight, as do much of Ryan James and Tomas Greenhalf's more adventurous flourishes, seldom though they are. As the narrative unfolds, nothing arrives at the punch of promising earlier efforts.

You know what you're getting with Good Charlotte, and while it's all very well and respectable to make shapes on the dance floor to one of their tunes after several pints, buying this album is both pointless and foolish. It's a pop album; just burn the singles if you must.

This is not just the band’s worst record, it’s also the worst record with any profile to be released this year.

Devoid of inspiration, lacking in any edge, this is pathetic.

This aggressive tone is a constant throughout and pretty much breaks new boundaries in sounding absolutely ridiculous.

Don't you want to think? Don't you enjoy thinking? Or do you instead prefer listening to background whining? Are you happy to settle for this?

This is a largely irritating and fairly hollow unit shifter, that despite its upbeat nature feels like a cynical move to market.

It is the preponderance of bland dance tracks (the inane 'Go Hard (La.La.La)', 'Twerkin'' and the abysmal 'luV haus' et al) lacking the wit of her previous singles, which consign this debut to a failure.

Iglu & Hartly are collectively giving the nation a wedgy and nobody seems to even care, that is why this is the worst album of the year.

Where the was once teen angst, there is nowt but middle-aged resignation. And no, the lyrics to ‘Ironic’ still aren’t bloody ironic.

Ultimately, despite some innovation, United Nations of Sound cannot transcend the presence of its architect, who renders half the tracks fundamentally unlistenable with his horrible attempts to play gospel preacher or loverman.

All in all, it’s a shambles. Incarnation No 4 lacks the interesting feminine insight of Rihanna’s latest, the flamboyance and ‘balls’ of Lady Gaga, the nous of Annie, anything approaching the vocal talents of Beyoncé or the nonsensical slapstick fun of Girls Aloud.

Perhaps the worst aspect of ONe is how on autopilot the band sounds. Even the flat-out rockers – like the opener, 'Teahouse Of The Spirits' – contain no guitar pyrotechnics and come off sounding limp and perfunctory.

Lil Wayne’s status and influence is now clearly working against him, the choice to release a rock record has backfired, yet obviously no-one has had the guts or inclination to tell him that the overblown choruses and riffs of Rebirth drag him away from the in-your-face lyricism and unorthadox flows that he is best at.

There isn't really an awful lot else to say. Famous First Words might not be the worst record you'll hear this year, but it's certainly one of the most pointless.

Yet none of this is enough to relieve the air that everything on Curse Our Love has been intentionally dumbed down to make it as easily digestible as possible. Above all this album's great many sins, this is what offends the most.

By psychobilly's own modern standards it's serviceable, faithful, consistent and good for a groggy pogo, but in the greater scheme of things there's very little here to nourish the modern punk fan.