As a beginner's introduction to Cornell's work, Songbook is exemplary, but for the fans, who this is apparently aimed at, it fails to completely satisfy.

The co-writes--not as many as you might’ve expected--generally boom from the speakers. The self-penned efforts are bare-boned, erratically excellent but frustratingly blighted by Adele’s penchant for going beyond her capabilities as a vocalist.

So with six months worth of perspective since their debut album's first release, Azari & III didn't quite create a storming LP to match the promise of those early singles.

This is an agreeable record, but it comes from a man who we know is capable of something sublime.

Its conceptual limits are conspicuously narrow.

Suuns don't need to be a Queens of the Stone Age, but they have the potential to do more than just throw a cool clutch of songs together.

It's not a massive progression from their debut, and it appears that as the rest of the world has finally caught up with them, the duo from space appear to be having problems going forward.

It drags a little, it meanders a touch too often, and you are left wondering if there is anyone at the helm at all.

Women As Lovers is proof positive that if navel gazing was an extreme sport, Xiu Xiu would be its leading practitioners, wielding an earnest approach which, while occasionally proving scary and even moving, borders heavy-handedness and rapidly becomes oppressive.

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

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.