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.