The fact of the matter is that Bryan Ferry has produced another album of inessential middle-of-the-road cosmopolitan adult-pop. The only difference is that this time they are his own songs.

A rather average document, already a relic on arrival, with about three standout songs among a soporific wash of over-polished Flying Nun imitations.

The biggest problem with You Cross My Path isn’t so much the music though; sure it’s not an invigorating brew, but the blend of swirling Hammond and ponderous bass and drums stays on the right side of tepid most of the time.

Despite the immense joy of the final five songs, the prospect of a repeat play is a discouraging one when the first five brought forth a cynicism entirely unwelcome among a collection designed to elicit wonder.

While it certainly shows Blink to have the potential for much more than their past reputation may convey, Neighborhoods is reminiscent of that first awkward conversation after a heated argument, as no-one's quite sure where to go next.

Lynn Teeter Flower isn’t bad by any means. It’s just too safe, too predictable.

Again penned almost entirely by Campbell before tweaked to fit Lanegan’s whisky-guzzled grumbling, there’s a distinct element of ‘seen it, done it, milking it’ to every rootsy, airsome shanty and, although executed with exemplary grace, it seems there’s not quite enough fuel left to stoke the fires of desire once more.

FOW just seem go through the motions. No sweat. No tongue in cheek either.

Zeitgeist sounds like a watered-down version of the best bits from Mellon Collie…, meaning it just ends up being too similar to Machina… for its own good.

Play Music is a good idea poorly executed.

For the most part, it feels like either overweening confidence or desire to snare rudderless Oasis fans has led to Kasabian attempting the sort of conventional guitar pop record that they've always so successfully avoided making.

In subduing and possibly internalising his animalistic anger and youthful vigour, the introspective search for his new identity is yet to bear any real musical fruit.

For Wilderness Heart remains, ultimately, a collection of ten tracks of roughly equal length, each taking roughly one classic idea and pickling it in (admittedly, impeccably realised) production gloss and traditionalist technique.

For every full colour oil on canvas there are two doodles that fail to engage this sympathetic listener even after five or six plays.

The album just about manages to avoid the trappings of both quirky and medieval, which is no mean feat for a flute based album.

The majority of the album is the future of all dinnerparties, the dinnerparty that never ends, a spooling aeon of trite politeness, as your dry android host projects his Facebook photos into your retina for eternity.

Some of the weakest, most un-affecting songs that Kurt Wagner has ever written. [combined review of both discs]

To the casual ear, this could be any of their other albums. But with such a consistent sound, it becomes harder for individual songs to stand out.

What’s clear is how badly Marr needs a foil, a counterpart, a collaborator, because on his own his ideas only seem to stretch so far, and so, sadly, does our good will.

While occasionally striking like a brilliant, blinding lightning bolt, they all too often seem to ride a wave of bleating mediocrity to multi-platinum heights.

Happiness promises the rough edges and absurdity of one era's pop, but for the most part gives the mum-friendliness of the next. Hurts would surely be better if they committed to one or the other.

This is a limping, bloodless version of The Civil Wars, and if the band is to have a future they need to fix their issues, or else learn to channel the damage better.

There are those that will love this record, for whom it will be the gateway into earlier, richer work. But for those of us who have already been spellbound by what Ben Bridwell can create, this is simply not enough.

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

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

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.

It’s an album certain of what it wants to be, but lacking in the naturalness needed to truly convince, let alone amaze.

Beast Moans suffers from one weakness: the three members apparently forgot to stop and listen to each other before forging ahead with their own ideas.