Imagine The Mars Volta's swollen red super-giant bursting beyond the constraints of mass and time and finally contracting to an all encompassing black-hole, sucking in Lightning Bolt’s heaviest riffs and The Boredoms’ most intense drum work after hurtling them to ‘n’ fro against all manner of cosmic debris.

Pursuing new directions and seeking out new sonic soundscapes is all very well, as is jamming and wailing for 30 minutes and holding 17 hour gigs. However to merely shove over two hours worth of randomly selected work onto two discs with no attempt at continuity or direction is lazy at best.

Some of the songs like 'Miss You' and 'In The Grace of Your Love' have genuinely good moments and are enjoyable whilst they last. However, it's hard to escape the feeling that this is a band struggling to define themselves in a musical context that no longer needs them.

The combination of Emmy and Tim's vocals is also a consistent issue throughout the record; partly a result of a seeming refusal to harmonise, but mainly because are both blessed with mellifluous tones that, whilst effective on their own, offer little variation or texture together.

The (mostly) astoundingly energetic Family is further justification of this band's fast rise and an album The Cast of Cheers can be proud of.

As an album Candela has everything: it's energetic and adventurous but these adjectives are synonymous with Mice Parade’s constant journeying through music.

The witty and intelligent intimacy of his lyrics and his finely restrained vocals growing richer with each repeated listen.

Although Success is a very solid album, from a band that have already proved themselves consistently capable of churning out suitably bad-tempered and obtrusively loud material, it’s hard to feel it’s anything we haven’t heard before, which makes it far more underwhelming than its generally high quality content suggests it should be.

It’s an example of a glorious spoken-word-music jive that’s becoming increasingly popular. It’s an electronic update on whatever happened to the eponymous Jonny from ‘Lust for Life’s lyrics. It’s a piece of nostalgia.

Quite evidently her attempt to court an urban audience after the disco leanings of this record’s immediate predecessor-–whatever 'urban' actually means nowadays-–Madonna’s sidestepping outside of her shimmer-pop comfort zone has resulted in a well-intentioned failure of an album that will be a commercial success regardless of any critical indifference.

These odd moments aside, it’s tempting to suggest that never before have a band--and a band who, let us remember, this writer awarded a generous 8/10 for their summery, tuneful debut--managed to nail mediocrity so definitely between its tired eyes.

Painted Palms have a natural ability to extract profound noise from otherwise unremarkable places, lyrically however; it's more subjective. Forgettable accounts of youthful deprecation litter the album.

Maybe !!!’s latest effort isn’t revolutionary, but it is rebellious.

While there is nothing even marginally groundbreaking here, Placebo have still returned with another steady record in Meds.

That’s the half of Relaxer that I can live with, the half that strives actively to dispel alt-J’s pretentious front and swing for the top of the charts. But then, my friends, we return to the 'House of the Rising Sun'--because here, on this wikkle precious cover version with the cyclical Leonard Cohen guitar, we’re reminded of every reason to hate the three blokes.

He only truly nails it on one track out of four doesn't bode especially well, but as I say, there's some reason to hope, and if you really don't have anything better than the Pumpkins to pin your musical hopes onto, you probably shouldn't be too nervous about checking out the next EP.

Without any obvious signifiers, Kid Kruschev could resonate for many other voices--which, granted, was also true for Jessica Rabbit, but still satisfying. And while Sleigh Bells deliver no knockout punch this time around, don’t let your guard down, or else.

This is yet another dance album that avoids the pitfalls of stringing together separately conceived singles.

The surreality and absurdity of dance music from the apocalypse is a joyful alternative to the surreality and absurdity of disaster movies and real life disasters.

It's completely inessential at best, or a cynical cash-grab at worst.

No lives will be changed, nor hearts broken, but it does what it needs to do satisfyingly well.

Whether this collection of 12 new versions, five of which have been heard before, works as a coherent album is open to debate. There can be no denying, however, that all of them honour the vision of The Race for Space in its original form.

Overall, this album isn’t bad, it’s very easy to listen to and it’s quite likeable with some beautiful moments. However, it doesn’t bring with it the life-altering, head-over-heels feeling that I’ve had before with previous BFL albums. Perhaps my expectations are too high but it would be great to see a bit more grit and energy for the next release.

The best British debut since Oasis? Definitely... maybe. But one of the albums of the year? Without doubt.

There are only fleeting glimpses of brilliance on a long-player littered with ideas that never seemed to get past the kernel stage.

This isn’t a revivalist vanity project, oh no, it’s full of contemporary production and composition, as you’d expect given Cook’s crucial CV.

Fink still seems to be finding the confidence in his voice that when it’s pushed is truly wonderful, but most of time a little dreary and unconscious. That aside, this is a lovely little record for folk fans who like a Seventies scuff.

It holds some charms, but Peeping Tom is overshadowed by Patton’s previous work.