Eclipse blacks out nuance of every kind, resulting in a record which achieves its ambitions for sheer, bludgeoning vastness, but falls down on actually engaging the listener in simpler, more relatable ways.

The milquetoast, wholegrain rock of My Old, Familiar Friend never really rises out of the mire to become anything other than a pleasant and forgettable toe-tapper.

On the moments that they commit to one priority over the other, Crushed Beaks show an energetic flair which most likely translates to a blistering live sound. But when they try to split the difference, the results are middling on Scatter.

There’s a lot here that’s nice, but nothing that really screams out its demands to be listened to.

Oh Land, however, inhabits a tepid middle ground between the two extremes – offering neither gilded Scandi chart-pop (Robyn, Annie) or the artistic mettle of Scandi indie bands, most of whom are able to turn out sublime pop anyway.

It's a pleasant enough experience on the whole, but could've been so much more--and that is what's so frustrating with Rituals.

It’s not as good as its makers’ first, given the flatness of the overall production which falls well short of capturing the dynamism of the band’s live show.

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

Far from implying that mind-expansion = mesmerising creativity, jj no 3 unfurls like it's going through the course of a drug-induced reaction.

Musically, the song structures are as bog-standard as Britpop, the lyrics constantly teeter on the edge of nonsense, while the lack of any real change in style save for rotating the guy on vocals means the tracks continue to merge into one another even after a few listens.

Nina Persson may have dropped the guise of A Camp, but Animal Heart is too emotionally unengaging to leave you feeling like you know her any better for it and compared to Colonia’s more colourful palette it feels, if not quite beige, then at best a dull taupe.

While Hooded Fang's two-and-a-half minute pop songs are absolutely fine, you'll struggle to find the time for them when there are already so many better ones out there.

Too often songs come across as a pastiche of the Atlanta group, with none of the splashes of colour, none of the real sense of building atmosphere.

Computers and Blues, ultimately, just passes the test with a studious recount. It is neither atrociously bad nor staggeringly good: no stand-outs, no teeth-clenching clunkers. It is just okay.

There is plenty of decent stuff going on in the duo's third record, but it still never really takes off into any rarified territory.

Master of My Make Believe has the feel of being made deliberately difficult to listen to; obstructionist for the sake of being obstructionist, confrontational without really having anything to argue against - except what might, ultimately, be self-imposed expectations.

Though occasional glimpses of that trademark Beta Band brilliance appear, Astronomy For Dogs fails to act as much more than a reminder to listen to Anderson and company’s former glories.

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.

It is, ultimately, an unimaginative album from a promising band. Better records may lie ahead for them, but for now they will struggle to reach far beyond their existing fanbase.

It actually feels quite sterile in a lot of places; a bit too afraid to show its cards, a bit too afraid to get its hands dirty.

While it's obviously been personally cathartic, you have to think that it's far from the best record Benjamin could have put out.

This isn't a character assassination (honest), more an explanation why an album that's actually pretty accomplished, musically, should, in the end, prove so forgettable. Even though guitarist Robbie Stern's classical training has been put to good use with some of these arrangements, all too rarely are other band members allowed to shine.

It’s OK, it’s not bad, but it’s largely standard Weezer and the stand-out tracks are fewer and further between.

There's an absolutely great EP somewhere amongst the length of Darwin Deez's debut, it's just unfortunate that it's been distilled into a sub-par full-length.

As an album, The High Country is a little disappointing, as fans of Richmond Fontaine might wish for something a little more traditional in the structure, or at least for the story idea to have been realised better.

AM lacks that character empathy: rather than being detached--ie, cool, wry, transverted--Turner is removed (impulsive, anxious, dull) and it is this subtle distinction that shoots AM down in its shiny leather metal-toed boots.

Rules may not be the shape of what’s to come, but there’s also little offence to be found in its unobtrusive ways.

Whatever the case, for Christina Aguilera, the x-factor has gone. The daring single minded focus has apparently been lost.