There is the potential for something more than a mildly decent album in Sleep Forever. It's the arrogant self-indulgence that really holds the album back from being what it could be.

While World Wide Rebel Songs exudes confidence, its execution is like attempting to cross too many "T"s with your eyes closed: odds are that you'll get one or two right, but it's impossible to consistently hit the mark.

It has an idle drifting quality that suits casual listening very well. Whether that's all you want from an album is another question.

Planet Earth’ll leave you feeling decidedly short-changed.

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

If you come to Safe Trip Home without expecting the big hits or a surprise collaboration with a rapper, you’ll be disappointed. If you’re a Dido faithful who’s just endured five years of hell, you’ll find she’s is still the perfect soundtrack to your life.

The tracks may not be anything particularly bold or new, but this formula has been honed for long enough to make them successful, largely at least.

It is the preponderance of bland dance tracks (the inane 'Go Hard (La.La.La)', 'Twerkin'' and the abysmal 'luV haus' et al) lacking the wit of her previous singles, which consign this debut to a failure.

‘Songs For The Deaf’ worked because it had the tunes to handle the drama. It dared you to hate it at first so that it could eventually win you over, which made its triumph all the greater. But with ‘Lullabies To Paralyze’ you’re waiting a long time to be won over, and when it finally happens, it’s far too brief.

The majority of this record meanders along like a fuel-starved express train whose driver has taken an extended lunchbreak; experimental noise follows more experimental noise.

This self-titled album isn’t bad, and certainly far from unlistenable. But in refusing to risk being something other than middle of the road, they have become arguably worse. It’s boring.

Like a lot of great records, Masters Of The Burial is minimally arranged, slowly performed and quietly recorded; but there's never a spark here because Millan doesn't give enough of herself to it.

On occasion, it’s actually borderline thrilling but those moments are too few and far between.

Unfortunately, the hour-long main section of Jojo Burger Tempest is too hollow to be of much merit. The great variety of timbres on the album creates a psychedelic vibe, but the songs themselves are simply lacking in focus.

It’s not going to convince anyone new to pick up Duran Duran's records and it doesn’t surpass their previous work.

Unfortunately these familiar sounding highlight aren't enough to raise Bad Lieutenant above the level of any other New Order side-project and they in fact fall some way short of Sumner Electronic.

The album is a sprawling, confusing, self-indulgent mess. Nonetheless, there are real glimmers of brilliance here.

Sadly, there’s little to add to that post-Bracket mixtape here; aside from the single and 'UnBiloTitled'--a track that first appeared on internet forums years ago. Sedated by Street's production, the band lose the wild, rubbish quality that Mick Jones' incompetence presented them with just as they're learning how to write focused songs.

Consolers of the Lonely is often grotesquely overblown despite moments of genuine excitement.

Alvvays were the perfect band to listen to when a need arose to forget about life. Despite its title, Antisocialites doesn’t manage to accomplish the same thing.

Restraint and getting to the point are valuable commodities in music, but Too True misfires in this regard.

There are moments of decently sassy pop-rock here, songs that you can just about see someone singing along to, hairbrush for microphone, in front of the mirror before a night out. But these moments are few and far between, and are exclusively the tracks featuring a vaguely vibrant BPM count.

As an album it's neither bombastic enough to immediately grab you by the throat and refuse to let go, nor subtle and intricate enough to demand and reward repeated listens.

This feels like an opportunity missed; his defences are never truly down, and we’re only offered tantalising glimpses of what might have been.

A step backwards, demonstrating that to rehash old sounds you need to prop them up with new tunes.

The biggest crime here is that it sounds so dated-listening to Flesh Tone is a bit like watching a filmmaker failing to ape the innovation of The Matrix more than a decade after it was made.

The band have retreated back to their pre-4AD line-up and reined in the overtly pop instincts of After the End, instead content to needle at a single idea in the hope of coaxing something memorable.

Its great moments really are great, and shouldn’t be underestimated. However, when an album is bookended between two potential song of the year contenders with little to grasp in between, it’s difficult to really get too invested in this record.