So yadda yadda yadda, a best of isn't as worthwhile as a group's actual albums, what a shocker.

If you've heard the singles, which you probably have, then you've heard the best Teenage Dream has to offer

This may be a more suitable album for a man of Iggy’s age to put out than his last, but that doesn’t make it a better one. Indeed the idea of an inoffensive Iggy Pop album seems itself almost offensive.

Whilst everyone else continues to pelt fellow pastiche merchants White Lies with sticks and dried lumps of shit, I might unfortunately suggest Cherish The Light Years to be an equally deserving recipiant of your faecal ammunition.

It's difficult to know where to stand with The Brink. It's vanilla, it's milk in tea, it's lager, it's a morning bowel movement. It just is.

Played out in full, the record resembles a depressing rummage through early-Nineties record racks--listenable, yes, but without the nerve to tickle more ear-pleasing teats

The general malaise that characterises Outside manifests itself in many forms: 'Mighty Long's overwhelming dearth of meaning, the sluggish pacing of 'People You Know' or the shortlived kick-back against mediocrity that is 'Freak Out'.

Too often, Scott and his band are guilty of lily gilding.

The Sunshine Underground suffers from muddled ideas and rampant over-ambition.

Again Athlete have purported a musical equivalent to a blank stare. It is there, it may intend to disperse meaning, but in the end it does nothing much, if anything at all. Blah, indeed.

There’s some interest to be found but for the most part he displays a real lack of daring.

Rose's voice is always likeable, accessible and expressive, sadly in the case of Work It Out it rarely has anything very interesting to express.

Hutchcraft might be the real problem here: he’s good at what he does, but he only does one thing: big and sad and serious.

Sure, the Foos are excellent at what they do. It’s just unfortunate that what they do is so unavoidably mediocre.

The trio’s meandering avant-rap is somehow more encumbered by its lack of ideas than its lack of editorial savvy.

Seventh Tree, though in some respects an organic redrafting of the autoerotic Goldfrapp template, picks up where Supernature left off in its setting of the controls for the heart of the mainstream, and misses badly the slickly subversive tone that lifted the band from the realms of coffee table mediocrity.

The problem isn’t in the songs themselves – there are plenty of choruses to sing along to, and some interesting lyrical snippets – it’s just that Fray has made such an effort to prove that he’s more than a swaggering Gallagher-ite that he smothers the record and doesn’t allow it to breathe.

Our Inventions feels terminally lacking in ambition and new ideas and a big step backwards for Lali Puna. The music is safe tweetronica, Trebejahr’s vocals inscrutable like a tasteful wallpaper.

For a band with such a legacy, and a pre-millennium back catalogue to die for, this record feels hollow and uninspiring.

All Hail Bright Futures withers under the glare of its own garish spotlight, and no amount of zest, pep or joviality can save it.

I listen to Milagres but I hear Coldplay.

To call 'Pretty In Black' disappointing would be an understatement in the least, particularly for a band whose delivery has matched their promise over their previous releases.

Catchy, bratty and phenomenally uninspiring, America Give Up is not so much shouting from the rooftops as howling at the moon.

While all the productions presented on End It All show real depth and attention to detail – like most releases associated with Anti-Pop Consortium – the words leave a bitter taste and the faint suggestion that Beans is way better with APC than without.

Where the two remaining musicians in the band appear to have gone astray, Michael Stipe sounds positively lost, never to be found again.

Riot sounds like a crunching, flashlight-white amalgamation of Avril Lavigne and Kelly Clarkson, save for token ballad "We Are Broken" that echoes the enchanting eighties sounds of Belinda Carlisle.

This is a collection of massive-sounding, impeccably-produced songs which mask their dearth of ideas with hackneyed bluster.

An obvious problem of the arrangements is that "big" often means cluttered, and most of the songs feel like they should have finished a verse and a chorus sooner.