A French Kiss In The Chaos is neither artistically interesting nor indeed very good.

So safe they remain for Slow Air--with the same airbrushed slick of 2016’s Dead Blue, Greg Hughes and Tessa Murray pare back the fog machines and phone in a mostly forgettable series of pleasant enough new wave, as distant and vague as the storybook rainforest on the cover.

It has flashes (man this is writing itself), but they are like good new Simpsons episodes: few and far between.

Amidst the overstuffed yet predictable arrangements, the middle-of-the-road sentimentalism and lack of killer tunes, these brief moments can't prevent Ways To Forget itself proving to be largely forgettable.

All we're presented with here is a collection of half-baked, badly-produced versions of sounds we heard a couple of years ago.

That it still ends up being reasonably affecting is testament to the band’s essential likeability, but it’s not enough to escape the feeling that We’ll Live And Die... is a record that’s worryingly lacking in presence or character.

It’ll no doubt be lapped up by impressionable 14 year old girls the world over, but for a show that has so much more to offer this just smacks of studio exec. cash-in.

There's nothing wrong with making demands of the listener, but there's little to no reward to be found across these eight increasingly alienating compositions.

It'll no doubt sell by the bucket load; it's one for the completists and dads at Christmas, but first timers looking for an introduction to The Clash should definitely look elsewhere.

Perhaps it’s the poor choice of producer in Danger Mouse, perhaps it’s the band losing their nerve, but the whole thing feels bound by a laboured tastefulness.

In combination it’s not adding much--except that little something in the twang of Bell’s voice which is completely unique and compelling--a little something almost completely drowned out by obvious platitudes maintained for a bit too long and with a few too many strings in the background.

Wilder Mind is incredibly one-track, so much so that even on your first listen-through, you’ll likely already feel like you’ve heard closer ‘Hot Gates’ five or six times in the past hour.

Ephemeral, blissful, ambient.... It’s also a mess. But it chooses to be a mess. It tries to be a mess that’s smoothed over and therein genius should reside. But it hasn’t done that. Instead all that is presented is two overlong tracks of snippets of stuff.

It’s an album that’s playing it far too safe: melodies rise and fall, soaring and curving with painful predictability.

The sensitive sections are fine but tritely Musak at times. The power-soul sections feel a bit, sorry but, Jools Holland-y. There's nothing concrete that you can pinpoint that makes it feel false or weak per se.

Charm aside, it's an album by a cat.

This isn’t a particularly awful record--it’s simply a album full of typical sounding Stereophonics songs

Peel back the façade, and you’ll find two white dudes parroting phrases and stealing time-tested tricks to sustain the rebel mirage, to cover for the fact that they have no clue what they’re even talking about.

Slipway Fires is preposterous, and in a way I actually wish I liked it more.

While there are fleeting moments of inspiration, Solo Electric Bass is a cavernous black hole that is mostly devoid of anything truly affecting.

History of Modern is a record for the die-hard OMD fans only and those who have followed them throughout their career up to their last record 14 years ago might enjoy acquainting themselves with new, but familiar sounds.

The way London transcends genres and creates a blend between hip-hop and post-rock is certainly commendable, but there's nothing here that we haven't heard from TV on the Radio to save this album from sounding just a little bit silly.

This is an album that maintains the joyless musical brand Hutchcraft and Anderson crystallised with their two million selling debut.

Comprising of a sound that, though perfectly pretty, has already been done, and words that have already been said, Theyesandeye doesn’t really bring anything new to music.

Magna Carta... Holy Grail isn't a total bust, but neither is it anywhere close to Jay-Z's finest moments. Instead it's a strange and anodyne record, that speaks of a king, nay a god, who may not have lost his crown, but would benefit from leaving his lofty boardroom once in a while.

At heart, he's still a producer not a rapper (which explains how badly he hits the mic at times, more on that later). He's got that hit-making part down pat... it's just that he can't make good hits anymore.

A disappointingly tepid affair.

Ultimately, it’s all just too lazy. Yes, I know that’s the point, but this really is slacking overkill.