The arena-filling sound that runs through modern music owes something to Bon Jovi, but This House… comes across more like their third-tier spiritual successors, comprised of forgettable dance-rock and schmaltzy slow-burners loaded with endless platitudes and those echoey, staccato guitar lines that bands do when they want to sound big.

If the other Killers allow it, Brandon Flowers has brought a few decent additions to their greatest hits set, but cull those three or four tracks and what remains is an occasionally interesting, sometimes unintentionally hilarious mess of a concept album that's about as tasteful as the city that inspired it.

Leave this to collect dust in the bargain bin. Or, better still, the bins out the back of HMV.

Form & Control's only real highlight is its title track... But when it's surrounded by so much dross, it's hardly redeeming, and getting loaded may well be the only way to endure the rest of this tripe.

Babyshambles once promised to keep the Arcadian dream alive. Instead, they’ve fizzled out in a fit of mediocrity.

Mondo is that rare case of judge by cover, or what you see is exactly what you get.

A shame, really, since there are couple of songs here displaying a melodic facility far in excess of the record’s dumbed-down intent.

M A N I A won’t suddenly ignite a revisionist outlook of Fall Out Boy’s career, but it does leave you pining for the earnest giddiness of their pre-hiatus material. This is a feeble gesture of benign, stadium-sized pop that’s been cynically constructed, artificially beefed-up and saturated beyond the point of listenability.

Ashcroft's vocal, which once soared and demanded your attention, sounds languid and forced to the point where one is left wondering if he can muster up any will power himself to sing what are by and large, trite soundbites that could have been written on any number of post-it notes.

Zeitgeist sounds like a watered-down version of the best bits from Mellon Collie…, meaning it just ends up being too similar to Machina… for its own good.

Collections is enjoyable, in the way that ready meals can be enjoyable, with their sugar hit and empty calories, their disposability and easy consumption.

It is chocked full of majestic pop hooks, but these are offset by ad-hoc rhythms and synths. Trágame Tierra is a remarkable album, but you’ve got to give it a chance.

All in all, the overriding impression left by The Lateness Of The Hour is that Alex Clare is a fairly gifted gentleman. But here his talents have been squandered on a collection of songs that fail to establish him as either a dance-pop titan or an emotive warbler.

Perversely given the record’s comprehensive musical overhaul it’s perhaps a surfeit of respect for the source material that proves Anywhere's undoing; for all its undoubted accomplishments there’s a lingering suspicion that this is too safe, too respectable a record to do justice to an artist who remains forever mid-topple from the bar stool in the popular consciousness.

EUPHORIC HEARTBREAK should at very least cement Glasvegas' status as one of our most intriguing mainstream indie/rock groups and given a chance by those of a more cynical standpoint they might just find themselves enjoying the titular sensations the record promises and, for the most part, successfully delivers.

What was promised to be Twain's 'very, very pure' album is anything but. ... A terrible album.

In all of this, it's not that any one song is outright horrific (okay, 'Pink Lemonade' is pretty unbearable), more that the entire experience is a chore.

If the album looks back more than it looks forward, well, its makers have earned the right to a reprise. But then again, it wouldn’t work so well if they hadn’t managed to evoke something timeless all along.

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

Love Frequency might not be enough on its own to lift us from the doldrums of EDM--but it’s always refreshing to hear dance music with a human heart at its core.

While it's hard to critique The Vision for its scattershot successes, as a whole the album is just too erratic to have any sort of lasting impact on formerly ardent fans or casual admirers.

As a collective effort, The Bundles offer a different kind of intimacy; the closeness of a tight-knit group of friends rather than emotive fervour of the individual confessional.

In sticking two fingers up at both their detractors and Dalston, they've crafted one of the most viscerally engaging British rock albums in years.

This is a thumpingly disappointing and consistently milquetoast set of songs riddled with lyrical banality, done-to-death melodies and wispily thin production.

Sadly, for all the passion and insight of his lyrical aspersions here, a lot of the messages are left a tad subdued by the conveyor belt plod orchestration.

Sometimes you are left wishing that the songs could be left to breathe a little more for themselves.

As one dimensional and unadventurous as it may be, In Between Dreams is stronger than 2003's patchy On And On, instantly accessible and just really quite pleasant.

For the most part it’s a successful approach, etching out real depth from twisting jaunts like the excellent ‘Ghosts’ and ‘Jamaica’. But as soon as they tread away from the angular indie pop paradigm, Theme Park begin to lose their edge.