Pocket Symphony... contains more than its fair share of inspired moments.

Canadian firebrand loses her spark.

The People’s Princess pleases with Her catchy generic pop

68-year-old lothario goes back to his white soul roots with a passionate performance showing that Jones still has "it."

Despite the big name producer and big time contributors, Gray has somehow achieved the not insignificant feat of delivering an altogether average record.

Further mystical adventures from grunge-era Kate Bush.

Mid-career retrospective captures SP’s inner conflicts.

Beyonce still proves that she's an all-around good performer even though her attempt to branch out into an alter ego fails a little.

Heavy on aspiration, light on inspiration on rapper's second outing.

Franz Ferdinand attempt to put some dub in the music and end up with (re)mixed results.

Craggy eco-concept record not the car-crash it could have been.

Solid and stolid live album from glam punker turned roots rocker.

Norwegian masters of melancholic synth-pop get back to basics.

With an album proper to offer this time around, it seems that Johnson is back with a vengeance--fans of his effortlessly laid-back acoustic fare will immediately warm to this strong collection of songs.

Seriously, Ms Jackson, I invite you around for high tea and you turn up leather clad, groaning, and hollering about touching yourself. Mrs Wilberforce didn’t know where to look and the vicar was most upset.

It would appear that working-class Coventry trio The Enemy are now officially the next big thing.

It’s bland, boring and just not very good.

For all the state-of-the-art urban production, there’s something distinctly unsavoury about Blackout. And yet, the truly bizarre thing is, the music is top notch.

Although the tunes have plenty of vigour and aggression, as with Employment, Britpop veterans will feel more than a little sense of deja vu.

The Doggfather part 10. Ho Hum. What else is on?

If there’s a central problem with War Stories, it’s that at times it strays too close to rock orthodoxy and loses the offbeat stylistic flourishes that made Unkle such an exciting proposition to begin with.

If not entirely out of gas, Green certainly seems to be having trouble shifting gear.

There is more than nostalgia at work here. Lyrically at least, the cocaine cowboys of yore strive to engage with the modern world’s ills and idiosyncrasies.

Certain artists are blessed with the ability to say something poignant and meaningful with their music. On the evidence of this eopnymous record, Gavin DeGraw is not one of them.

Ringo solo album... Come back! It’s not that bad!

The rave revival starts here!

The Little Ones are, for the most part, pretty melodious producing indie pop fun with touches of Afro-beat, maybe, possibly!

Would be blockbuster from the Jack Johnson it’s really not okay to like.

Dismal offering from would-be R&B Lothario, this 14-song supposed sexual odyssey is more like a soundtrack to a day in the life of Mr Bean than Hugh Hefner.

Wayward offering from hip hop legend with distinct lack of finesse.

Detroit punk rockers come out swinging on feisty third album.

Bernard Sumner delivers decent Enough Post-New order solo platter.

STP singer on the solo comeback trail.

Brummie Rockers offer electro-led punch in the nose.

Many of the ditties on Unfamiliar Faces bring us right back to the golden age of singer-songwriters.

If it ain't broke, don't fix it! Seal re-visits some soul classics, but dresses them up in a way that turns pure gold into something of a different color.

Newcomer electro-rockers produce a hyperactive, ear-decimating album that screams with heavy synth and rhythms, but dies with a lack of inspiration and creativity.

The best you can offer is that it’s not a disaster – now do you want to tell Billy or should I?

Never a dull moment then, but a little consistency would go a long way for The Used.

Nouveau synth-pop and shoegazer drones mightn’t seem like the wisest bedding for Tom Waits’s compositions, but Scarlett and Sitek know exactly what they’re doing.

Ian Brown’s fifth solo album is about the big issues. And while he's picked all the right targets, lyrically and musically it’s still a bit disappointing.

Assuming they haven’t all grown up by now, Manson fans will adore every dark, juvenile flourish. For the rest of us, The High End Of Low serves as a cautionary tale of artistic regression.

Shooting people, no-strings-attached sex and being a millionaire has never sounded so boring.

Maybe Carl was the talented one after all.

Overall this is a major letdown

Please, please, please ignore this album. Uncle Dysfunktional is a wretched experience. Ryder bellows his way through it all, banging on about drugs and low-life in a voice that can barely muster a tune.

The Boy With No Name has a handful of absolute crackers, proving that Travis are still capable of penning a tune that wraps its tendrils around your ears and won’t let go until at least four minutes have passed.

RATM guitarist and hardcore troubadour participates in dodgy agit rap/rock experiment.

The shift in subject matter cannot disguise Linkin Park’s acute lack of creativity.

Slick yet soulless second effort from Denver’s Answer to Coldplay.

Rivers Cuomo & co rejuvenate some long lost gems.

Despite boasting another stellar line-up of guest vocalists, James Lavelle’s dance-rock project once again fails to convince.

Soft metal album that challenges Whitesnake, Bon Jovi and Van Halen. Funny...I think.

The clunkers come thick and fast.

Widescreen return from Jam wannabes.

This isn’t the place for Timbaland to try any new tricks and what starts off as something quite thrilling rapidly loses its impact over the course of the album’s 19 long tracks.

Disappointing swansong from the King of Pop.

A tiny step forward for indulgent Leeds outfit.

Go on, drink whiskey from the bottle, see if I care. But when you’re done, don’t jump around like gracelessly ageing Bratz dolls playing late-era Kiss and think you’re a blistering she-Crue.

Pop and R&B backroom boy steps into the spotlight.

His take on crunk (which is so generic it feels generous to even call it a “take”) feels flimsy and devoid of hooks, although the lightly Carribean production touches do show a smidgeon of promise.

Cute enough to be mainstream, indie enough to be cool, different enough to stand out but normal enough to be accessible... and sufficiently talented to pull it all off.

Craig David's back, and in fairness, he makes a decent fist of it. However, David is hamstrung by trying to please both critic and fan.

Poor man’s Usher wallows in hip-hop cliches.

Predictable return to stadium soft-rock from former Poodle-permers.

An edgy rock album, reminiscent of Razorlight’s great debut, had been promised but is nowhere to be heard.

Sleek but insubstantial fourth outing from R&B songstress.

Teenage dreamer turns in nightmare of a second record.

The catchiest tune on The Block is ‘Summertime’, and in dignity terms it’s Cohen-meets-Waits compared to their hyperactive teen-pop of old.

Neither tearaway maverick nor irrelevant abdicator, Brett Anderson sounds like a man out of time in a time out of joint. No bad thing, necessarily.

What the world needs now is love, sweet love. Instead we get a new Korn album. Oh well.

Close but no rosette for the new British diva on the block.

Necessary Evil is bereft of surprises and is pretty much as you would expect it to be.

Underclass Hero is a perfectly workable North American punk rock album. It’s got melodic suss and a snotty attitude to its credit, but not much else.

With their very different moods, the ‘London’ and ‘Dublin Sessions’ respectively nourish two different aspects of spiritual longing: the soul’s yearning for a sense of reverence and awe, and its equal need for spiritual intimacy, comfort and familiarity.

Raw, sparse, low-key, vocodered hip hop.

Athlete's third effort Beyond The Neighbourhood goes some way to restoring their initial well-deserved kudos.

More shouty rock and party anthems from the valleys.

The musical equivalent of a puppy humping your leg. This is not a recommendation.

Katy Perry's second album offers minimal creativity or originality, but there are several likeable tracks--despite their turgid, juvenile and bordering-on-offensive lyrical content.

Former Cranberries woman gives us too much of a good thing.

There’s nowt nu about this nu metal.

Pull the Pin possesses nothing more than stale and horribly bland rock that will most likely leave even die-hard fans disappointed.

A perfectly functional album of loud guitars, ain’t life a bitch lyrics and the odd nod to different production styles and techniques.

'Craig Nicholls’ mob spectacularly fall from grace.

Though hardly the disaster it could have been, then, The Stooges’ return feels unnecessary and, more importantly, undignified.

Though this hook-up frequently pushes at the boundaries of plausibility, there's lots about Scream that makes perfect sense.

Pleasant young fellows cause record reviewer to suffer acute fit of niceness.

Freddie-less queen fail to recall old glories.

Hard-working hat-wearing ‘Had A Bad Day’ songwriter Daniel Powter’s third album is a bit of a mess when all’s said and done.

Try-hard, but ultimately mediocre R’n’B comeback from disgraced singer.