Kylie sticks to formula, makes half decent record.

The Thrills meets The Polyphonic Spree--in a good way!

In truth, Into The Wild doesn’t sound like a first solo album. It radiates a confidence and maturity that Pearl Jam have lacked on their recent albums.

It’s too early to write Maxïmo Park off, or to turf them into the ever-growing pile of indie also-rans. But they’ll need to pull out all the stops to recover their poise after this worrying misstep.

What the record lacks in lyrical insight, it more than makes up for in charm, so settle back, open a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and make a toast to the good times.

You get the feeling that, in the long run, Diamond Hoo Ha is destined to be remembered as one of the lesser works in their canon.

Anastacia’s voice--once described by a critic as a ‘human air-raid siren’--is still hard to love: when she reaches for the trembling high notes your first instinct is to duck under the table and lock your head between your knees.

Revered outsider artist makes move on the mainstream.

Houston, We’ve got problems

Chase This Light is not a genre-defying album for the history books–-it just gives the impression that Jimmy Eat World are still capable of producing one.

Join With Us proves The Feeling are the band most likely to give power-pop a good name.

The potency of the admirable sentiments is undermined by the lacklustre execution.

Another dose of brilliant pop parody from the NZ twosome.

The manner in which the group weave complex musical tapestries is certainly impressive from a purely technical perspective, but you suspect that they were a lot more fun to assemble than they are to listen to.

Not up to par with his other albums, Tom Jenkinson's latest work is saved only by his name and not his art.

They’re a zesty bunch are Architecture In Helsinki, and never more so than on Places Like This.

Ragged glories from punk's oddball.

A boisterous and bratty collection of hook-swamped shout-alongs.

For Weezer fans awaiting the next installment, it adds up to a fascinating glimpse into the inner workings of Cuomo’s sweet, strange mind.

Decent stab at Queens Of The Stone Age rawk from Mrs. Josh Homme.

A rackety, sing-along sound from a band on a largely undefined mission.

Twelve is a solid enough collection, but one can’t help wondering if it would’ve been better had she made like Fellini and called it 8 1/2.

It’s a case of “been there/done that/snogged someone I shouldn’t have to this track on Saturday night” – and by and large the scene is starting to collapse in on itself.

A respectable collection which raises the question: why do the Killers pad their albums out with mediocre filler, when they have at least some decent alternative material to spare?

Whatever personality Lewis has is smothered by an oppressive pre-ordained sense of direction: she sounds simply like another cog in an impressive, but, soulless machine.

In places <i>An End Has a Start</i> is bleakly compelling; nevertheless, great swathes of the record strain towards a pasty arena-rock future.

Shallow and unfunny third album from london boys

Starry-eyed debut hits more often than misses.