If this is just the start of an artistic resurgence then it'll be interesting to see what comes next. You feel that he's just getting started again.

He has spectacularly failed to make an album that has any bite.

This is a fun indie pop record that will not change anyone's lives but will get you bouncing off walls very easily.

The album works best when they pick up the pace, cranking out two minute gems like My Mind Is Like An Atom Bomb and They Kiss Like Humans, with its genuinely disconcerting backing bellows.

There’s no wild pretension and little real originality here, and it’s not going to change your life or make any critics’ Greatest Album lists, but it’s a lot of fun, and sometimes that’s all you want.

In many respects, Green’s music feels like it belongs to an era much earlier than the 21st century. Yet in a modern industry that can often seem to be dominated by formulaic performers, Liz Green remains highly relevant as that rare exception. A true original.

For anyone wanting something new, exciting, raw, intoxicating... then this isn’t for you. If, however, you know what you like, don’t like taking risks, want an easy life when it comes to spending money on music and are already a fan then you’re going to be satisfied with an album that probably ranks dead centre amongst their full catalogue.

So, an unexpected turn from our commentator on urban squalor with this dreamlike, abstract paean to Mother Nature and the great outdoors.

Considered as a whole, or even as two self-serving parts, Saturday Nights And Sunday Mornings is so generic and unenlightening that you will probably not remember hearing it within an hour or so.

Donkey is not the greatest thing since the peanut Kit-Kat, yet there's some indie-tastic fun with a hint of electro punk, a bit like The Gossip but swapping the Ditto scream for Lovefoxxx's sultry, breathily seductive whisper.

For those who have enjoyed Grubbs’ wide-ranging career and don’t mind taking a 45-minute detour into the mind of a clearly talented guitarist and singer (complete with painful violin), The Plain Where The Palace Stood is good enough to demonstrate how great Grubbs can be when he hits the mark.

All in all, it’s hard to see this appealing to anyone other Gabriel completists.

Simply put, his music seems alive, and utterly modern – despite its clear and obvious debt to The Beatles. ... This is a staggering work, a monumental achievement – and easily eclipses any of Jones’ acting to date.

Out Of Control is, generally, yet another excellent album from a group who may have risen from a lot of people's 'guilty pleasure' to becoming full-on national treasures.

While it contains a few filler songs, this is a fun album to listen to, bursting with irrepressible energy.

While a few of its tracks are below par, The Constant is a decent first effort. It doesn't put her head and shoulders above the many other female singer-songwriters kicking around at the moment, but it definitely sets her apart from them.

More than anything it's just a relief to see this rare talent back from the brink, still, as always, one step ahead of the game

Gilmore has merely rendered Fever more American market-friendly and given it a strong flavor of stateside nu-metal. It's a pattern that is just too repetitious, too anodyne and just plain insipid.

While the album is described as a myriad of styles, there’s nothing to really demonstrate this: only the reggae and reggae-related genres are consistently and tiresomely reflected.

While some of the studio tricks are a little too familiar, the band is clearly re-invigorated and, unlike like the last fractured Garbage offering, the result is a cohesive collection of sharp, aggressive songs.

It also feels like they've become a little too cosy in their favourite slippers, so that while Dive Deep is a pleasant album, it swims in familiar and safe waters.

They're heading back to form in time to conquer a festival or two - but the nature of that song does leave you wondering if Franks will just be happy to be back at all.

Throughout the entire album, you’re left wondering how Smith, who is responsible for some of the most untouchable, spontaneous punk classics of all time, could muster the audacity to purposefully sound like such a parody of his previous self.

Things start to become a bit samey three quarters of the way through the album.

Final track aside, this is as close to blissful shoegaze perfection as is possible.

It's a mature progression for a talented band who, having started out at the tender age of just 15, now seem much clearer on which direction they want to take.

Like its companion album, it’s wildly inconsistent but when Prince hits form, it’s difficult to argue with the man’s genius.

There’s little going on beneath the skin here and it’s an unfortunate if sadly inevitable fact that other significantly more talented musicians from Iceland will never attain Of Monsters And Men’s levels of popularity.