Nothing really jumps out, and Ian Brown’s seventh album still feels weirdly unrewarding, the artist playing a contented father rather than raging at the current state of the world. That is fair enough of course, but for an artist as established and inspirational as Ian Brown has been over the decades, we surely deserve waves rather than ripples.

It's a passable enough indie guitar album, but this is a genre that requires shaking up by a truly revolutionary record. This, unfortunately, isn't that record.

Apart from the nice flourishes and an undoubtedly authentic-sounding replication of mid- to late-'60s underground psychedelia, this album seems to have been something of a misfire, lacking a convincing emotional undertow, or sufficient clarity in its musical presentation to engage or entrance the listener.

There’s not enough quality across the whole of Evolve to convincingly make the case that Imagine Dragons actually have, or to attract an audience of new listeners. Evolve is a good idea, but in practise it turns out that it doesn’t really work.

The record is obvious and contrived; but bass is bass, a drop is a drop, and a banger is a banger – no matter how much guilt the enjoyment brings.

[A] chaotic, unwieldy mess.

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.

Expecting consistency from an album like this is a mug’s game. There are good tracks here, about 35 minutes’ worth.

1990s have not made a bad album, but like the decade itself Kicks never lives up to its promise and contains too many derivative and unmemorable moments.

What the Paisley born artist has come up with on Sunny Side Up is baffling.

It's not a bad album, it's not a good album, it's merely an alright album and that's the real problem.

There’s no doubt that tracks like Full Back and Sweet Moon make for nice background music, but after 60 minutes of songs that sound pretty similar, they seem a bit inessential.

It's all surface no feeling.

He infuses Relapse with occasional sparks, but fails to transcend the same tired themes--except, of course, when he becomes Marshall Mathers, the Recovering Drug Addict.

The real highlights are the two tracks with lyrics, Roll Back with Lil Silva and the suitably nocturnal Half-Light (Night Version) with Tracey Thorn of Everything But The Girl. These songs play to Fitzgerald’s strengths. By contrast, the rest of the album feels like watching a stage with no performers on it. A well-lit stage, as Fitzgerald can create a mood well, but still fundamentally a hollow experience.

Most of these tracks would probably count as mid-tempo throbbers, and this aesthetic cloys a bit by the end of the record. In the same interview he also joked that this release exists because he “owes the label an album”, and this is evident in the filler that pads out an EP’s worth of good tracks.

Reprise offers a pleasant, even graceful but ultimately insubstantial retrospective of an artist who can be fascinating when he’s not overly focused on his pleasant, insubstantial brand.

At only 31 minutes long, there is absolute bewilderment at how varied the output on Stills can be; it’s an exhausting listen in general.

While Mvula has a great voice and is a skilled musician, she plays it far too safe on her debut LP.

Too many songs spend too much time doing precisely nothing.

Diehard fans of the genre will find that Bass Drum Of Death makes a welcome addition to their playlists, but for the rest of the music world, Rip This may only entertain for a few tracks.

The impression is that the same tale is being told on every track, just with slightly adapted words each time, and this too undoubtedly contributes to the sense of overall blandness with which this album is suffused.

Listening to Rules is a surprisingly boring experience. At several instances throughout this album you wish someone would let rip with a guitar solo, fire off a rave horn or just do something to liven up proceedings.

This feels like an unnecessary and slightly cynical afterthought, much like a lot of pop music. It isn’t necessarily all bad in terms of quality. But it is utterly dispensable.

Even if you do persevere it's likely you'll find pleasure and irritation in equal measure, but at least he always provokes a reaction - a quality never to be underestimated.

It's a perfectly satisfactory album, but save for one or two moments of brilliance, there's nothing here that will keep you coming back for more.

Ultimately though, Music is a case of too much filler, too little killer, even when divorced from its controversial origins.

Here's hoping that the pleasant-at-best Yeah Ghost is but a wispy, passing apparition, and not a haunting omen for similarly ineffective work in the future.