The band batter you around the head with the kitchen sink in an attempt to get you to sit up and take notice, sometimes to the point where it simply gives you a headache.

As a platform for Taylor’s softer side, ‘Silence’ is a success, but it’s not the sound of him firing on every single cylinder.

Ultimately Blake isn't yet the singer-songwriter to pull this album off.

Respectful enough to rouse any struggling family gathering but knowing enough to amuse those in on the joke, The Teal Album at once satirises the covers album and makes a decent stab at perfecting it.

At points it gets too much, but Heavy Trash's steel-toed pillaging of the past still makes them a punk-rock Time Team.

Most of the time, though, Be Your Own King is so chipper and catchy it comes over like an indie version of Alphabeat.

When the energy levels fall off entirely on the maudlin piano-powered closer ‘Never Again’, Idiots' early signs of promise seem a pleasant but distant memory.

Bread And Circuses isn't bad enough to be s death knell, but neither is it good enough to be their commercial rebirth.

Though there is plenty of positive change across ‘Surviving’, it’s clear that their strengths still lie as a fists-in-the-air rock band; the monumental ‘One Mil’ shows this best.f hope and rebirth in their own way, digging as deep as Adkins himself is.

The blues kings show no signs of turning off their well-beaten path here, but they’re still capable of conjuring enough magic on the journey.

They tag-team across the record with a cheery glint, a self-deprecating wink and a boundless charm that's hard not to like.

There are sparks of brilliance on ‘Love, Death & Dancing’; Garratt’s multifaceted talent is undeniable and his honesty is admirable. But, please, less is more next time.

Overall there is a sense that this is the sound of a band brushing their hair and fixing their make-up, trying to convince the world they're OK while secretly crumbling on the inside.

‘Love For Sale’ is best when Bennett and Gaga playfully trade lines and sing in unison, with the veteran singer countering his collaborator’s belting vocal with artful restraint.

It’s frustrating because there’s plenty of great material scattered across these two parts, which would be far stronger as a single, shorter release.

Though nothing is as memorable as Keys classics like ‘If I Ain’t Got You’ and ‘Fallin”, her melodies are undeniably lovely. ... ‘Unlocked’ isn’t strong enough to turn this into a top-tier Alicia Keys album, but it does make it a project worth investigating. With some judicious pruning and sharp sequencing, any Keys fan should be able to carve out a pretty satisfying playlist.

Sometimes the introspection is a touch overcooked, the lyricism stumbling into platitude. But the honesty and self-interrogation should be applauded, and the powerful, richly textured soundscapes behind it all show why Daniel Caesar is revered as one of the most important artists in modern R&B and soul.

This is some of the most focused, ferocious rapping that Lil Wayne has achieved in ages. Yet this still doesn’t necessarily result in a great album.

All boxes ticked for hip retromaniacs, but certainly not “the next millennium”.

They've already featured on a multitude of soundtracks including Stealing Beauty, Shades and I Know What You Did Last Summer. Not to mention cinema ads for champagne and episodes of La Femme Nikita and er, Baywatch. That's pretty much all bases covered, then.

It's a terrible pity: when she stops politicising like a councillor on a complementary therapy summer camp, there's music here that's full of the febrile commitment and unashamed passion that marked her out as a valid icon in 1975.

it paints crudely and schematically a portrait of the artist as messed-up, disillusioned, self-indulgent twerp with an unhealthy appreciation of the mid-'80s US guitar underground, whose demo-quality doodlings (Graham plays, sings, produces and paints everything. And all to a rather average standard) should probably have never seen the light of day.

A good album, in a well-produced way, but it's not as good or as important as it thinks it is. [24 Jun 2006, p.43]

This formulaic approach lacks surprise – once you’re a few tracks in, you’ve heard it all. It might not be a total hot Gizz summer, but at least we’ve got a few extra bangers to bask in.

Thought Forms' side peaks with the driving Sonic Youth riffs of ‘Sound Of Violence’ and the dizzying My Bloody Valentine lurch of ‘For The Moving Stars’.... Having left their label, [Esben And The Witch] are using crowdfunding to record their next album with Steve Albini, for which these raw tracks offer great.

Head First, enjoyable though much of it is, is disappointingly determined to return the favour.

There are a few moments of elegant sensuality--like the tumbling, androgynous voices of 'He She'--but by and large it's like one of Jeff Koons' uber-kitsch sculptures: gleaming, opulent, but kinda hard to love.

Taylor's attraction lies in her ability to switch herself effortlessly between vastly different styles.

Harlow deserves credit for veering away from commercial expectations, pursuing a fresh sound, and keeping things short and sweet. But praising an artist for limiting the runtime of a relatively mediocre album is no huge compliment. ‘Monica’ is an easy listen, something jazzy and inoffensive to put on in the background.

After singing about so much Americana for the past decade, it seems that he’s now had to cross the Atlantic in search of fresh geography to mine.

Inevitably, the record descends into a series of multi-band cover-offs, the listener acting as Caesar, deciding which ‘winning’ version should really have made the cut. Half the time you feel like you’re doing the compiler’s job for them.

True Meanings tends to blend into a lilting mush over the course of 14 tracks that rarely stray from the beige end of the sonic palette.

They wisely avoid toying with any Darkness-style irony, but the Keys' insistence on authenticity does leave the album a little flat and humourless. [2 Sep 2006, p.21]

This isn’t a bad or a lazy album, and Elbow are too good a band to ever be dismissed, yet one can’t help but feel they could push their envelope a bit further.

The result is an eccentric grab-bag of styles and influences, with enough harps on it to keep Joanna Newsom fans happy, and even a retro 4/4 beat dancing in on the aptly named ‘Disco Compilation’.

With a swelling back catalogue, it’s becoming increasingly clear what does and doesn’t work for Yachty’s solo output: skippable braggadocious freestyles? No. Endearing and experimental takes on hip-hop that demonstrate his more individualistic approach to being a major rap artist? Yes please.

‘Mutator’ might well find favour with fans of his distant descendants like Squid, Perfume Genius, Sleaford Mods and Black Midi. A quarter of a century on, this lost rumble from post-punk vaults finds new context, as a lesson in uncompromising art from an old master.

Sanchez’s gorgeous vocal is what truly stands out.

It's far from bad, but if you're still waiting for a Clinic record as great as the utterly seminal Internal Wrangler, keep waiting, and probably don't hold your breath.

It’s not an easy listen and moments, notably the faux-soul of ‘Shame’, can grate, but this is a fascinating and rich record.

Life And Times is unchallenging pap. But it's furnished with the odd line of lyrical craftiness and melodies that, on the whole, manage to keep the stabilisers on his career because (as always) they make the seemingly untenable emotions of their writer sound tolerable.

The nostalgic nods become wearier in the second half, but Beauty & Ruin is strong enough to add weight to the argument that alternative rock belongs to Bob Mould; everyone else is just borrowing it.

It'll do for a fleeting one-night stand, but Mechanical Bull isn't the rekindling of a romance that we'd hoped for.

Fever Dream is perfectly listenable, but missing the magic spark that made them smash successes when they first emerged.

There is a sense that Lifeguard will only kick on from here, finding greater balance between the competing elements in their music while also growing in confidence when it comes to taking creative leaps.

It's no classic, but perhaps the surprise here is that Manson’s music can work without the shock shtick.

While there’s nothing quite as dynamic as the best work of Shelton’s labelmates Sharon Jones and Charles Bradley, Cold World provides a rousing listen for fans of vintage soul.

Lang struggles when he shoots for huge, belting rock’n’roll – most of the more conventional tracks fade into the background. ... Instead, Lang feels far more at home and intriguing with the intricate, slowly unfurling ‘Final Call’.

This is a pretty good Black Keys record that chiefly serves to underline how wedded they are to the fundamentals of their own process.

Needless to say, this is 45 minutes of Satanism, anti-capitalism, rebel protest, warfare and gore in which every form of sludge/speed/death/pop/goth/punk/armadillo metal is flung onto an increasingly gooey and formless pile, like a torture chamber’s heap of discarded body parts.

The messy trip-hop of 'If I Could' and screeching synth line of 'First Snow' mean Nausea lacks consistency, but it's a clever and rewarding record.

Even if it gets a bit bedroom experimentalist, POS is Buck 65 with balls, and has more ideas and soul in one cut than an entire Fiddy wet shit.

There's a certain lack of substance throughout the album which isn't fully covered up by Rose's elegant stoner shimmying.

Despite its dips, there are plenty of strong reasons here to keep Dinosaur Jr from extinction.

‘Free Love’ sounds like a tug of war exertion without the fun, satisfying results of albums past.

Bad Vibes Forever is better than Skins, the first XXXTentacion album released after the rapper’s death, but all of his posthumous music to date has fallen short. Even if you do hate XXXTentacion, you cannot deny his influence on modern rap. But ‘Bad Vibes Forever’ is a serious case of over-embellishing thin material.

The highs occur when Weezer play it straight-ish.

The only real lump-in-the-throat moment is ‘No One’s Gonna Love You’--although admittedly, said lump is gobstopper-sized for the duration.

It’s not necessarily trying to be clever – more that the sheer weight of its many ideas crushes the more visceral response that its obvious instrumental swagger demands from its listener.

The club bangers lack the oomph of his past singles and the lead-out tracks, ‘Fan’ and ‘Worth It’ are criminally limp. .... Eventually, the vulnerability shines through.

Sadly, Wave 1 is a more disjointed, disorienting listen.

It’s a shame, then, that instead of a sequence of whip-smart sonatas ruminating on the Scandinavian psyche, all that dribbles out is a pedestrian stream of the same old bubble-bath beats.

What Work It Out never quite manages to do, however, is leave any sort of lasting impression: the album’s near 45-minute runtime passes with the agreeable impermanence of a mid-afternoon reverie, a pleasing diversion that melts imperceptibly away as soon as it’s over.

DB's spry, Breeders-style way of recasting '60s and '70s rawk is enough to rescue it--and us--from tedium. [23 Jul 2005, p.50]

He's no Marcel Proust, but full credit for producing what's an unusually thoughtful album in contemporary pop music terms. Even if it is a bit morbid.

It doesn’t sound like the work of a band who might inspire legions of fans (among them, apparently, Kristen Stewart) to get tattooed with their logo, but these world-weary yet radio-friendly ballads imply the band might achieve longevity after all. Three chords and the truth never gets old, and ‘Marigold’ vividly paints the knottiness of adulthood.

‘Volcano’ certainly isn’t overstuffed with ideas. Often, the uniformity in this approach – muddy vocal line that could be a chopped-up classic, and a minimal but effective bassline – mean that several of the songs meld together, struggling to stand out. .... But when they get it right, it’s hard to deny how hard it hits.

[An] album stacked with songs of trailblazing angst ('Je Me Perds'), sinister desperation ('Cold') and nut-cracking jams {'Stop Kicking').

As before, attempts to explore London's seedy underbelly verge on hamfisted and voyeuristic. But, again as before, Soft Cell really flourish with Marc's relationship horror stories, which happens on two songs.

For all that his songs brim with melodic invention, in the end style trumps content.

All in all, ‘ICONOLOGY’ is Missy putting a gun in the face of her haters and daring them to say something. She wants them to doubt her just so she can pop off with some zany game-changing vision that’ll set the world on fire. But she’s not ready to unload a full clip just yet. Rest assured, though – it’s coming.

In the end, Taylor stands strong, heart laid bare in a tender, nuanced close to an imperfect but heartfelt album that proves that you can find your way back to yourself.

Quarantine is less concerned with the tropes of olde world dance music, more fixated on gloopy post-club ambience.

No Romeo may be sweet, but it doesn't leave a lasting impression.

Even if the Mensa-folk crew feel dumbed down on, there's just enough Mercer magic on Morrow to light up your local drop-in centre.

Continuing a penchant for darkness established on 2009's 'Marry Me Tonight', Work (Work, Work) is probably as grim a sounding record as you're likely to hear.

Although as tuneful as ever, tracks like 'Alice The Goon' and 'Peace And Love' reflect these tumultuous political times with a new and surprisingly vicious sonic edge that even they probably didn't think they could muster. [25 Mar 2006, p.37]

When it comes down to it, it ain't gonna change your world any.

The London four-piece have never had trouble creating pretty atmospheres though; it’s contrasting them with a bolder hook, lyrical or otherwise, where they struggle.

The follow up sees How To Dress Well stepping into a more experimental world. The results sounds a little like American ambient producer Grouper on a 5am nightbus, and suits Krell well.

‘Freakout/Release’ certainly isn’t a complete misfire. Its loose premise of retooling negative feelings to a positive end is sometimes realised, though it was always going to be difficult to evoke the sparkly catharsis of its dizzying predecessor.

It's not as unified as previous records, but with fewer meanders towards the mainstream and more of the electronic adventures of last year's freebie 'Shearwater Is Enron', Animal Joy may herald a bold new incarnation.

It's no classic, but there are reassuringly unhealthy signs of life.

For now, Editors sound like a band in need of precisely what their name advertises.

For all there is to grind your teeth and hate about CocoRosie, there's much to love. [8 Oct 2005, p.45]

This is a folk-gospel tribute album with harmony and backing vocals so powerful you'd think it was the population of New Jersey marching in Technicolor over the grey, polluted Hudson singing along. [22 Apr 2006, p.39]

This “psychic reset” has reinvigorated Thomas, and even if the results are sometimes a bit messy, there’s no way you can call this record boring. Long live King Tuff II.

The fact that these titans of the US underground have collectively hoovered enough drugs and booze (and clocked enough jail time) to make Pete Doherty sit up and wonder makes their sheer longevity something to be marvelled at.

Overall, though ‘Heligoland’ is a puzzling and frustrating listen. Some good tracks can’t hide the fact that this is the stuff of an identity crisis. It’s one thing to call on your famous friends to put flesh on your bones. It’s another if you leave the listener wondering if you’ve any spine at all.

It's a compelling, if far from satisfying, album: the awkward work of a man confronting mortality, global meltdown and fractionally diminished success, but still terrified of appearing pretentious, still stuck with singalong tunes in his head.

The style is cool, the moves perfect, but you can take as much of lasting value from a stick of gum as you can from these dank-basement stomps.

While the singles released for ‘Model’ were strong and lively, the album as a whole sounds like a band that has withdrawn from taking a risk and stepping back into their comfort zone.

It's music for downhearted cattle rustlers to mournfully skin steers to. [9 Apr 2005, p.58]

Surf City spend the first third of Kudos hanging out with that same apathetic throng, but then surprise with a handful of genuinely exciting moments.

Clocking in at a slither under 77 minutes, ‘Everything I Thought It Was’ is a slog enlivened by some surprising moments.

It's the unflashy moments that really linger, though, with "Taco Delay's" measured minimalism providing some grounding to an otherwise heady trip.

This, then, is AOR: Adult Orientated Rap. Luckily, though, Jay-Z still turns out work of impressive authority.

You just can’t shake the feeling that the whole thing is just far too safe. You can’t blame team Adele for following a formula that has so far resulted in 30 million album sales--but here’s to a little more innovation on ‘29’.