Ultimately, it’s confusion that remains at the end of Amnesty (I). Crystal Castles always were an uncomfortable band, but the bumpy conception of this album and the awkward introduction of new ideas dampen even its most teeth-chattering moments.

To the ears of their detractors, Courteeners will always sound unexceptional, but in the eyes of the faithful, Mapping the Rendezvous will only make them more irreplaceable.

Even if ‘Painless’ occasionally settles into a consistent, thudding groove at times, when Yanya goes full pelt, she’s at her very best.

His many personas have made for an oddly characterless record.

The moments of imperfection that let the album down come on ‘Two Of Us On The Run’ (as basic as acoustic songwriting gets) and ‘Until We Get There’ (just sounds like a Cults offcut), but there’s promise here.

This is glossy Americana, mixing The Avett Brothers with Edward Sharpe And The Magnetic Zeros, its piano- and violin-led crescendos emulating old-timey grandeur.

‘The Whale Song’ may offer a solitary crumb for old skool Micers to nibble, but unfortunately this EP will not offer much else.

Musgraves’ assertiveness feels like a real glimmer of light amid the sparse compositions that run through this thoughtful, imperfect, down-to-earth record.

It’s a pairing that, on paper, makes sense, given that Depper’s talents with a synthesiser leave Thank You for Today feeling like a more polished version of 2011’s ‘Codes & Keys’. Yet the wide-eyed freshness of that new songwriting pairing leaves things feeling a little too shiny.

It’s a pleasant listen, but this feels strange juxtaposed with the lyrical content that flits between brazen vulnerability and all-out raunch-fest, demanding something more. As an introduction to the next era of Grande’s career, it’s solid, but you can’t help but feel it’s missing some of her trademark sparkle.

Second album ‘Cry’ sees the band not stray too far from proven formula of slow and sexy sadness, but this time with a little more love thrown in and all held together by a more filmic approach.

Blips aside, ‘Rare’ is a beautifully confident return from one of pop’s most underrated stars, and a quietly defiant wrestling back of the narrative surrounding her.

Seventh Tree is bound to ruffle a few electro-feathered fans, but there’s no denying it’s a venture that sets the pair into new experimental territory.

For the most part, though, you’ll need to look elsewhere for your protest music. This is escapist rap, as outlandish and oversized as a gaudy Spiderman comic--and, at times, just as much absurdist fun.

Welcome Home offers both a different approach and a welcome return.

At times, you want more rage. Other times, more clarity. You can’t doubt Public Enemy’s resolve. But on Man Plans God Laughs, music and message remain a notch out of synch.

Underworld might not reach every peak it aims for, but it tugs on the heartstrings in all the right ways.

Gratitude shows that he’s a musician who, almost a decade into his career, still has much to say--and a great deal to work out on record.

Computer Controlled Acoustic Instruments Pt 2--don’t go looking for a part one, you won’t find it--sounds like it’s on its own strange course.

Together Through Life sounds loose and informal, and you get the impression that its creator had a lot of fun making it. A shame, then, that it’s not quite as much fun to listen to.

Ultimately, 'Musicology' is a kind of flawed redemption, neither inspired enough to be a true classic, nor insipid enough to make it unworthy of your attention.

Songs like ‘Backstroke’ and ‘Pirouette’ show flashes of experimental tendencies, but are bogged down by repetitive melodies that’ll briefly make you wonder why you even bothered moving out here in the first place.

The overall effect is less like an album and more like a digitally created scrapbook--a dreamy, transportive audio roadtrip through fuzzy urban noise and peaceful rural serenity.

Initially, you might be disappointed to have waited two years for what at first sounds like an underworked collection of throwaways. In places, though, the record rewards repeat listens. ... But there’s no getting away from the fact that at 24 tracks long, there’s not a lot of variety on ‘Whole Lotta Red’, and the biggest take away here is perhaps that perennial rap fan favourite: less is most definitely more.

If you've got patience it's a quiet joy; if not, it'll drive you nuts.

Eyes Wide Tongue Tied is more testament to subtlety and getting the basics right.

The tracks that work on this album would fit perfectly on a spooky science fiction soundtrack, but the remaining songs really drag the collection down.

The Avetts are clearly happiest when they're miserable. Which is fine, if you're in that kind of mood.

More worryingly, there's a nagging sense that he's decided to dress it up in grandiose, emotive sentiments simply to camouflage a lack of real emotional investment.

If there’s anything wrong with Brooklyn-via-Kentucky singer-songwriter Dawn Landes’ seamless fifth album, it’s that it’s just too damn nice.

‘No Signs Of Weakness’ plays more like a curated playlist of experiments rather than a fully realised body of work: it lacks direction, the momentum sputters, and even some of the more ambitious tracks could’ve used another round of sculpting.

Their vision is so focused on piano and guitar tone and so opposed to the notion of tunefulness that MGMT’s new stuff seems like ‘Motown Chartbusters 3’ in comparison.

The album’s beachy vibes feel suited to a festival field’s carefree disposition. You just wish there was a little more to these songs.

Their third album totaling 75 minutes and spread, slightly unnecessarily, over two CDs, it reaches unexpected new heights in the pantheon of 'metal bands who mellowed out'.

There’s a clarity here, a sense of maturity in the lyrics too – something that was often missing in his previous work. ‘Nobody is Listening’ has its flaws, but Zayn is clearly working out a few chinks in his armour, and this comes across as a step in a new and fresh direction for the enigmatic artist.

Size has merely moved from the coffee tables of the last century into the elevators of the next. [30 Oct 2004, p.65]

The record sags in the middle when the pace dies down (on ‘Haunt’ and ‘It’s Getting Dark’), but ‘Transparency’ never overstays its welcome. It may not produce the “massive hit” McTrusty once pined for, but it’s a sign there’s life in the old dog yet.

When they do keep it 'cloud'--with the dissolving beauty of 'Cloud Body' and the fairytale-like 'Love Is Life'--the results are remarkable. But elsewhere, romance and originality suffer.

The album allows acoustic guitar to be the rule more than the exception. And the sublime melodies on 'Never Day' and 'Honest James' shine. Naturally, you can't take the boy out of art-school.

I Never Learn is an album about love, but not a record to love.

The freewheeling spirit does occasionally give way to a less exciting middle ground: ‘Eight Minute Machines’ comes as a blast of scuzzy guitar-driven punk we’ve heard a lot of in recent years, where the six-minute closer ‘Greasin’ Up Jesus’ is built around a drum machine doesn’t go anywhere in particular. For the most part, though, this is clearly the sound of a band ready to party once more, making for another carnival of different sounds and offbeat ideas.

It's cinematic, dramatic, and has vocals so indistinct that Tamaryn (the singer whose band this is) could just be coo-ing "turn up the smoke machine" over and over again.

‘Love, Damini’ had the potential to be the biggest record of Burna’s to date, full of heart and rhythmic passion. But it falls frustratingly short: too often the tunes are repetitive and, other than the aforementioned highlights, don’t show much progression.

Utilizing beats from prolific producers such as Wheezy and Chi Chi, ‘The Voice of the Heroes’ is technically accomplished but, given Durk and Baby’s sometimes monotonous verses, it’s great only in smaller doses.

On ‘Born Pink’, BLACKPINK tread familiar thematic territory for pop music, but the imagery – finding solace from heartbreak at the bottom of a bottle (‘The Happiest Girl’), boasting about being the type of girl you take to your “mama house” (‘Typa Girl’) – isn’t particularly novel, though they have effectively applied a personal touch in the past (see Jennie’s ‘Solo’).

'Walking With Thee' is barely forty minutes in length, but feels about half that length - not because it flies by, but because throughout, it barely feels substantial.

A record that occasionally shows steady growth, but this potential remains largely untapped.

There's two ways for the devout Dandys fan to approach 'Odditorium...' . 1) it's their 'Kid A', a brave blunder into a new creed of experimentation into which they will hopefully one day re-work The Tunes. Or 2) what they really wanted to make was a week-long jazz opus played entirely on dying cats, but the record company made them put some proper songs on it.

Each of these six songs is named after a traditional Norwegian dish, and together they cook up a satisfying if unadventurous snack.

It’s not something you’ll be hankering to press play on repeatedly. Not that it’s bad music: excuse the pretension, but it really is an experience; one that would lend itself better to accompanying Jaar’s physical art installations than a standard album listen.

As its lead single suggested, Eminem is attempting to have it both ways here – to emulate his 2000s hits while lampooning Shady as a cultural relic who makes geriatric barbs at sensitive Gen Z-ers (as on ‘Trouble’), which enables him to say the same old thirstily provocative stuff. The extent to which he does so only overshadows the point he’s apparently trying to make.

There are some bangers that you’ll know, such as ‘Manic Monday’, which was written by Prince for The Bangles, whose singer Susanna Hoffs lends some warm guitar and vocals to match Armstrong’s silky sentimental side. It’s the perfect soundtrack to lazily whiling away the monotony of quarantine.

However successful the whole endeavour (¡Dos! and ¡Tré!) might end up being, ¡Uno! can only be judged on its own merits, and those merits are somewhat erratic.

A release packed with bangers and choppy breaks.

There’s no question that Herring still writes songs capable of evoking strong emotions, but this time around they can occasionally feel too twinkly and repetitive. What’s missing is some risk-taking; unpredictable production flourishes that could better reflect the overall mood of the album and all the ambiguities that accompany a major life change.

Although it's smart, it also feels safe compared with the thrilling records Clark has made before.

Patience is impressive, for sure, but The Invisible still leave us wanting to see much, much more.

Not a misstep for Eno, but not quite the best of both worlds, either.

A ‘difficult second’ album this is not, but the big set-pieces are left wanting. .... Regardless, there’s ample to consider, decode and treasure from an artist who consistently makes poring over the lyric sheet line-by-line as much fun as the finished product.

Nobody's pretending this lot balance on the razor-sharp blade of the cutting edge. Even so, their orchestral whimsy presses the 'lovely, bordering on twee' button.

Like the syndrome named after the titular city, you’ll fall for these tunes with repeated exposure, but you’ll live without them once you’re free from them too.

In turns, it's searingly honest and brutal... with interludes where everything turns fluffy. [19 Aug 2006, p.35]

Well-meaning and positive, ‘Zoom In’ is the aural equivalent of wishing somebody a ‘Happy Hump Day!’ over email, while wearing a daft grin. For all its flaws, this is a hard record to hate.

These clear, plucky songs may not be terribly adventurous for the most part, but they do feel like the ambitious work of an artist broadening their scope.

‘C,XOXO’ is a laconic, off-kilter pop record filled with heavily Auto-Tuned vocals inspired by T-Pain. It’s a new sound for Cabello that heightens the music’s intriguing, trippy sheen. Throughout, her lyrics pivot between pithy and revealing.

X-Press 2 are like a dancefloor Oasis; great at pleasing the crowds, less good at innovation, and fatally weakened by their reverence for washed-up old rockers.

Oczy Mlody is the sonic equivalent of a deserted space-ship adrift in the cosmos, with Coyne as the lonely repair-bot dusting the diodes. A psych rock Passengers, then, rather than Barbarella.

It sounds very pleasant.

The uncluttered production always feels reasonably on-trend, but too often these songs just aren’t catchy or inventive enough to be truly memorable. The result is another pretty decent album that doesn’t quite ignite.

Rather than a fresh blast of wizardry, ‘Extreme Witchcraft’ is more of a feet-finder for our times.

There's little on PSB's album that matches the big twizzly dunce-hatted glory of their 'Very' peak. [20 May 2006, p.33]

It’s not quite the revelatory departure we might have hoped for, and has the rich but unfocused feel of something worked on perhaps too long with obsessive fervour, but it’s also subtle and interesting; an intriguing soundtrack to an era of change.

Occasionally brilliant ear food for when you’re just drifting off.

‘Monthly Friend’ might not be the progression we were quite hoping for, but there are sparks of more refined songwriting and tunes lifted by a bolder voice. An artist who’s so admirably dedicated to their craft is certainly one to keep an eye on.

Only ‘The English Summer’ and ‘Pink Lemonade’ bear much resemblance to the antsy, fidgety post-punk The Wombats made their name with, and both end up falling somewhat flat. In its place are the sleek, synth-laden likes of ‘Be Your Shadow’ and ‘Headspace’ --precision-engineered for mass appeal, but no less effective for it.

He’s named after his father’s best fishing fly, but the pastoral folk moments on Stephen Wilkinson’s fifth album of chummy electronica pale next to the glut of nostalgic yearning.

Those three seconds of stuttering electronica simply take their reputation for leftfield experimentalism too far. Thankfully, such wilful pretension buggers off, and the rest is a more quality-controlled set.

This clash of sweetness and discordance can be irritating.

When the disparate influences mesh properly--as on the irresistible ‘Fool You’ve Landed’--they find a very happy medium.

The musical landscape has changed since Fall Out Boy’s Warped Tour days in the mid-’00s, and so have they. As Mania shows, it’s probably for the best.

The hardcore will find ‘Live In Liverpool’ too light while new converts would be better off delving into the treasure trove of old albums.

A 30-track nonsense-o-paedia of speed-metal twatabouts. [9 Apr 2005, p.58]

They needed to up their innovating significantly but haven’t, leaving All Hope Is Gone above-average.

There are moments of pure spectacle, such as the delightfully absurd accordion-rave lead single ‘Joyride’, and ‘Yippie-Ki-Yay’, an unholy fusion of Def Leppard and Florida Georgia Line. .... ‘Love Forever’, ‘The One’, ‘Too Hard’ are relatively straightforward love songs that don’t reach the vulnerability of albums past. It all builds to the closing track ‘Cathedral’, a spiritual sequel to ‘Praying’.

When Kane rises above that tentativeness, as with the rousing and charismatic title track, the effect is engaging. But for the most part, this solid but unchallenging album is a step towards nowhere in particular.

Elect The Dead is both impressive and bewildering--almost as if SOAD's wildest excesses have been standardised.

It all sounds immaculate, but lacks the memorable lyrics and direct hooks of Papercuts’ pop forbears.

It’s the sound of a former trendsetter, settled happily into adulthood, doing his own thing, following his muse, comfortable in his skin. It’s a pleasure to hear.

What’s My Name dares you to continue listening, to see if you can make it through its first song without spontaneously combusting from second-hand embarrassment, a spectral groan of “Grandaaad” escaping from your ashes as they sizzle and singe. ... But perhaps opening with such a heinous song is actually a genius move. In isolation, they might not fare so well but, after that, nothing else sounds as bad.

While frontman Matt Davies' transition from apocalyptic yoof-preacher to hoodied motivational speaker will definitely leave listeners with an extended sense of self-belief, the winsome angst that once drove songs such as "Streetcar" has all but disappeared.

It’s equal parts witty and serious, poppy and knotty, cracking wise one minute, then demanding you sit quietly and listen carefully through some complicated soul-searching.

This retro sound is no surprise as Echo & The Bunnymen producer Hugh Jones is in control, and he infuses No Fighting In The War Room with a sneering urgency. It works, but only in spurts.

This may well get those girls on the dancefloor but it crucially lacks the subtle depth to give it that all-important soul.

While TIM is unlikely to win any existing EDM-deniers over, its addition to Avicii’s back catalogue will come as great comfort to both the fans and family of the late DJ.

Their first new music in three years, is a cohesive listen.

It’s a shame the saccharine musical backing too often makes it hard to empathise.

There's little warmth other than a palpable meeting of minds of its creators, whose culture of experimental collaboration is only to be lauded.