Though Gary Barber's half-spoken, oh-so-London urchin coo brings a little quirk to proceedings, for the most part Native To is a pleasant but not memorable listen.

BOATS II is your standard 2013 Southern hip-hop record, complete with ticking beats (‘Extra’), Auto-Tune (‘So We Can Live’) and eye-rollingly explicit lyrics (‘Where U Been?’).

Unfortunately, despite some nice tunes, the formula seems a little, well, formulaic. [11 Nov 2006, p.43]

SVIIB is a fitting eulogy for a musician and a band ever connected with both.

Yes, the record can sit a little awkwardly between being nostalgic and current – given her enlisting on next-gen stars for a hip-hop soul collection – but the take-the-power-back narrative really makes these songs shine.

Sadly, he only briefly reaches the heights of his best Gorky's work. [18 Feb 2006, p.36]

When you constantly remind the world how great you were, it rather detracts from the good stuff you're still capable of.

Ironically ‘Jordi’s stand out songs are the ones lacking almost entirely in guest star pull – instead, in these moments, they fuse ambitious, wide-screen arena-pop with messier, more complicated subject matter and Adam Levine’s feelings and experiences over the last three years. It’s here that Maroon 5 break free of paint-by-numbers pop, and unearth introspective clarity instead.

Over the album’s 12 tracks, Stefani doesn’t mope once--in fact, a lot of the time she sounds like she doesn’t give a s**t. ‘Where Would I Be’ and ‘Send Me A Picture’ say it with Disney dancehall, while ‘Me Without You’ is the closest she comes to balladry, singing “I don’t need you/not a little bit” over polished trip-hop.

The record shines during these more upbeat, fun moments. ... The album is less successful when Cabello tries to show the side of romance where you’re falling head over heels, or doubting a relationship.

Propelled by a glossy indie sound hell-bent on dragging the band up festival bills, opener ‘Hometown’ expresses this best. ... The problem is, such weighty ambition is left off this album, which too often finds them content on taking the easy road.

‘Sunburn’ still acts as a love letter to the place he was raised in, however, allowing Fike to return home not only to the relentless humid state but to himself.

He excellently lends Coldplay's 'The Scientist' a terse fragility, but less successful is a sanitised, Sheryl Crow-featuring version of Tom Waits' 'Come On Up To The House'.

‘Love Goes’ does possess a handful of pop- and radio-friendly tracks, but at its core its Smith’s knack for sap and soul – and their singular, chilling vocals – that forms the base of the record. When it comes to songwriting, Smith oscillates towards what they know.

You may well be charmed by Ghost Outfit’s acidic battery; but there’s so much going on, you may have trouble remembering how their songs go.

'Algiers', their seventh album, is far less surface-level appealing, but the sad twang of a pedal steel and Joey Burns' rich lyrical imagery draw you in, and depth and craftsmanship is slowly revealed.

When she steers away from pastiche and fully delves into cataloguing the mundanity, pomposity and sheer ridiculousness of grotty Little England, she’s at her best as a songwriter.

Metal Resistance shines brightest during tracks such as the epic, melodic ‘Amore’, which draws more heavily on J-pop. For the most part, though, its adherence to the aforementioned formula can be quite boring.

Too often, however, Flory is prone to overcomplicating matters, and tracks like ‘In Time’ and ‘Get Down’ wind up too governed by the soulless stamp of the laptop.

The resulting noodly beats might have pricked ears in 2007. But in 2012, with Flying Lotus set to redefine the LA scene with his keenly awaited fourth album 'Until The Quiet Comes', it's not quite enough.

A handful of great songs might not be quite enough to sustain a new listener, or placate an older one. ‘Gigaton’’s saving grace? There’s plenty of malcontent here, even if Vedder leaping from amps might be a thing of youthful memory.

Pierce’s creative and personal rebirth are evident throughout, but a return to the trappings of earlier records makes for a relatively limp second half. ... Overall, though, The Drums sound closer to what Pierce had envisioned all those years ago.

At least his grimmer outlook has inspired some equally raw music.

While it’s stronger than the messy ‘Born This Way’, Artpop feels little more culture-quaking than a good collection of fun, silly, well-crafted pop songs.

The first REM album to really disappoint. [2 Oct 2004, p.60]

What these tracks are, though, are lovingly programmed, laser-dappled, preening--thanks to Sampha's buttery soul voice--and glossy reduxes of late-'90s two-step and twitchy post-house that should be filed next to James Blake and Jamie Woon.

Selecting a few old R&B bangers, he’s created some tracks that will be on playlists for years to come. Tory Lanez has modernised cult hits that are, in some cases, nearly two decades old. And despite the use of these classics, the album still feels like his own.

Moments when his former wretchedness is recognisable rescue the album.

Its mixtape nature means it isn’t yet the concise album Keel Her might one day produce, but the breezy likes of ‘Go’, ‘Riot Girl’ and ‘Don’t Look At Me’ are tuneful pop pastiches in the vein of Dum Dum Girls and Ariel Pink.

Within the chaos, there’s beauty — the sensitivity of ‘Hey Jane’, the infectious hip-hop bite of ‘Thought I Was Dead’, the rising cacophonies of brass and percussion on ‘I Killed You’. But perhaps a less frantic approach would’ve benefited the listen overall.

‘I’m Doing It Again Baby!’ is a fine album; it’s fun and sweet, if a little bland. It’s a pristine pop record that takes few risks and leaves little room for error – though it might be more interesting if it did.

As usual, if you scratch the surface there's a lot more going on than you'd initially realised. [20 Jan 2007, p.31]

Across 31 minutes and just seven songs, Poliça are impeccably focused on ‘Madness’, packaging up their first decade as a band into a neatly formed, bite-sized package.

Total couldn't be more mid-noughties if it came dressed in a geometric hoodie, and the result is a chopped-up, sample-heavy stew that's a whole load of fun if the Tales Of The Jackalope shebang was your Hacienda.

While the nine-year break has seen the duo barely switch up their instrumentation--Warren Fischer is still blasting drum machines and moody synth underneath Spooner’s vocals--the band’s friend and new producer, R.E.M.‘s Michael Stipe, seems to have generally smoothed the scruffier side of the duo’s compositions.

That’s what’s frustrating here--although, like Waits, he’s obviously a truly poetic lyricist, the instrumentation is much more engaging than Henry’s placid voice.

Sadly, the promise of desert-rock heaviness is, if anything, underplayed.

What compensates for 'Keys To The World''s shortcomings... is that voice. [21 Jan 2006, p.33]

‘EBM’, then, goes some way to bringing the seasoned band back to what they do best, all the while pushing things forward.

The album, frustratingly, proceeds on a perplexingly flat note. Clocking in at 14 songs, one wonders if the ferocity of ‘Grooming My Replacement’ could have completed a memorable ten-track collection, with the final few tracks lacking that consistent cutting edge.

Though this is her most creative record to date, the lyrics stick to safer territory.

While ‘The Darker The Shadow’ is ambitious, packed with witty, insightful commentary on the human experience, its conceptual focus allowing plenty of scope for creative flourishes, it ultimately lacks the incisive punch of his earlier songwriting.

Though these are often beautiful and uneasy songs, too many of them feel rudderless.

Not a bad record then, but one that's debased by the disappointment of one of the UK's bright hip-hop hopes selling soul rather than surprises.

While these might not be Nilsson finest ever songs, it’s nothing less than a joy to hear him singing again.

It's a consistently engaging combination. [18 Feb 2006, p.35]

He ought to save the apologies and descend into full-on self-loathing mode more often.

Despite a handful of lacklustre moments on the album, ‘Everything Else Has Gone Wrong’ permeates the band’s trademark sound with fresh ideas.

Their stark sound might not be for everyone, but Williamson’s sideways swipes at pop culture and his own big nights out are as hypnotic as Fearn’s punked-up electronica which, despite its simplicity, is nigh impossible not to move to.

That’s Your Lot isn’t the instant-classic debut they might have hoped for, but it delivers on their early promise, and offers tantalising hints at where they might go from here.

The Best of Luck Club is not quite as immediate as the bruising garage-rock intensity of her debut, but this is instead a world-building release.

The choice to join forces with so many artists was always a huge risk, and unfortunately, it sometimes ends up dampening the charm that first set them apart from the masses. But in the moments where it does come together, it’s both epic and intriguing as hell.

This rag-tag collection, dating from between 1999 and 2010, sets out his stall as an outsider savant in an Ariel Pink vein.

Nobody can deny this mini album flirts with brilliance, and feels like a pop cultural moment straight out the gate; we just wish there was a little more to it.

When it works, the results are astounding.

While her commitment to reviving the golden age of hip-hop by harking back to the likes of Lil’ Kim and Foxy Brown is admirable, it looks like we’ll have to wait for Milli’s next release for that consistent collection of sure-fire hits we know she’s capable of delivering.

Ultimately, comeback albums are about consolidation rather than reinvention, and there’s just enough of the old ‘Smart’ magic here to satisfy the retro crowds. But there’s little sign of a route to relevance, and that’s not something to sleep on.

It’s admirable to see him balance his signature sound with hints of exploration in collaborations such as ‘Monsters You Made’, all while remaining true to his mother tongue.

Much of the 'Smith's music is reassuringly familiar, barely changed over their previous 12 albums, a mix of loose-jointed Stones raunch and vast power ballads impressive enough to bring out the 40-something in all of us.

Maybe Beth Orton, unlike some of her still-desperate-for-kudos contemporaries, is merely growing old gracefully, but clearly gracefully aging doesn't necessarily make for great records.

It's only on 'Ghetto Stars' when that ominous whisper comes to the fore, that Mixed Race excites, and a cascade of strings that don't so much make us yearn for past glories as wonder what Tricky thinks he has left to prove.

There's a tiny bit more to Mystikal than mere male piggery set to damn fine production.

This album feels more like a deserved victory lap than a forward step or a new instalment, but apart from his sole vocal on 'Feel So Close', the victor seems oddly absent.

Equal parts lo-fi sketch-like song structure and buffed-to-a-shine ’80s soft rock, these 12 songs are evidently personal and, at times, thematically obscure.

The track list lurches, rather than blends seamlessly, and on the spacey ‘This World’ she plays with an atonal vocal line (and the admittedly great lyric “you little prick – what do you know?”) that typifies her preference for experimentalism over accessibility. Even so, Moolchan remains as singular – and sophisticated – as ever.

'Invincible' is a relevant and rejuvenated comeback album make overlong and embarassing by the unavoidable fact that Michael Jackson is a) exceedingly rich and b) a bit of a wanker.

What's most promising is that GVSB's often melodic noise now, thanks to emo, exists less in weird isolation than it did, and the band seem to be headed dangerously close to getting what they deserve. If this means they must intermittently sound like Feeder, so be it.

Sandé clearly has the chops to stand out in the sophisticated cross-platform arms race of modern pop music--the soaring ‘Shakes’ and ‘Sweet Architect’ are proof of that--but you still wish she didn’t fall back so readily on cliché.

If Two Door are to hold onto anything from ‘Keep On Smiling’, it should be the playful, curious moments that convey a sense of fun, even if that’s deceptive. When things get serious on this record, the band stumble and the smiles begin to slip.

Too many songs blur into the next (‘Interlocking’ and ‘All Out of Catastrophes’, to name just a couple). Perhaps it’s due to Nadler’s dependence on certain vocal patterns and a no-frills, three/four guitar chord approach. Simple song structures aren’t to be scoffed at, but trouble lands when things become a little too predictable.

Weezer have delivered an album that’s intimate, thoughtful and resolutely human.

It’s a brave record, but also a frustrating one. While you’re persuaded by the clarity of Rostron’s vision, it’s hard not to also suspect a shortage of ideas.

It's still party music, but for a different kind of party.

They don't quite conjure the heart-slowing plod of Pecknold's mob on their second album.

Killer Sounds gets away with its confused billing because Hard-Fi have always known instinctively how to navigate their way around a chorus. That skill set survives here in big, stupid bloody pop songs.

Beyond the familiar name drops and signposts, there are flashes of a band in control of their destiny, and willing to try something new.

Although the off-counter flow can get monotonous at times – unfortunately making a number of the tracks on ‘Michigan Boy Boat’ rather skippable – Yachty’s embrace of the Michigan scene here come across as a daring way of reinventing his once-bubbly rap aesthetic.

Over length of 12 tracks, the soul/G-funk stuff becomes a little one-note, while the Disney-fied material lacks the charm that makes Prass such an engaging, idiosyncratic performer.

The truth is, though, there's just a lack of magic, a lack of something special going on. It's not bad. It's not good.

By going back to the sound of his early work, Scott steps back into the gargantuan shadow of his mentor. Kanye West – particularly the mechanical abrasiveness and fragmented textures of 2014’s ‘Yeezus’ – is not just an inspiration but an apparition that looms over Scott’s identity on this album.

For the most part it lacks either the experimentation of James Blake or the pop sensibilities of SBTRKT.

Good, but not "The Greatest."

At the moment, her music is best consumed in blog-sized chunks, not as a stodgy 48-minute album.

Many of the digressions are compelling, however, the frequent changes in approach mean that its creators’ personality isn’t always easy to grasp. This mercurial quality is a result of several straightforward rock tracks that are noticeably weaker than the album’s finest moments.

An album to be remembered for? Probably not, but it’s bold, it’s a laugh, and he’s done it his way.

The Moog returns here, but 'Suns'--two minutes of busted TV static--is an inscrutable opener.

Lyrically, this is the best Rose has ever been. Poignant, affecting and candid, at times it’s spectacular. Yet the music fails to reach the same heights, resulting in a mismatched record.

Risk To Exist is a cracking post-debate disco record, certainly, but no one ever changed the world over cocktails at Club Tropicana.

She's far less successful when she goes into full-on retro pop mode, as on the incredibly cloying 'Put Your Brain In Gear' and 'Runaway', but when she decides to plump for the darker end of the spectrum, she shines.

‘Flatlands And The Flemish Roads’ evokes feelings of motion, ‘Ode To Viennese Streets’ a sense of relaxation, but strip away their titles and the concept evaporates, leaving a warm but undemanding album.

Solid singer-songwriter fare with more longing than your teenage years.

If Christopher Nolan ever does one of his gritty makeovers on Twilight, the soundtrack’s as good as sewn up.

Where he’s inventive and precise in directing his energy, he’s able to make real uplifting and imaginative indie bops. It’s a shame this album’s not full of them. The potential is there, but he’s not quite hit it.

Memphis sextet Magic Kids started out in the midst of the city's celebrated garage-punk scene, but you'd hardly know it on the basis of this airheaded and obsessively nice-ified debut album.

There are ideas here that could have been developed into a stunning 10-track album. Unfortunately, Quaristice contains 20 ‘tunes’, many of them elusively experimental ear-tormenters.

It's all solid stuff, but if Murderbot wants to be an ambassador for the genre, then perhaps he should try tackling less divisive subjects, such as politics or war.

There is little, if any, advancement in the band’s sound, which leaves them predictable after three albums mining The Jesus And Mary Chain and Phil Spector’s girl-group production.

It’s all deranged enough to convince us that Sleigh Bells are still menacing outliers, but on a deep cover mission to infiltrate the mainstream, horns still poking out of their ’80s mullet wigs.