Things do pick up with messy, closing tracks ‘Self-Immolate’ and ‘Hell’, but these are proficient rather than remarkable moments. Ultimately, it’s not enough to prevent ‘Infest The Rats’ Nest’ from feeling like a case of “look what we can do!” rather than a record fully realised.

Gorgeous closers ‘Grenade’ and ‘Beautiful Boy’ run the risk of ending proceedings on the glacial landscape that you’d expect from Sigur Ros, but there’s enough of a futuristic sheen and optimistic vibe to keep it feeling fresh and make you wanna dive back in for more.

We’ve heard these songs so often it would have taken a Christmas miracle for even a pop legend of Robbie’s stature to make them new. Still, his longtime collaborator and co-producer Guy Chambers has brought a great deal of warmth to this collection.

As bewilderingly little logic as Black Dice's rave collages contain, they're nailing something close to unique.

Uncomplicated, exuberant melodic thrash. [19 Jun 2004, p.57]

‘As The Love Continues’ is an album that opens impressively but falls short at times during its second half.

The whiff of soft-rock schmaltz is occasionally close to overpowering. [16 Sep 2006, p.36]

It's not quite diminishing returns, but more a sense that Oldham's going round in decreasing circles.

It is hard to know whether Bloom wants us to engage with the zen-like revelations that arose from being trapped in the thudding reality of one identical day following another, or whether he is inviting us to switch off our minds, relax and float downstream. The result is an album that has the capacity to do both, but never truly perfects either.

No-one could accuse this Portland trio of skimping on sarcasm--even if it is the kind of sarcasm that dribbles likes a student rallying against capitalism as he pulls in to a McDonald's drive-thru.

Mabel’s gorgeous silky vocals soar, the glossy production is stellar, but the exuberance and effervescent attitude that make tunes like ‘Don’t Call Me Up’ so brilliant aren’t found throughout.

Though often overpowering and, by the end of the record, a little wearing, this palette provides a consistent buoyancy and energy – and there are plenty of times when The Maytals turn it to their advantage.

Its nine tracks were composed solely on keyboards as the duo – Wolf Parade guitarist Dan Boeckner and wife Alexei Perry – forced themselves into a new songwriting regime.

As it is, it’s good, but not as consistently great as we’ve come to expect from him.

‘Parachute’, the album’s first single, shoots for voguish, vaguely tropical production via Kylie and Girls Aloud hitmakers Xenomania, but is a tad sappy. Wilson’s pop vocal is much more convincing on the album’s bangers, ‘Press Rewind’ and ‘Happen In A Heartbeat’.

Worship The Sun continues that approach, sounding more cohesive in the process. Somehow, though, it’s also more sluggish--their ‘60s indebted garage-rock drags where once it excited.

It’s those sudden, inexplicable breakthroughs, those little lightning strikes of inspiration, that this compilation is ultimately concerned with. And it’s in those moments when these crappily-recorded fumblings become a source of real fascination.

This is an album that can and should be enjoyed without over-thinking.

This is instead a solid collection of outtakes, rather than a full display of their songwriting muscle.

Silly? Indisputably, although Dani Filth's theatrical vocals ensure that 'The Abhorrent' is every bit as grandiose and ridiculous as a classic Hammer horror.

Ridiculous, yes, but to Thrice's credit, wanting to be Deftones (which they attempt here, at length) is a noble endeavour. But the results are still clunky.

Stylistically, superficially, this forward propulsion sees him loop back to the start with six-track EP My Dear Melancholy,, which appears to sink back into the browbeaten R&B with which he made his Google-friendly name. This works--sporadically.

Timberlake, having failed to imprint his personality on 'Justified', simply stands or falls on the strength of the songs. Luckily for him, half a dozen of them - mainly Timbaland's - are brilliant.

It’s less nightclub, more drunken iPod selection, typical of late-period Tricky: brilliant, frustrating and fatally inconsistent.

This is Yo La tengo on snug autopilot. [2 Sep 2006, p.21]

What could’ve been a savvy dissection of seeking out connection during a surreal year instead see them go straight down the line.

Sex & Food comes with a handful of missteps, like the forgettable ‘Not In Love Were Just High’ and ‘This Doomsday’ in the album’s final third. But by and large, it sees UMO pushing their sound impressively, bending the rule book as crudely as they can before the spine break

As a tribute to Antonin Artaud, The Peyote Dance captures the frightening, ambitious and surreal work of an artist who was misunderstood during his life, albeit from a spectator’s perspective.

Gruff's skills as a songwriter married up with his gentle, accommodating tones can, at their best, elicit the fuzzy feeling one gets listening to a Burt Bacharach classic, but this falls short of such lofty comparisons.

While there are moments of brilliance, it’s clear there are too many chefs in the kitchen.

As dated as it undoubtedly is, it still makes for a pleasant enough ride.

Lindberg’s first solo LP moves in mysterious, often circuitous ways, emphasising mood over melody and aesthetic over dynamic. Which is a polite way of saying that it’s something of a grower, whose charms are revealed like arcane secrets only to those with patience, persistence and a lack of proximity to heavy machinery.

Yesterday Was Forever was a record paid for by fans, and made for the fans.

Some may tire of Honne’s romantic lyricism, but it’s undeniably what they do best.

Thankfully lacking the comedy ska bletherings of their last two albums, this is certainly fast and furious and, where once they seduced the charts with songwriting, now they want to bludgeon with hardcore muscle.

You can't help but feel The Subways are stuck between rock and a slightly harder place, and are just a bit confused. [9 Jul 2005, p.57]

While we were expecting an opus about how the coalition government’s really lame, he’s delivered a relentless bosh-pop thump that’s more ‘Bonkers’ than bonkers.

All of which is to say that ‘The Great Dismal’ sounds big, and far grander in scope than anything the four-piece have done before. ... There are points, however, where the record gets bogged down under its own weight, where a wave of noise subsides without doing any damage.

A handy "best of the Stereophonics--for now." [8 Apr 2006, p.39]

He splits the difference on ‘Music To Be Murdered By’, indulging his immature ego (griping at bad reviews, stirring controversy for the sake of it) even as he offers salient social criticism and admits his missteps. He’s ready to pass on hard-earned wisdom before running his mouth like he hasn’t learned his own lessons. And he offers casual fans a hook or two before embarking on another lyrical work-out.

Although ‘Lungu Boy’ sees Asake still rewriting the rulebook on Afro-pop, you have to push through a lot of samey repeats of his past work before you get to the good stuff.

Though it's pretty easy to be the best band in their self-created genre of 'love metal', if you can ignore the cartoon goth twaddle that comes out of Valo's mouth, you'll find an extremely well-executed pop-metal album underneath.

Less a cohesive body of work and more a collection of tracks, ‘Exodus’ feels a little unfinished at times, because of a lack of verses from X and the occasional filler record. Nonetheless, it’s a wonderful tribute record loaded with stellar individual moments, and serves as a beautiful reminder of why the world fell in love with DMX in the first place.

It’s arty, it’s farty, it’s at times strangely hypnotic and if you leave it on your record collection it will make you look really cool. If that’s your thing...

Two Door’s fourth effort is far from a wall-to-wall success, but for a band who could so easily continue to tread their affable, well-worn path around arenas and festival main stages without a sideward step (as many of their indie contemporaries have and will continue to do), the risks and experimentation here are very welcome.

The star’s debut album shows plenty of promise but some filler, too. It’s not a masterpiece that will silence the haters, but it’s not likely to slam the brakes on her rapid rise either.

The guitarist and his normally hands-on producer are facilitators, with Tzur as the star. That might upset Radiohead fans expecting a stop-gap, but shouldn’t detract from an what's a largely immersive record.

There's a good single album here in need of editing.

Whether she's actually poverty-stricken or just pretending, the 29-year-old has put together a set of songs so delicate it has all the impact of a flutter of nymph wings.

There is disappointment that a number of U2’s big-hitters don’t translate well on ‘Stories For Surrender’, but this revision hasn’t been a totally fruitless endeavour: you just have to dig a little bit deeper to find the reimagined material that’s truly worth savouring.

There’s a playfulness in the way Gojira approach ‘Fortitude’. There are bursts of melody across the album – perfect for a stadium show of their own – and the likes of ‘New Found’ and ‘Born For One Thing’ flirt with crushing industrial breakdowns. There’s even a couple of soaring guitar solos in ‘Hold On’. The whole record feels agile, despite the weight.

A gloopy cheese-feast of sprightly psychedelic pop, served with a dollop of wanton James Brown funk on the side.

Easy to admire, but hard to really love. [27 May 2006, p.31]

Definitely a beautiful album but its hopelessness is never-ending, like a friend telling you their relationship troubles for hours and hours.

'All Rights Reversed', the Chems' collaboration with Klaxons, saves 'We Are The Night' from sounding like it's still stuck in the mid-'90s and with Willy Mason and Midlake cropping up, Tom and Ed have again found just enough cool mates to save them from a general feeling of naffness.

What it is overall, however, is a disappointment. A few sparkling moments of invention aside, much of this album is comfortably interchangeable with "Stars Of CCTV's" less inspired tracks.

This is clever, girl-led guitar pop.

There have been dark records by Chicagoan Bill Callahan. There have been wilfully obscure ones too, but there has never been one as single-mindedly dour as this.

Damned if they do and damned if they don't, it seems, but never sounding damned enough.

There’s nothing complex about what Rick Ross does. ... Ross consistently portrays the ‘old Rozay’, garnering successful results more times than not. Sometimes simplicity is key: if it ain’t broke don’t fix it.

If you can get past the earnest nostalgia and tweedy affectations, this isn't a bad album, just an average one.

The urge to dislike Josh Ritter is somewhat overwhelming. But, like a diseased puppy with an adorable smile, it's just impossible to take him out back with Pa's shotgun because he still has an ear for a good tune--even if it is one of Dylan's.

In the end, Ritual is not a bad album. But neither is it the album it would like to think it is.

Dulli generally succeeds in keeping things as darkly hypnotic as a rain-lashed midnight motorway.

With so many influences laid bare, it does take until seven-minute-long crescendoing closer ‘Saintless’ to truly showcase what they can achieve musically.

Hidden under the pit floor, however, are frankly scarier prospects. Like AAF's toe-curling cover of Michael Jackson's 'Smooth Criminal' or the awful sub-Police reggae lurch of 'Flesh And Bone'. Singer Dryden Mitchell over-emotes at every turn too, further slickening 'ANThology's pomp rock gloss.

Has the pungent whiff of an album with an imminent expiry date. [12 Feb 2005, p.51]

The decision you have to make with Summer Camp is this: do you want dance music that'll stop your feet moving by throwing some thought-provoking lyrics in your direction? Or dance music that'll make you wanna, you know, dance?

Yung Lean’s music has always been more interesting than it is good. ‘Starz’ features just enough captivating moments to prevent him – now an unexpected seven years into his career – from feeling played-out.

The irony of ‘Jump Rope Gazers’ is that as The Beths push themselves to do something different for album number two, they actually end up with the sonic sameness that the first record miraculously avoided. Only now do they sound like they could just be any other band.

The tunes offer a smooth enough ride, but The Vaselines aren’t really stretching themselves here.

‘Zombie’ has all the swagger and pep of his previous collaborator The Weeknd, while the tempered nature of ‘Cameo’ and ‘Renegade’ allow traditional pop songwriting to coexist with bolshy, bone-crunching settings. These fleeting moments are by far ‘Reborn’s most satisfying, and offer proof that there’s plenty more creative road for Kavinsky to bomb it down in years to come.

It’s a challenge to come away from ‘Death By Rock And Roll’ with much of a sense of who The Pretty Reckless really are. A pastiche of their epic rock ambitions? Something deeper? It’s that tension that frustrates and fascinates.

Their mid-career crisis record full of poor-man's-Bjork wailing and dour shimmer rock, notable only for the funky mantra of 'Kali Yuga' (George Harrison exploding), and 'Point Dume' (the noises you'd hear in the night if your flat was haunted by Brian Wilson).

Cupid Deluxe is a shop window for the future sound of pop. But perhaps he should quit trying to be a Prince-like polymath and concentrate on being a nimble-fingered production wizard instead.

In between, it’s a wade through thick sonic sludge, but the oncoming doom of ‘Endless Drops’ is bleakly tuneful and ‘He Looks Good In Space’ is soothing.

Melodically there’s consistent bombast – the record opens with ‘Stepdad’s wonky sound, sounding like an orchestra disco epic played on a Fisher Price keyboard. ‘Miami Memory’ becomes a slipperier prospect when Cameron’s usual ironic schtick reappears.

Songs like ‘No Simulation’ and ‘Red Flags’ bring back her ethereal, brooding signature sound, too, while others serve as little pick-me-ups for when you need to switch on. But, this record doesn’t weld these two sides of Tinashe successfully. There’s still a way to go before she finds her sweet spot, but this is a fun stepping stone along the way.

A tighter and more compact project would have elevated some of the album’s more enlightening moments, but, when taken as a whole, ‘Modern Dread’ ultimately disappoints.

The Divine Comedy are much more appealing in their vulnerability than they ever were in full cry.

Kane’s ante is upped, but Coup de Grace still isn’t quite the killer blow.

The rootsier material is often fantastic, which shows up the goofier stuff even more. Kesha has balanced tender country songs with blinging pop throughout her career, but you may wish for ‘High Road’ to stick to one lane.

Overall, Interpol seems cinematic, abstract and complex, but that adds up to something interesting rather than thrilling.

It’s commendable that aespa are not resting on their laurels or churning out sound-a-likes of what’s worked before, but this project doesn’t showcase the spark that made them special in the first place.

An extremely mellow album, while hardly groundbreaking, it’s quietly beautiful in places.

Dry, controlled music. [11 Jun 2005, p.67]

There's still signs of the nutso techno loony who prompted NME to invent the term 'drill'n'bass' back in the mid-'90s. [14 Oct 2006, p.35]

Shangri La is basically more of the same, and for many of his fans, that’ll be more than enough. It would be a shame, however, if it was enough for Bugg, too.

Despite overwhelming evidence to support the notion that he should quit vocal duties forever, he continues to labor under the delusion that his cochlea-shredding falsetto sounds like anything other than Prince with his scrotum in a vice.

Uneasy and scratchy, and powered by hefty beats from producer Justin Raisen, ‘No Home Record’ is a restless listen.

Cabic's alt.blues vocals sometimes sound disinterested, but they merely act as a device for the music to take over the listener. [1 Jul 2006, p.36]

Bad As Me has to rank as a disappointment, since there are no surprises to match Real Gone's sepulchral funk or Orphans'... breathtaking sweep.

It’s skillfully realised, but feels like a soundtrack missing a movie.

‘True’ is the only real misstep on the record’s first half: a preachy self-love anthem that feels like it might’ve come together without Marina thinking how the lyrics sound when sang out loud, but it’s quickly passed over when ‘To Be Human’ arrives.

Of course it's pretentious, but the blend of reading-group rock, goth showtunes and gold standard hamming from Willem Dafoe and Steve Buscemi is surprisingly compelling after a while.

Gone are the wistfulness and melancholy that permeated her last four albums, yet ‘The Life of a Showgirl’ still sounds curiously muted despite Swift reuniting with pop super-producers Max Martin and Shellback for the first time in eight years.

While there’s a comforting familiarity that comes with all things Suede, it’s wonderfully shrouded on The Blue Hour by a very new, romantic and alluring strangeness. These are not hits to shake your bits to. Nor will these beats shake your meat. Rest assured, Suede remain the beautiful ones, but are just looking for beauty in ever more curious places.

Here is the ultra-Keane album, with tinkling, histrionic, arena-ready piano motifs™, soaring, emotive vocals™ and songs called 'Day Will Come', 'In Your Own Time' and 'Silenced By The Night'.