Juice WRLD is far less indulgent than XXX, not getting lost in the idea that he’s a messianic creative. This will be the moment that solidifies his status as one of rap’s most exciting new stars.

Duck is far from inventive, but there’s fun to be had.

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.

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.

The effort in attempting to redefine their sound and head back to the ’80s is clear, but it’s sorely undermined by a lack of originality and ideas.

You know everything is going to be OK within seconds of the surging, tidal riffs of ‘Wraithlike’, and what follows is simply a fine-tuning of what the Park have done before.

One of the best British rock albums of the year so far.

If I Had The Blues But I Shook Them Loose is the band's Everest, not only do they conquer it with unassuming boyish romance, but they've also created the most poignant anthology of what it means to be young and restless in the city since fellow Londoners Bloc Party's "Silent Alarm"--though they're a lot less frosty than Okereke et al.

Even when easing off the throttle, The Warlocks find ways to blow your mind. [10 Sep 2005, p.66]

Ghost Stories is a feeling more than a collection of songs, and takes a willing reception for granted. That feeling's not rancorous, it's bloodless and resigned, but touching as well.

Unapologetic makes a compelling case for Rihanna knowing what she's doing. This most compelling of pop phenomena still has something new to offer.

This record moves way beyond armchair psychology - in fact, there are armchairs that have a cannier grasp of the mind.

It’s clear this ‘Falkirk miserablist’ has finally found contentment.

It's not perfect--but no Big Star album ever was. [24 Sep 2005, p.47]

Mawkish and messy.

There's 100 reasons to worship the Beastie Boys. But, plugging in a wah-wah pedal and writing an album of indulgent jazz-funk instrumentals is certainly not one of them.

If you look at it as a Grand Guignol of rock cheese, this album is huge fun.

As a whole, Meteorites fails to set the sky on fire.

Only the LP’s soaring ‘Intro’ hints at greatness, and despite the raw talent on display, the dose is diluted and the sum total falls short.

Free Weezy Album is one of those records you sift through for flashes of greatness, rather than sit back and let it wash over you.

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.

As debut albums go, it's unnerving that The Enemy are already this good and yet barely old enough to buy their own champagne when the ridiculously high chart placings inevitably come in.

The lead single, the excellent, Bowie-ish wibbler 'We Are All Made Of Stars' is a total red herring. The other 67 minutes and 17 tracks are 'Play' Redux; familiar-sounding "oh-lord-my-dog's-just-died" samples over shopworn pianos and strings, straining to be epic but lacking the crucial element of surprise that made 'Play' sound so innovative.

Noble and determined, 'Left' proves that while HOTS are capable of stirring thoughts and emotions, it's only when they reach full throttle that they truly move hearts and minds.

Myths 004 certainly hits the mark for “embracing the chaos” as a “crude holiday scrapbook”, as they promised in a release accompanying the EP. But is it actually an enjoyable listen? Not really.

Kasher wrote this as the soundtrack to his screenplay, but on this evidence it could debut on The Hallmark Channel.

What disappoints, though, is how numbingly comfortable he is within these nostalgic boundaries.

From 'Gimme More's' heavily treated vocals that sound like a sex addict's cry for help to the electro throb of 'Piece Of Me', where fembot Brit tackles the paps with laser eyes, it could really do with a few more human touches.

'Yours Truly...' is a rip-roaring pop record - sprightly, lean and adventurous - a bold leap skyward from 'Employment'.

Enjoyable, fiendishly moreish, while also somewhat disjointed, A Girl Cried Red is most rewarding for what it tells us about Princess Nokia, both as an artist and a person--showcasing an alternate side of an open yet abstruse enigma.

But rather than ending up a bombastic mess, ‘Sleep Mountain’ knows that the devil is in the detail.

A substantial offering awash with humble entreaties and doe-eyed, lounge affectations.

Complete and utter filth from start to finish, and that's as high a compliment as we can bestow on an album.

It’s actually Dire Straits gone trip-hop and everyone involved... should be brutally beaten to death with a tray of Ferrero Rocher.

The album is over-long, too, and a few songs less would have made it a leaner, meaner, more KAPOW-ing beast. All that said, when Jwl and Shunda’s flabbergasting spit is on form, it’s as compelling as a new, untired voice in rap always is.

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.

They're silly but their songs demand to be taken seriously, just like Prince, Ultravox and Bowie. And yes, they're like MGMT--in that they're great.

Somewhere between a funk soul Killers and an Interpol with lyrics that actually make sense. [11 Jun 2005, p.67]

And it sounds... bloated and uncomfortable. Time for another re-think.

An album packed with skyscraping highlights.

Full of banging beats, big noise and abundant wit and joy. [26 Jun 2004, p.55]

Scratch dances merrily over the electronics, but the two parties rarely connect in a cohesive way.

It is pleasant, and largely forgettable.

A tasteful set of sorrow-wallowing wet-indie covers produced by James Ford.

[He] returns with exactly the same sound he's been torturing us with for years. [9 Jul 2005, p.58]

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.

Unfortunately, Lupine Howl's debut long-player errs on the side of the canine, wolvish thrills hidden behind some positively vegetarian noodling.

From production so glossy that you could use it to reapply your lipstick to Sisqo's tortuous way with words, there's little here in the way of sex or sensuality.

Try not to grin inanely as the banjo-led big band play "The Bare Necessities," sob to Wilson's lounge lizard harmonies on "When You Wish Upon A Star" or find lions sexy during his restrained "Can You Feel The Love Tonight?"

On the laidback, spaced-out strength of A New Tide, they’re still as pleasantly beguiling as they were 11 years ago.

Aside from hollering his name or catchphrases--“Another one!”, “Bless up!”, “We The Best Music!”--there’s no doubt Khaled’s formidable connections were the driving force behind Grateful. But, even with a dream team like this assembled, Khaled hasn’t located the ‘major key’ to the masterpiece he desired.

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.

By Benga’s own high standards it feels a little flat.

Given that it documents a romantic life that’s apparently hurtling out of control, My Mind Makes Noises makes for a remarkably trim and measured collection of songs. Both hands are on the wheel, and this album will crank things up a gear for Pale Waves.

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

It’s post-rock burning its beret, Americana for the post-apocalypse.

Gauntlet Hair’s reference points are sublime, of course, but when they come up with the grudging funk of ‘Simple’, it’s something that’s all their own work.

Although Cruz’s downfall comes when he acts the player (‘Break Your Heart’, ‘Dirty Picture’), it’s obvious his real talent comes when he exchanges vocal manipulation for balladeering as on ‘Falling In Love’, and disregards romantic cynicism for a rather hopeful ‘The 11th Hour’.

Completely lacking in imagination. [1 Oct 2005, p.47]

While the overall sound is brighter, it's also largely rather weedy, and trading in the once colossal stoner riffs for languid neo-folk doesn't really suit this five-piece all that well.

Unrelentingly maudlin and hell-bent on ramming every potential silence with soporific guitars and proverbially pathetic fallacy, ‘AM’ only perks up on its two covers.

For the most part, ‘Dark Lane Demo Tapes’ is business as usual for Drake, who plays it safe and falls back on familiar terrain. ... But it’s not just a case of recycling here. There are some proper duds too.

The sound of a legend raging in style.

The formula wears pretty thin towards the end--bee-stung emoting in the verses, splashy catharsis in the chorus--but Glorious is no failure.

The band once again remain loyal to their signature blend of chugging riffs, angst-fuelled vocals, and enough shreddy-guitar solos to make your head spin. This is an unwavering commitment that remains throughout, and ultimately becomes both the record’s main redeeming feature and its biggest downfall.

More of the same from an act who have been ploughing the same furrow for so long they'll be reaching the Earth's core soon. [5 Jun 2004, p.57]

It's solid enough, but given the imagination they once possessed, it sounds like UNKLE are trying too hard.

It’s not awful, just bland, and lacks the bite that electro-pop records need to be lifted out of the purgatory that is mediocrity.

It's a bit of a mess.

‘CLB’ sounds jaded and dull, as if it was a chore to make. It’s certainly a chore to listen to. ... It offers nothing new to the rapper’s canon, merely going through the motions on his old formulas instead.

'Dumb Luck' will numb the pain for an hour, but you'll be buggered if you can remember anything about it afterwards.

The nine tracks here turn to the old-school and the classic, making the carols you sung at school into something better suited to a night doing shots of eggnog in Fat Mike’s shed.

Rather than evolution, Listen offers questionable overindulgence in funk, soul and chopped beats.

Spark is right about one thing at least: this album is boring, and everyone who says otherwise is a fucking liar.

Amusingly, Los Angeles nu-metal types Orgy look like Duran Duran after being chewed on by giant robots. The problem is, as this hugely stupid sci-fi concept album grinds on towards the 30th century, they sound that way, too.

A record which is closer in spirit to the rustic eccentricity of his '...Bewilderbeast' debut, while still moving things forward. [19 Jun 2004, p.57]

Flawed, but impressive.

An appreciation of jarring off-key vocals is essential to really love Naytronix, but at the root of all the batshit tinkles, twonks, robot vocals and dial-up noises is a smooth melodic funk pop perfect for seducing the microwave of your dreams.

The result is well produced and enjoyable, but it would be nice to see personality and innovation--two things The Prodigy rarely lacked--emerge among the Altern-8 tributes.

His production work on this fourth album adds a brittle EDM crunch to their formula, but lacks enough choruses ripped from the candy-curled fingernails of the Pet Shop Boys to stop the likes of 'Chemistry' and 'Real Real Love' sounding painfully dated beside Jungle, La Roux or even Daft Punk.

It's largely the usual semi-hilarious histrionica to which we've become accustomed

All that seems to have been lost over the years of caning from the likes of ‘We Are Electric’ and ‘Danse En France’ are the tunes.

Miley Cyrus And Her Dead Petz is surely the weirdest album made by a massive pop star in recent memory, but more impressively, it's also an essential listen.

This album is covered from head to toe in a cuticle of stylish crap. Underneath, fortunately, there are several redeeming gems. [21 Jan 2006, p.35]

Ultimately, it feels as if everybody involved in ‘Thank You’ has reverentially tried to make the platonic ideal of a Diana Ross album, but instead fallen into the late-career artist deadzone of a pleasant record that neither particularly updates nor diminishes her legacy.

If soft-hearted London folkies Noah And The Whale aren’t quite as deft with savoury rice, they’ve got the knack of balancing heart-melting, pupil-dilating ditties with words of chill bleakness down pat.

'Masquerade' is a mighty, ego-free album that doesn't need to shout to be heard.

It shows range, sure, but it feels so disparate that it's just baffling. Worse, none of these poses and personae actually feel convincing.

It’s a solid enough debut that really comes to life when the band don’t play it safe. However, lacking the star power that’s expected from musicians like these (you’d never know who was in this band without being told) it’s little more than the soundtrack to a great Friday night down the local boozer.

Moby has created an album full of saccharine strings, endless loops and narcoleptic synths. The mind boggles.

Robbie Furze and Milo Cordell's second album isn't done for by a lack of ambition, but rather the imagination required to realise it.

London quartet Good Shoes offer little to get flustered over with this sometimes dire, but mostly mediocre second album.

Bangarang, a stopgap EP ahead of his debut album later in the year, still fails to confirm whether his unashamed populism is deeply naive or profoundly cynical.

Truly this is music for life's uncomplicated moments. [15 Jul 2006, p.39]

What Happens Next is a distracted listen--an experimental Gill production that should be out under his name only.

Although clearly Canibus is undoubtedly one of the best freestyling lyricists of his generation, he's still to find the right production team to match his vocabulary.

More problematic than the bad lyrics or air of disengagement is Higgins' involvement. Too much of the album sounds washed out and painfully clean.

It’s an ambitious, emotional monolith of a record, with all the hallmarks of future classic status.