While it's sometimes hateful and sometimes hate-filled, "At Your Inconvenience" is rarely boring.

James' big thing was anthems, and here they do every single anthem they ever thought of. The crowd think it's brilliant, and they cheer when Tim Booth talks about God. The crowd are plainly mad.

If Skinner is coasting on production duties, then Harvey is overcompensating on the vocals.

This is not a subtle record, but these are not subtle times. So grab a Marshall stack, put it through a fascist’s window and let’s start the revolution. Now.

Only a smidgeon less euphoric than ‘EP-1’, EP-2 is another brief broadside that further justifies Pixies’ drip-drip release plan, keeping their ten-year-tour on the road and the intrigue of their new material relentlessly fresh.

The man who made the 's 'Dare'--can't add enough bells and whistles to stop the tunes from sounding like they've been faxed over from one of Stock & Aitken's duller days at the office.

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.

There's just an unavoidable sense here of a band who aren't quite sure what their purpose is anymore.

Their default position is to panel it: hard-driving Zep-worship so unvarying in its pace that Everyday Demons comes on like one long undead riff plus a lot of yawled guff about about being an ‘Evil Man’ with ‘Demon Eyes.'

It sounds like Aerosmith, with plenty of hard-rocking blues swagger and lighters-aloft balladry, but most of the tunes are rubbish.

Christopher is all dreamy lushness with synths that range all the way from zappy to squashy.

Mary J Blige, Ella bloody Fitzgerald and the odious Cee Lo (see above) all phone in a hand, but… look, just get the book [his autobiography], OK? It's brilliant, and this isn't.

At just 11 tracks and 27 minutes long, it’s concise by West’s standards – the days of sprawling masterworks such as ‘My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy’ and ‘The Life Of Pablo’ are perhaps behind him – but there’s density and focus throughout.

Half the time, Good Charlotte sound like Blink-182 after the snip, the other half they sound like the Backstreet Boys without the songs. [16 Oct 2004, p.48]

HITNRUN Phase One isn’t one of Prince’s best albums. But neither is it his worst. He hasn’t lost it. He’s just resting it.

It's not so much that [they] sound a bit like The Rapture so much as, occasionally, they seem to be running off Xerox copies of specific Rapture songs. [29 Jan 2005, p.58]

The highs occur when Weezer play it straight-ish.

Ultimately, this is just a rock album that does exactly what it says on the tin. They are head-banging, pitch-altering rock songs that may not change the world right away, but they’ll give yer head a little wobble at the very least.

Witness isn’t about subtlety, but if you’re going to deliver important messages about female autonomy to a young audience, it’s surely better to shout than whisper.

Sounds like an even less energetic Alicia Keys. [24 Jun 2006, p.43]

This barrage of generalised morality is cozened by overwrought production that sees the sun-baked reggae backbone of his previous efforts stripped out to make way for a confusing hotch-potch of styles and an overwhelming sense of desperation.

The musical results feel more like a touristy package holiday through Jamaican dub history.

They've stuck the bleeps on autopilot, the beats on cruise control, and can only be bothered writing a handful of half-decent tunes. [5 Feb 2005, p.50]

'Rudebox' is not 'Robbie Williams the serious artiste', but it is an amazing pop album.

On first listen sound[s] like someone taking the piss out of The Rapture. [11 Sep 2004, p.57]

It's difficult to believe Limp Bizkit could return after all this time somehow even more hateful than before.

He's only gone and come back. And improved, actually: we counted two more hits than "Back To Bedlam." Be very afraid.

Technically accomplished and assured record, which doesn’t do a massive amount to deviate from the template of Catfish’s debut.

Like Eminem, Williams is desperate to give his own spin on tabloid coverage and determined to prove himself as human as the rest of us, but incapable of letting us forget he's a star. Except Eminem is the voice of a generation while Robbie Williams is just the voice of Robbie Williams, and while Eminem has Dre, Robbie has a ramshackle posse of musicians roped in to create this album's (wait for it) 'spontaneous' live sound.

Weighed down by star power, which eclipses Pop Smoke, ‘Faith’ feels more disingenuous than its predecessor.

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.

Doomed to lurk unplayed at the back of your collection. [2 Oct 2004, p.64]

Needless to say, it's totally fucking rubbish.

While DONDA certainly isn’t a rushed job, it could have benefitted from West spending a little less time on it and learning when to let things go. Nobody needs all 27 of these tracks, but dig deep into its contents and you’ll find enough gems to make his 10th album worth your time.

For All The Dogs- his third solo LP in as many years – not only feels tiring, but sounds tired too.

Musically ‘Walls’ is a largely conservative album; it’s primarily guitar-led and rarely experiments. ... The album is padded out with a string of forgettable – though not unenjoyable – acoustic whimsies. ... There are the foundations here for a rewarding future.

While most of Matinée will fade away into your brain faster than a pair of his danced-out Nikes, there is a shadow of a hint of a suggestion that there’s something more to Jack Peñate than rapidly-dissolving indie-pop sugar.

Trouble is, although forced to move on, Howlett had nowhere particular to go, and so much of this album sees him squatting on the floors of other acts. [14 Aug 2004, p.47]

'Trust Me’ works, kinda, by doing R&B without palely imitating US fare: take ‘Hot Stuff’, smooth ’80s dance-pop that makes game use of Bowie’s ‘Let’s Dance’.

Overall it just about balances out.

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.

‘The Balcony’ is informed both by their struggle and their noughties indie elders. All this adds up to a dated sound.

Far from the unpredictable genius of old, it seems that Rivers Cuomo has returned lacking both edge and sparkle.

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

Sure, 'J.Lo' is competent, but like Lopez's voice, it lacks sincerity and warmth.

In simple terms, then, the third Razorlight album is utter, utter cobblers.

The unfortunate irony is that Sounds From Nowheresville doesn't sound much like a grand rejection of pop music at all. It just sounds a little bereft of ideas, and way too short.

Mostly it's just a heavily lacquered drone, an album so restrained as to sound almost calculated. [29 Jan 2005, p.58]

Over-produced and under-inspired. [26 Mar 2005, p.51]

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

Doesn't life already seem cruelly short? Do you really want to waste any of it ploughing through a new Duran Duran record? [9 Oct 2004, p.56]

Such boyish noise has been done to death of late and, frankly, it’s been done better. More interesting is David Cox and Russell Crank’s Tiga-ish pop sensibility.

The truth is that metal fans used to have a word for music like this, and that word is wimpy. [1 Oct 2005, p.45]

‘Vultures 1’ might not be the total dud that could put Kanye’s career six feet under, but it is far from one of his best efforts either. It’s more cohesive than ‘Donda’ – although that’s not hard, given it’s about half its length – and includes some well-curated guest spots from Travis Scott, Playboi Carti and India Love.

While there are a few too many lounge-bar moments - a hangover from his NERD days - when 'In My Mind' is good, it really is excellent.

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.

There are simply too many stodgy slowies. [13 Nov 2004, p.57]

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.

There's nothing too complex or alienating about anything on this record; it is lowest-common denominator rock'n'roll painted in broad, primary coloured brushstrokes. [29 Jan 2005, p.57]

The only person this record would ever appeal to is the man who made it--Jack Black. [11 Nov 2006, p.43]

'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.

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

If only the rest of the album was as inventive [as 'Spend Some Money'], instead of a derivative box-ticking exercise that features Dizzee going on about his "willy" a lot.

Basically, it's the curse of Jewel: Yank bird with acoustic guitar, homespun philosophy and twee poeticism, where the songs ramble on and on to deliver some platitudinal twaddle...

11 tracks of the same old maudlin balladry.

Cher's not proved herself nimble enough to be more than roadkill beneath its wheels.

Korn's eighth is actually an interesting listen; as diverse as the witless art of nu-metal gets. That doesn't mean it's good. It merely leaves us with a numbing dilemma: we want to hate it, but we can't.

Like the enraged hormones of Iggy Pop slugging it out with the grandiose pomp of Queen. [28 Aug 2004, p.57]

Listen speckles similar crackers (‘Goodbye Friend’, ‘Hey Mama’) between gushes of sizzle sewage, as if all of Ibiza’s been trying to get high on glittery laxatives.

But wait - is that the ghost of a melody on 'Lover's Leap'? Alas, no: it's merely the desultory whoosh of a once-promising career as it plummets, irretrievably, down the art-pop pan.

Many of the songs deal in wavy synths and trap beats, but a few tracks show an appetite for experimentation that reflects poorly on the rest of the album.

Please Mr Eitzel, get to the bar and pour yourself another drink. [1 Oct 2005, p.45]

Wayne's 10th studio album sees memory of his charisma and sparkle during that mid '00s era fade further.

So, even the fact that these 29 tracks, including 3 remixes, have sometimes been re-produced, re-jigged and finely honed production-wise doesn't diminish the original effort involved.

For the most part, the album is sickly sweet and filled with cliché lyrics. ‘Treat Myself’ is a frustrating listen, especially given Trainor’s track record for writing ear-worm pop songs.

Ensconced in the current UK hip-hop trend of being both depressing and cheesy, 23-year-old James Devlin raps about weapons, swine flu and diabetes.

The record doesn’t feature a bunch of seminal tracks, instead packing filler between his knockout singles such as ‘First Class’. You’ll find a gem or two here and there, but this collection’s longevity is questionable.

Weirdest of all, though, is that no matter how much Jessie J sings about being herself, we don't really ever get a sense of who, or what, that is.

These People is the solo record most aligned to Ashcroft’s Verve peak, right down to employing the same string arranger and bunging on one gigantic romance anthem, ‘This is How It Feels’.

This time the Mickie Most-omatic (phasers set to Winehouse) has dredged up someone so inauthentic she makes Duffy look like Johnny Cash.

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.

A brazen, heartwarming, classic '70s bardic rock album, spirited enough to compete with and instruct the Ashcrofts and Gallaghers.

'Lions' is widdle-smothered great-grandadrock shite that Hendrix could whack off in ten minutes today, despite being dead. Pumped full of funk-rawk formaldehyde to stop the choruses dropping off, it boasts all the originality of a cloned baked bean and about as many tunes as a tractor makes trying to get out of a ditch.

There seems to be a hollowness, a lack of soul, an empty Big Mac carton where this album's heart should be.

The 20-track project adeptly captures the sadness and social isolation sparked by Young Thug’s time away, but conveys it with such lethargy and incoherence that you’re simply left feeling sorry for him rather than inspired by his storytelling.

Clocking in at 47 minutes (despite its 17-track length), Lil Boat 2 feels like a vast improvement from ‘Teenage Emotions’ simply as it doesn’t feel like an ordeal to listen to. What that does do, however, is narrow down your focus, which tends to land on Yachty’s predisposition for telling us just how rich he is now.

Not all of it works, but his renewed creative vigour is obvious and his sense of duty commendable.

For now, though, she's no better than one of Cowell's ventriloquist dummies.

There's no reason on God's green earth why anybody should want this record.

This is really little more than a half-baked infantile indulgence.

Cardiology is monstrously offensive – the latest shit-streak by music's laziest sons.

Had the entirety of ‘Brassbound’ been as polished as these final two tracks, the Boys would be closer to the promise they exhibited on their debut. Instead, they’ve produced – and have the frightening candour to admit to – their “second debut”.

A horrible, hysterical splurge of splenetic punk rock, processed beats and whimsical experimental chaos. Which is no bad thing. [5 Feb 2005, p.51]

Further success should elude them. That, it seems, is firmly restricted to the past.

Anodyne dance music for people who don't go to clubs, comedown music for people who don't do drugs.

Nothing quite fits, giving the impression that this material wasn't good enough for the guest artists' own albums.

Underclass Hero they've gone straight for the commercial mother lode, pitching their sound almost equidistantly between 'The Black Parade' and 'American Idiot' (insert your own 'parade of idiots' gag here).... If you already own those albums, why waste your time with this?

Rick Rubin’s final Primal Scream-gone-hip-hop remix of ‘A Light That Never Comes’ saves Recharged from disaster, but you might need resuscitating after this lot.