Hushed vocals, strummed guitars, creeping cello, and an all-encompassing sense of politeness are the order of the day. [19 Jun 2004, p.57]

For the most part, though, After The Disco unfolds at a fertile equidistance from each man’s comfort zone (inasmuch as a polymath like Burton can be said to have one) and the results are a marked improvement.

You finish the record hungry for more of these febrile, insistent Kinshasa sounds--and that, surely, is mission accomplished.

It’s a scattershot album gelled together by Mensa’s emotionally frank lyrics, which reveal a complex persona.

It’s a fan-pleasing record that’s actually more Beach Boys than peak Beatles.

Every track brims with exuberant life. His first true masterpiece.

It's an intense record that lingers in the memory long after it’s finished.

What they offer on Waiting For Something To Happen is a fey-pop selection box that leaves out the gothic grit and garage-infused rabble of early tracks.

Farewell to Condale, the ’80s teen-flick soundstage for Summer Camp’s brilliant rom-pop 2011 debut; welcome to the slick ’90s house club of their equally impressive second.

Ne-Yo‘s overly polished vocals not sit well and Preemo’s production sounds uncharacteristically remedial. Sometimes, too, Guru’s absence is a little too noticeable. ... But these hiccups aren’t enough to derail the album’s quest to remind fans why the duo’s name is mentioned amongst the hip-hop greats.

Right now, their bouncing glamorama feels like the most important album you could own.

Singer Matt Popieluch transcends his past as Peter Bjorn And John’s bongo player as he helms the hyper-melodic ‘Vacationing People’, while ‘Wait in This Chair’ proves a moving ode to inertia, casting a spell only a televised fashion disaster could break.

'Quixotic' is doomed to be a record that has dinner parties nodding in mute agreement at its quality. Albeit half a decade ago.

If you like your rock with sawdust on the floor and blood in its mouth, this is as good as it gets. [14 Aug 2004, p.49]

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.

Ultimately, this is a more mature Rocky: suited, settled and self-assured. The bachelor’s grown up – and somehow, that hasn’t dulled his shine at all.

While it’s not the glorious shambles we were hoping for, there’s a feeling that no matter what rehabilitation they go through, thankfully they’ll never lose those magic battle scars.

If Burrows gifted Razorlight two of their biggest hits (in "America" and "Before I Fall To Pieces"), what his former band gave him in return was the platform to bring something far more interesting into the light of day. Welcome the new dawn.

After the ubiquitous presence of '80s-indebted music last year, a follow-up with little stylistic deviation isn't a thrilling proposition: Take Me Over steals a hook from fellow Australians Men At Work, adds ooh-ooh backing vocals and just about gets away with it.

A belligerent surge of dub-influenced electro-rock and angst-ridden sloganeering.

There's undoubtedly something there with Frankie--those effortless, skippy choruses aren't as easy to do as they seem. But he and his Heartstrings haven't quite found their true north yet.

Ultimately, Blossoms leap from their chart-bound Trojan horse as modernist rock heroes.

He's no Marcel Proust, but full credit for producing what's an unusually thoughtful album in contemporary pop music terms. Even if it is a bit morbid.

A good seven years out of date, Doom Abuse is pure synth-pop mania, frequently teetering between unadulterated Trent Reznor pop brilliance and impressions of Skrillex driving a monster truck through a Savages gig in a video arcade.

This fifth album is a relatively sedate affair.

Benjamin Power, on his first record as Blanck Mass, isn't really breaking their spacey, rushing mould, instead slowing it down and ironing out the thrills.

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]

Gone Now proves he should be recognised as more than a writing partner or producer to the stars, but one of the stars himself.