By god is it ever long (it's 16 tracks), but on the whole it showcases enough of what makes the Chili Peppers a very good rock group – chief among these are John Frusciante's excellent, inventive guitar playing, and the fact that it is with tremendous conviction that Anthony Kiedis belts out even the most ridiculous words.

As curious a party piece that is, it rather overshadows their phenomenal way with gorgeous melodies and heart-melting harmonies.

Sadly, such pop bluster is largely missing from this debut album, which is over-long and obsessed with pained R&B choruses--precisely the reasons we all went off American rap in the first place.

It’s Dire Straits teamed with louche New York cool--a combination that shouldn’t work, but totally does.

Crunching rhythms, subtle brass, and tunes as intoxicating as a blood transfusion from Pete Doherty combine as he tells the tale of a disastrous year full of rat infestations, romantic strife and weight loss.

Allow Caramel to ooze out and it’ll rock you into an unsettling trance.

Any attempt at bombast is pinned down by singer Liam Palmer’s weary baritone and wry poetry. Intriguingly glum.

Rivas’ voice isn’t enormously distinctive, either, meaning Sky Swimming rarely eclipses the dreaded adjective ''pleasant''.

If ‘The Messenger’ was everything anyone could want a Johnny Marr solo record to be, Playland is pretty much all anyone could hope for as a follow-up.

Being adventurous can often mean over-reaching but, in this case, the production turns familiar elements into one of Fucked Up’s most intriguing recordings yet.

By the end, it’s more than enough noodling, but you can’t help but marvel as Drinks shred their fingertips.

What A Time To Be Alive often sounds more like a Drake album than the jazzier, busier records that Future usually creates. Yet the Atlanta rapper dominates the record, demonstrating his impressive adaptability.

He’s the most successful former One Direction member with good reason, and this album is a high-water mark for the 25-year-old.

This is a nine-song collection of modest ambition, but ‘Buoys’ undoubtedly succeeds on its own terms, that consistently understated sonic template interspersed with surprising moments – the bassy thud of electronic drums that interrupts ‘Crescendo’, the hip-hop style piano riff that marches through ‘Master’ – that makes it a rewarding repeat listen.

Lang struggles when he shoots for huge, belting rock’n’roll – most of the more conventional tracks fade into the background. ... Instead, Lang feels far more at home and intriguing with the intricate, slowly unfurling ‘Final Call’.

There’s one too many generic, string-laden ballads, and a stop-start feel to the record, a frustration given how enlivening its highs are. But if anything, it feels like a record Beer has been desperate to make since the very beginning: she’s come a long way in her time in the spotlight, but now we’re finally getting to know her true sound.

Dando is in spiky, Buzzcocks-esque form. [23 Sep 2006, p.31]

If there’s a criticism to be made it’s that the album’s perhaps a little one-note.

Adam Green’s flowering from puerile anti-folk twonk with The Moldy Peaches to suave lounge-country crooner is laudable.

Amid the admirable artistic confrontation in this record, there’s a gnawing impersonality that plagues many of the tracks here. There’s enough diamond material shining in the dirt to make this one of the most inventive posthumous albums that’s been released in recent times – it’s just a shame that the album doesn’t fully execute SOPHIE’s unique vision.

This time around Tessa Murray and Greg Hughes give the same tricks a more professional finish.

Although the collaborations here read like pop's Yellow Pages... it feels not like desperation, but a wildly ambitious Warhol-esque art project. [9 Sep 2006, p.35]

Sadly, a lack of focus in melody and structure means it's not quite as atmospheric as Mick seems to think.

Bereft of blues bombast, electronic trickery or bothersome concepts, when E's not coming on like Red House Painters he's getting seriously classical.

Bagshaw’s tendency to spout arcane guff about the Odyssey, desert rituals, buried crystals and dancing on the stones is pure hippy mimicry. Sonically, though, this is a fresh and energised ’60s homage.

Time Team is intergalactic, ambient, Rustie-ish drug music set to snare kicks and sturdy hip-hop beats that at its best is deliciously mind-bending.

Manchester Orchestra are from Atlanta and play loud/quiet grunge. Nothing new then, but fans of the Pixies and Weezer will love it.

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