Bye Bye 17 ditches raunch and irony for old-fashioned songwriting and something approaching sincerity, and the results are kind of amazing.

'Tired Of Hanging Around' is one seriously pissed-off, paranoid, twitchy record.

A set of heartbreak hymns to sob come curfew time.

You cannot deny that these records – ‘Iceman’, in particular – are some of Drake’s strongest work in a while. The trilogy doesn’t restore Drake’s invincibility, but beneath the spectacle and the streaming bait is an ageing superstar still stubbornly clinging onto his crown with both fists.

It’s safe to say this album messes with our heads. You could do worse than let it mess with yours.

Mainman Rick Froberg might be midway through his fifth decade, but he and his cohorts can still make one hell of a racket.

It’s easy to hear his plaintive songs, full of heartbreak, mountains and fjords, and picture Ásgeir recording in Bon Iver-style isolation.

Sounding as vital as they ever have seven LPs down the track, there's life in them yet.

When they get it right--‘Let Go’ is precisely the sort of arthouse R&B blockbuster they could’ve done with more of--they flirt with perfection.

Sonic developments in the form of style, delivery and arrangement (an experimental approach no doubt encouraged by Mogwai producer Tony Doogan, who recorded the album in Glasgow earlier this year) are marred by disappointingly dumb and predictable lyrics, and where the quintet once made it sound so easy to come up with killer choruses, this second effort finds them slumping into forgettable filler territory on more than one occasion.

Tell Tales is spirited and theatrical, if not necessarily memorable enough to pass into local lore.

Convalescent, and luminescent.

The Free Nationals’ supreme musicianship is unquestionable, but they more often than not seem to require an outside presence leading from the front to really bring it all home.

One knock-on effect of going professional is that you can now hear the music clearly and properly, and it turns out that Mr. Williams isn't exactly a Mozart in the songwriting stakes.

The problem is that Ferg fails to provide a coherent musical vision to go with these compelling reminiscences.

Even more subdued than usual. [12 Aug 2006, p.32]

His choices are faultless and his sense of fun is very apparent.

Hazy, dark, The Cure-ish dreampop with a Lynchian vibe.

Given what we know about Cuomo’s eccentric inner world, it’s hard not to find those dazzlingly perfect melodies kind of hollow.

They have the relentless persistence needed to stick to the wall long enough (this is their third self-released album), but despite their striving for the grandiose (Kings producer Ethan Johns provides the country-ish bluster) and breaks (a spot in rom-com Going The Distance for last album "Union"), there's still that dark sparkle missing.

Unfortunately, in trying to take on all comers at once, there are parts of Queen that feel like an overreach. There is a better ten track effort hiding in Queen, but you get the impression Nicki kept tracks like ‘Miami’ to hedge her bets in a bid for streaming success. The Queen is back, but only just.

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

We find exquisite Beatles-indebted pop, moments of effortless lyrical and melodic brilliance and a few tunes which drift dangerously close to easy listening.

Where it works best is that clear marriage of anger and aspiration, interwoven with Furman’s melodic drawl, musical tenderness and reverb. In parts, though, ‘All of Us Flames’ is an example that sometimes less is more.

This ain’t ‘Chinese Democracy’. ‘Still Sucks’ doesn’t feel laboured or overthought and never overstays its welcome.

The result is a soothing, slow-burning collection which reflects on times and friends gone by.

In parts Riz's flow is slightly awkward, but his rhymes are tight and full of razor-sharp quips, and the production is slick and energetic.

For all its prettiness, though, Passerby is a record that boasts about as much excitement as a gentle breeze, and its rewards are too few and far between.