Even at his most self-referential, Bowie is still a zillion times more inventive, brave and rocket-to-Mars brilliant than anyone who's been prodded by the ubiquitous genius stick, like, ever.

Four years on, his fifth album just feels stodgily generic.

A cut above.

Taking inspiration from the best seems to have paid dividends, but it doesn’t half make you wonder what the real Harry Styles sounds like.

One hopes that with the confidence this record brings, she'll take a more permanent seat at hip-hop's high table. Because when she's at her best, she's the bestest there is.

Their truck-stop talk of tumours, drunk moms and Isaiah 11:6 focus the album on Deep South degradation, but the lush Lemonheads-pop of ‘Drive’, the stoned drive-in glam of ‘That Man’ and the girl-band psych-blues of ‘Baby Mae’ lend this record the tint of a narcotic and poetic take on Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Tusk’ with Jack White on fuzz and Phil Spector on shotgun.

Clever and memorable--an electrifying frisson of underground meets overground, punk purism meets pop perfection, artistic integrity meets not minding too much if more than five people like you. [11 Jun 2005, p.65]

The band batter you around the head with the kitchen sink in an attempt to get you to sit up and take notice, sometimes to the point where it simply gives you a headache.

The instrumentation and overall production are lightyears ahead those of his debut, too. The velvet texture of ‘Everything You Need’ enhances his renowned melodic swagger, as does the tranquil sheen of ‘Rollercoastin’ and the space-age fizz of ‘Paid My Dues’.

Audio, Video, Disco's success is in its album-wide consistency, and a contemplative depth of sound that outshines the expectations of their disco-biscuit crowd.

A rather good second album that contains some of the brightest and jolliest music you'll have heard [for a long time].

The results are undeniably lush, yet slightly lacking in soul. [16 Apr 2005, p.50]

This a forward-thinking, original British album that has captivated a new generation of music fans, not simply by rehashing the old, but by giving the young something that belongs to them and taunting them to do better.

Nothing here comes close to the claustrophobic, urgent brilliance of the early work. [26 Feb 2005, p.66]

Swathed as it is in the kind of ’80s arrangements of flutes and chiming guitars that have rarely been allowed beyond Carol Decker’s lushest, most velveteen fantasies, this album is an open goal to accusations of trend-following revivalism. But, like Ladyhawke’s debut, the sheer quality of songwriting justifies any retrospective leanings they may have.

The Bardo Story sounds like a collection of rediscovered ’60s and ’70s gems uploaded to YouTube.

Cassius man's production is a deluxe weave of dreamy synths, biting snares, throbbing bass and warbly Vocoders, but it feels as if Chromeo are just doodling knobs over the top.

Sadly, though, there's just not enough forward thinking on 'Origin 1' to give TSOOL the ammunition for a second attempted coup of the rock revolution. [23 Oct 2004, p.51]

This perpetual desire to show off is Hawkins' weakness and 'One Way Ticket..."s ultimate downfall. [26 Nov 2005, p.44]

Williams has clearly approached 'Fly Or Die' as the kind of project where the central aim is to show us all how clever he is, and as he flits from musical style to style like a hungry pop bee, you're pounded into submission because HE IS JUST SO GODDAMN GOOD AT EVERYTHING.

It’s smartly done but strangely rootless, roaming far and wide but without a place to call home.

They needed to up their innovating significantly but haven’t, leaving All Hope Is Gone above-average.

More magpies than nightingales across these 13 tracks, they stitch up a glorious grab-bag of modern psych.

It's great.

The Lana Del Rey-featuring ‘Alma Mater’ is another prime example of the Bleachers genius, ‘Tiny Moves’’ glistening undercurrent sounds like a sprinkle of magic, and ‘Jesus Is Dead’’s whispered indie rock assessment of New York micro-scenes and life in a band is pure gold. In those moments – a large chunk of this album – any hint of fatigue is blasted away, Antonoff’s presence a welcome one once again.

Overall, it makes for a fascinating listen that rewards close attention, even if a lack of true standouts means the album is more impressive than loveable.

This is the sort of chorus-heavy stoopid punk-rock record that makes you want to punch children in their silly faces from the sheer joy of being alive.

But more than anything else, Soft Hair is about intimacy, creativity and a zest for life--two singular musicians liberated by collaboration.