This album encapsulates the nostalgic elements of ESG, ELO, Tom Tom Club, The Doors and Sly And The Family Stone, applies a gloss of New York cool and then re-packages it with the modern production of the LCD Soundsystem, CSS and Beck variety. Forget the handclap, they'll take a standing ovation.

Unsurprisingly, when the sax is told to sit in the corner and eat less pick’n’mix, and the rest of the band get a turn, the quality rises.

If ‘Walls’ found Tomlinson still figuring out what this part of his artistic journey should be, ‘Faith In The Future’ feels much more assured. It doesn’t reinvent the wheel of modern guitar music, but is a solid step forward as the musician continues what he’s acknowledged will be “an ever-evolving process”.

It's masochistically delightful.

The effect this record has, with its remedial drumming, crappy store-bought synth presets and faux-sensitive, third-form lyrics, is as pleasant as unnecessary eye surgery.

The occasional outdated attitude and some light filler material here and there aside, ‘Twelve Carat Toothache’ is another step up for Post Malone. It’s a record that feels distinctively, inimitably him and succeeds in his goal of sharing his truth.

The problem is, these impressive production techniques are in greater abundance than actual tunes. With clever tricks rather than pop hooks, expressionistic (and often mumbled) lyrics and a lack of relatable themes, Aquaria can feel cold and self-involved.

While the journey isn't quite as as spectacular as you'd hope, the destination is reassuringly familiar: Foo Fighters making fist-pumping rock'n'roll.

Elect The Dead is both impressive and bewildering--almost as if SOAD's wildest excesses have been standardised.

Shotters Nation isn't his magum opus, it's still infinitely more consistent, listenable and likely to get played on the radio than its predecessor ever was.

‘In Sickness & In Flames’ is a defining work that showcases a sonic universe, rather than a structured set of songs, expertly capturing the inescapable tension of 2020.

Only the appearance of Barbadian teen rap prodigy Haleek Maul, annotating the grimy 'ISIS' with a murky charisma saves Supreme Cuts from slipping completely between the cracks.

ever. The Kills are finally hitting their peak, but a low-key kind of peak.

Oh Fortune spans a wider spectrum than its folky core might imply, adding grandeur and a refreshing, cerebral spin to proceedings.

Where White’s ‘Shakin’ sweated sassy evil, Moon’s is hamstrung by contrived effort.

To be clear, the good outweighs the bad here, but Tinie has lost a lot of the charm that, when he turns it on, makes him so appealing.

In between, it’s a wade through thick sonic sludge, but the oncoming doom of ‘Endless Drops’ is bleakly tuneful and ‘He Looks Good In Space’ is soothing.

Angst-ridden indiscretions aside, Sigh No More is a fine debut from a band that's patiently picked up the tools of its trade, and chosen the right moment to give them full rein.

This is a hugely personable album full of gawky heartbreak and Yorkshire sad-glam that makes you feel like you know Louis as well as your oldest school chum.

It's clear this group have ways of getting beneath your skin. [20 May 2006, p.33]

A bittersweet second album of gentle strumming and washed-out summer sun. [30 Sep 2006, p.37]

Communion takes no risks and says nothing.

Dammit if they're not real handy at no-fi surf-rock jangle ... an unapologetically upbeat 23 minutes.

Stand-out moments grab you with their humour – the immensely memorable hooks on show certainly help, too – but after ‘Motordrome’’s fizzled out, you’re left wishing the engines revved a little louder.

Only the Bond-esque 'Confide In Me' is worthwhile in an otherwise sorry array of pop bangers left soggy on the barbecue.

The problem is not so much with the contents as with the packaging. ‘Mind Chaos’ is a pop record, and, as a pop record, it kind of works – it’s full of chart-friendly singles and sung by a bunch that are bound to find themselves doted on by 13-year-olds.

It’s not a bad record, but, ultimately, All We Are lacks energy.

The results are standard indie on top of a few croaky far-off bleeps, but the vibe is brilliantly consistent: dubby, cracked, and less dense than the surface of Saturn (very un-dense).