It’s all deranged enough to convince us that Sleigh Bells are still menacing outliers, but on a deep cover mission to infiltrate the mainstream, horns still poking out of their ’80s mullet wigs.

The result is an often thrilling, semi-symphonic ode to joy that peaks with ‘The Plans We Made’, a lilting trip-hop nursery rhyme on which Chapman sighs through the line “there’s only so much I can do” like a man who’s suffered a thousand defeats and still maintains his optimism.

They're hardly bringing in a new era, but there's definite promise here.

Things do pick up with messy, closing tracks ‘Self-Immolate’ and ‘Hell’, but these are proficient rather than remarkable moments. Ultimately, it’s not enough to prevent ‘Infest The Rats’ Nest’ from feeling like a case of “look what we can do!” rather than a record fully realised.

Gorgeous closers ‘Grenade’ and ‘Beautiful Boy’ run the risk of ending proceedings on the glacial landscape that you’d expect from Sigur Ros, but there’s enough of a futuristic sheen and optimistic vibe to keep it feeling fresh and make you wanna dive back in for more.

We’ve heard these songs so often it would have taken a Christmas miracle for even a pop legend of Robbie’s stature to make them new. Still, his longtime collaborator and co-producer Guy Chambers has brought a great deal of warmth to this collection.

As bewilderingly little logic as Black Dice's rave collages contain, they're nailing something close to unique.

Uncomplicated, exuberant melodic thrash. [19 Jun 2004, p.57]

‘As The Love Continues’ is an album that opens impressively but falls short at times during its second half.

The whiff of soft-rock schmaltz is occasionally close to overpowering. [16 Sep 2006, p.36]

It's not quite diminishing returns, but more a sense that Oldham's going round in decreasing circles.

It is hard to know whether Bloom wants us to engage with the zen-like revelations that arose from being trapped in the thudding reality of one identical day following another, or whether he is inviting us to switch off our minds, relax and float downstream. The result is an album that has the capacity to do both, but never truly perfects either.

No-one could accuse this Portland trio of skimping on sarcasm--even if it is the kind of sarcasm that dribbles likes a student rallying against capitalism as he pulls in to a McDonald's drive-thru.

Mabel’s gorgeous silky vocals soar, the glossy production is stellar, but the exuberance and effervescent attitude that make tunes like ‘Don’t Call Me Up’ so brilliant aren’t found throughout.

Though often overpowering and, by the end of the record, a little wearing, this palette provides a consistent buoyancy and energy – and there are plenty of times when The Maytals turn it to their advantage.

Its nine tracks were composed solely on keyboards as the duo – Wolf Parade guitarist Dan Boeckner and wife Alexei Perry – forced themselves into a new songwriting regime.

As it is, it’s good, but not as consistently great as we’ve come to expect from him.

‘Parachute’, the album’s first single, shoots for voguish, vaguely tropical production via Kylie and Girls Aloud hitmakers Xenomania, but is a tad sappy. Wilson’s pop vocal is much more convincing on the album’s bangers, ‘Press Rewind’ and ‘Happen In A Heartbeat’.

Worship The Sun continues that approach, sounding more cohesive in the process. Somehow, though, it’s also more sluggish--their ‘60s indebted garage-rock drags where once it excited.

It’s those sudden, inexplicable breakthroughs, those little lightning strikes of inspiration, that this compilation is ultimately concerned with. And it’s in those moments when these crappily-recorded fumblings become a source of real fascination.

This is an album that can and should be enjoyed without over-thinking.

This is instead a solid collection of outtakes, rather than a full display of their songwriting muscle.

Silly? Indisputably, although Dani Filth's theatrical vocals ensure that 'The Abhorrent' is every bit as grandiose and ridiculous as a classic Hammer horror.

Ridiculous, yes, but to Thrice's credit, wanting to be Deftones (which they attempt here, at length) is a noble endeavour. But the results are still clunky.

Stylistically, superficially, this forward propulsion sees him loop back to the start with six-track EP My Dear Melancholy,, which appears to sink back into the browbeaten R&B with which he made his Google-friendly name. This works--sporadically.

Timberlake, having failed to imprint his personality on 'Justified', simply stands or falls on the strength of the songs. Luckily for him, half a dozen of them - mainly Timbaland's - are brilliant.

It’s less nightclub, more drunken iPod selection, typical of late-period Tricky: brilliant, frustrating and fatally inconsistent.

This is Yo La tengo on snug autopilot. [2 Sep 2006, p.21]