There have been dark records by Chicagoan Bill Callahan. There have been wilfully obscure ones too, but there has never been one as single-mindedly dour as this.

Damned if they do and damned if they don't, it seems, but never sounding damned enough.

There’s nothing complex about what Rick Ross does. ... Ross consistently portrays the ‘old Rozay’, garnering successful results more times than not. Sometimes simplicity is key: if it ain’t broke don’t fix it.

If you can get past the earnest nostalgia and tweedy affectations, this isn't a bad album, just an average one.

The urge to dislike Josh Ritter is somewhat overwhelming. But, like a diseased puppy with an adorable smile, it's just impossible to take him out back with Pa's shotgun because he still has an ear for a good tune--even if it is one of Dylan's.

In the end, Ritual is not a bad album. But neither is it the album it would like to think it is.

Dulli generally succeeds in keeping things as darkly hypnotic as a rain-lashed midnight motorway.

With so many influences laid bare, it does take until seven-minute-long crescendoing closer ‘Saintless’ to truly showcase what they can achieve musically.

Hidden under the pit floor, however, are frankly scarier prospects. Like AAF's toe-curling cover of Michael Jackson's 'Smooth Criminal' or the awful sub-Police reggae lurch of 'Flesh And Bone'. Singer Dryden Mitchell over-emotes at every turn too, further slickening 'ANThology's pomp rock gloss.

Has the pungent whiff of an album with an imminent expiry date. [12 Feb 2005, p.51]

The decision you have to make with Summer Camp is this: do you want dance music that'll stop your feet moving by throwing some thought-provoking lyrics in your direction? Or dance music that'll make you wanna, you know, dance?

Yung Lean’s music has always been more interesting than it is good. ‘Starz’ features just enough captivating moments to prevent him – now an unexpected seven years into his career – from feeling played-out.

The irony of ‘Jump Rope Gazers’ is that as The Beths push themselves to do something different for album number two, they actually end up with the sonic sameness that the first record miraculously avoided. Only now do they sound like they could just be any other band.

The tunes offer a smooth enough ride, but The Vaselines aren’t really stretching themselves here.

‘Zombie’ has all the swagger and pep of his previous collaborator The Weeknd, while the tempered nature of ‘Cameo’ and ‘Renegade’ allow traditional pop songwriting to coexist with bolshy, bone-crunching settings. These fleeting moments are by far ‘Reborn’s most satisfying, and offer proof that there’s plenty more creative road for Kavinsky to bomb it down in years to come.

It’s a challenge to come away from ‘Death By Rock And Roll’ with much of a sense of who The Pretty Reckless really are. A pastiche of their epic rock ambitions? Something deeper? It’s that tension that frustrates and fascinates.

Their mid-career crisis record full of poor-man's-Bjork wailing and dour shimmer rock, notable only for the funky mantra of 'Kali Yuga' (George Harrison exploding), and 'Point Dume' (the noises you'd hear in the night if your flat was haunted by Brian Wilson).

Cupid Deluxe is a shop window for the future sound of pop. But perhaps he should quit trying to be a Prince-like polymath and concentrate on being a nimble-fingered production wizard instead.

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.

Melodically there’s consistent bombast – the record opens with ‘Stepdad’s wonky sound, sounding like an orchestra disco epic played on a Fisher Price keyboard. ‘Miami Memory’ becomes a slipperier prospect when Cameron’s usual ironic schtick reappears.

Songs like ‘No Simulation’ and ‘Red Flags’ bring back her ethereal, brooding signature sound, too, while others serve as little pick-me-ups for when you need to switch on. But, this record doesn’t weld these two sides of Tinashe successfully. There’s still a way to go before she finds her sweet spot, but this is a fun stepping stone along the way.

A tighter and more compact project would have elevated some of the album’s more enlightening moments, but, when taken as a whole, ‘Modern Dread’ ultimately disappoints.

The Divine Comedy are much more appealing in their vulnerability than they ever were in full cry.

Kane’s ante is upped, but Coup de Grace still isn’t quite the killer blow.

The rootsier material is often fantastic, which shows up the goofier stuff even more. Kesha has balanced tender country songs with blinging pop throughout her career, but you may wish for ‘High Road’ to stick to one lane.

Overall, Interpol seems cinematic, abstract and complex, but that adds up to something interesting rather than thrilling.

It’s commendable that aespa are not resting on their laurels or churning out sound-a-likes of what’s worked before, but this project doesn’t showcase the spark that made them special in the first place.

An extremely mellow album, while hardly groundbreaking, it’s quietly beautiful in places.