It’s respectable enough but a stronger dose of Fink’s maverick tendencies would be welcome.

While the nine-year break has seen the duo barely switch up their instrumentation--Warren Fischer is still blasting drum machines and moody synth underneath Spooner’s vocals--the band’s friend and new producer, R.E.M.‘s Michael Stipe, seems to have generally smoothed the scruffier side of the duo’s compositions.

It has taken Brooklyn's Vivian Girls three albums to expand their musicality beyond the (unquestionably ace, but repetitive) garage racket that characterised their last two.

In defiance of a criminal lack of universal adulation, they just get better, harder, faster, stronger, and you boggle at just how formidable they might be in their dotage.

Overall, it’s a brash, shiny, confident record, careering along on a second wind, or as one jaunty number puts it, “the return of inspiration.”

Ultimately, it’s confusion that remains at the end of Amnesty (I). Crystal Castles always were an uncomfortable band, but the bumpy conception of this album and the awkward introduction of new ideas dampen even its most teeth-chattering moments.

In the end, whether it's a cynical bid for the mainstream or an experiment gone wrong, Riot barely registers as a minor disturbance.

Former DFA man Tim Goldsworthy has helped them find more sonic sparkle in the production of their second album Dunes, but they nonetheless remain a confused proposition.

'Nothing To Do' is a real struggle to hate. The fact is, they have an undeniable knack for turning out two-minute garage pop songs with such warm-hearted, wide-eyed brio that shooting them down seems as callous as steamrollering a basket full of kittens.

A fun comeback album filled with screeching and penis jokes.

An inventively arranged mixture of blues, hip-hop, strings, folk and metal, 'Eat At Whitey's' is like Fun Lovin' Criminals' cameo in The Sopranos: by turns, flash, atmospheric, melancholic, and very masculine.

It's exhilarating, daft and triggers spontaneous hair growth better than a vat of Pantene.

This is no identity crisis, it's the sound of beautiful evolution.

By overtly embracing radio pop, Gameshow adds further froth to the wave of popified guitar music that TDCC triggered by giving rise to Bastille and The 1975. That they do it with such panache, melody and inventive edge will further inspire this new synthetic indie strain to hold themselves to higher artistic standards and maybe even become a full-blown genre worth worshipping. Until then, here’s what they could have won.

It's all as comfortable as a favourite battered chair, but give it a chance and you'll discover a gem of a record. [2 Jul 2005, p.64]

Maybe they're just too solid, too classic, too... lacking in danger, but Bruiser proves they're still putting up a hell of a fight.

Pretentious, yes, but wonderful.

At 16 tracks long, it’s a dense, textured offering that--on numbers like the lush ‘Love Streams’--manages to shimmer with both nimble experimentation and languid pop finesse.

'Recordings…' might lack the obvious brilliance of his movie making, but it's more than just the dabblings of an enthusiastic amateur.

The record is both labour of love and exorcism - Frusciante plays every instrument himself and every song is, without exception, pointedly self-analytical and emotionally probing. This, combined with Frusciante's ropey but breath-catchingly fraught voice, can make for uncomfortable listening. Nevertheless, there remains an underlying optimism and fondness for unapologetically pretty melodies that imparts a redeeming and lasting warmth.

Insipid marshmallow post-rock that occasionally sniffs in the direction of Yuck or Mogwai, but mostly glowers in a dismally cloying, precious nostalgia.

The only real lump-in-the-throat moment is ‘No One’s Gonna Love You’--although admittedly, said lump is gobstopper-sized for the duration.

Lindberg’s first solo LP moves in mysterious, often circuitous ways, emphasising mood over melody and aesthetic over dynamic. Which is a polite way of saying that it’s something of a grower, whose charms are revealed like arcane secrets only to those with patience, persistence and a lack of proximity to heavy machinery.

While there are moments of brilliance, it’s clear there are too many chefs in the kitchen.

The Mountain Will Fall sounds, at best, like a decent mixtape made by someone with pretty good taste. Thing is, you can probably make one of those yourself.

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.

Tinashe and her fans were kept waiting a frustratingly long time for Joyride, but perhaps it was this extra time that gave her the opportunity to craft the album into the sensual, star-ridden offering she’s released.

Gloomy as it is, there are some brilliant flashes of light to be found here.