Stuffed with superfluous features, the Chicago rapper's 22-track debut studio album sags somewhat, but is almost saved by his infectiously optimistic outlook.

For all the flash and flair, the freshest, most intimate moments here are the result of holding back.

Blur's most inconsistent and infuriating statement thus far. Infuriating, because divested of four solid-gone clunkers '13' could pass muster as the best of Blur.

Third album La Di Da Di is comprised of 12 entirely instrumental tracks that feel less like stand-alone songs and more like strange sonic experiments cooked up in a lab.

It’s tempting to tell Smith that Murphy wants his shtick back (along with his suit), but the pastiche is often effective, at least.

They mean well, but there’s something conservative about them.

A majority of the songs on ‘Love Sux’ clock in at under three minutes, giving the record a fiery sense of purpose. From the fraught emotion behind the vulnerable, delicate ballad ‘Dare To Love Me’ to the snarling guitars of ‘Déjà Vu’, every moment on the album is deliberately melodramatic.

At its best (the crunching ‘Hero’ boasts one of Weezer’s greatest ever choruses), ‘Van Weezer’ marries soft metal and melodic geek culture to stupendous, festival-slaying effect. At its most frustrating (‘All The Good Ones’), it makes otherwise marvellous Cuomo songs sound like boy band rock pastiche. And at its absolute worst (‘1 More Hit’, ‘Blue Dream’ – most of the album’s second half, basically) the tokenistic thunder-chord segments, motorbike noises and Iron Maiden riffs distract from great songs.

It’s all lovely stuff, but the darkness within my soul says it’s maybe too lovely.

There are some bumpy moments along the way, but this ‘Voyage’ is a nostalgia trip worth taking.

It's unfortunate that Frank Black And The Catholics' fourth release falls so close to that of his former band the Pixies' B-sides compilation. Next to the twisted urgency of Black's heyday, his current shortcomings are even more stark.

Liberation may lack the grand ambition and massive pop bangers of her glory days, but by the end, it’s hard to deny that she feels reasonably relevant and contemporary again.

There are some misfires here and there. ‘Escape’, which details trying to get away from the never-ending plod of everyday life, is so understated that it fails to make an impression. ‘Here I Am’, meanwhile, has the opposite problem – overcooking itself at points into OTT theatrics. Those missteps aside, ‘Melanie C’ is an invigorating, uplifting record.

Ultimately, though, its success still falls on Lightburn's shoulders, a vocalist who's always straddled the line between impassioned and overwrought.

This is not his finest hour nor his most groundbreaking, but just having him on the scene is enough--even if all he’s able to do is spread joy.

It doesn't seem the product of so revered an artist. [29 Apr 2006, p.37]

It’s not Flight Of The Conchords quality but, hey, at least it’s not The Midnight Beast.

This is funny peculiar, not funny Barenaked Ladies.

If you’re a fan of the band’s stoner charm and enjoy guessing lyrics to songs as they meander from your speakers, there’s fun to be had here.

Now they’re safely out of what passes for fashion, their retroisms sound more loving than offensive.

No Way Down’s panpipes and ‘Windmill Wedding’s' outro menagerie racket are so gap-year utopian they make you want to ram joss sticks up Air France’s noses. Mighty peculiar.

As an album, the moments of intelligent beauty aren’t quite obscured by the gloom-by-numbers and, considering how rabidly commercial this really is, that’s something of a little victory.

A record that otherwise skids wildly across art-rock history leaving steaming tyre tracks in its wake.

It’s not an essential listen but it does exhibit plenty of moody gravitas.

There’s no suppressing the fact that, ironically, in loosening up and stretching their wings they’ve become a little more earthbound. Where once they conjured up the sound of, um, glaciers drifting across the surface of the moon, occasionally here it lapses into the sound of a wheelie bin being dragged across HMV’s backyard.

A nightmarish listen, but in a good way.

There’s nothing on Hombre Lobo (Spanish for werewolf) that couldn’t be constructed by breaking down the DNA of the previous six Eels albums and repiling the strands up in some melodically fresh but warmly recognisable way.

While not their best, it’s decent enough to ensure there’ll be more-- even though the truly off-the-wall moments are either rare or misguided, meaning the record feels slightly anonymous.