It's not the first time a band of this stature chooses to find their confidence by taking it slow. But neither is it too daring or too unhinged; in fact, sans the slower, more methodical tempos, many of the songs still fall under their common pairing of doo-wop chord progressions and piercing guitars. So much of your appreciation for Tranquility may depend on how much you can stomach Turner's interpretative dance.

The songs are flat and unoriginal rock.

Everyone will find something appealing about Dananananaykroyd, no matter how small, but it’s difficult to imagine anyone truly loving this record, regardless of whether they judge it by its cover.

While California Nights doesn’t offer a more sophisticated version of Best Coast so much as a blander one, the heightened ambition of the songwriting and production could be an important step forward for the band.

Asleep at Heaven’s Gate is strangely flawed because the warmth of the first two albums has been exchanged for grandeur and detached shellac. By no means is this a fall from grace for Rogue Wave, but it is the band’s first significant stumble.

No amount of technical prowess can disguise O'Brien himself as a frontman, whose voice and personality is agreeable but never compelling. Because even if he feels it, it doesn't necessarily mean it's there.

How these twee-approved embellishments help the record are hard to prove, seeing as none of them give it the edge it sorely needs. Yet, in the least, the gentle sighs render Mister Pop as intermittently pretty as it is prosaic, and point toward a new, if unstable, direction for the band.

Most of Hypnotic Nights already sounds worn out.

We’ve heard enough from Slaves in their fledgling career thus far to know that their sound is always going to be abrasive, but with the exception of Spit It Out, the quirks that made Slaves as appetising a proposition as they were are nowhere near the forefront.

The rest of the record, for all its flash, leaves us in some bland middle ground- lacking the impact and craft of great pop music, but too fleeting in its appeal to work as anything else.

Dirty Projectors ultimately leaves one too puzzled to empathize with apart from letting out a false, mouth-gaping awe.

Inexplicably, predictably, Daft Punk have become the first band to produce a retro post-parody of their own work.

Not once does this record manage to clamber out of its self-imposed constraints of mediocrity; and for a band genuinely capable of blissful set piece tracks, that makes it mostly a somewhat distressing token.

Melodies swoop and soar, vocals are sweet and clear and some of the choruses are truly fantastic. However, its lasting impression is as an omnishambles of poor choices and awful skits and is, simply put, an absolute mess of an album.

What's absent about The Center Won't Hold is that it presents a powerful and necessary premise, only to find out that there's not much of a message behind it. Sleater Kinney sure have a lot to say, but overall, they don't end up saying much.

Side-by-side with an "original" release, especially 2002's Control, a bit of life just seems to be missing in this resurrection.

Overall, Outer Peace is a half-hearted attempt coming from an artist who’s testing a series of rough sketches in real time.

Considering the nine other songs on this album mix lazy production with unfocused rapping, The Return of Mr. Zone Six is a largely forgettable album.

To be fair, if it weren't for Lynch's lacklustre vocals and lyrics there might be a fairly solid collection of atmospheric retro rock 'n' roll here, but as it seems to be coming at the expense of his film career that's still not quite good enough.

There are areas, in the likes of Instrument, where the creeping grooves are compelling and the tension is perfectly poised, but time and time again these moments are lost amongst reverb bursts and toxic swells that go past the point of creating a metronomic cue to something sinister, and instead appear vexatious in their oppression.

Noah And The Whale would have done better to focus on the more organic sound they became quite good at than become just another forgettable crossover act.

Great art must provoke or inspire you, and I’m sorry to all the folks out there “awash” in Eluvium’s dreamy “soundscapes” of pure “emotion” and “beauty”, but this record does neither.

The album sounds familiar far too quickly. [But] when Interstellar hits, however, it hits hard.

Unfortunately, they didn’t miss by biting off more than they could chew; it’s more a sense of complacency you get form listening to Walk It Off.

This album simply lacks the impact that Vanderslice's trademark sound usually packs in abundance. The bare bones of his usually excellent songwriting are there, but it's more constrained by the orchestration than set free.

Listen is set to force you into either accepting the band’s new identity or hitting upon the realisation that the band you originally fell in love with have moved on.

It just feels like all the wacky studio noise takes away from what could have been a really fun album.

While Season High has its showstopping moments, as a whole it tries to cram in too many ideas into a variety of disjointed themes.