The Black Keys have created a record that they believe is how a rock'n'roll record should sound, but without soul or sex or genuine sweet emotion.

Too many songs disappoint, though.

If he'd played up his vocals over his vitriol, Brutalist Bricks could have been a much better album. Loud and messy may be the hallmarks of hardcore, but showcasing his talents would have made a bigger impact, both musically and politically.

While it shares many similarities with the quieter side of their first record, it never quite achieves the same heart-rending beauty we know they're capable of.

here's no escaping the fact that although Mazes are quite capable of a good tune, there's often very little to separate one track from the next.

La Di Da Di is full of very cool timbres and some incredible drumming, but its arrangements leave a lot to be desired.

These songs are all, for the most part, perfectly adequate, but we've heard better and stronger songs from Sadier before. It's not so much a sucker punch as a blunt disappointment from an artist who we know can do so much better.

Hints of regularity are often dropped before being snatched away from you in vaudevillian style. There’s an awful lot to be admired about Clementine’s approach, but it’s certainly not an easy listen.

Is this the groundbreaking work we'd perhaps hoped for during the album's initial release, an effort worthy of that preliminary giddiness? Sadly, no. Is it an interesting mix of tracks that confronts listeners with reimaging of songs so deeply tied to our heart strings we have no choice but to carefully imbibe and evaluate each note? Sure.

The EP works much better as a B-side companion to Furr, because neither the energy nor the ratio of good songs to so-so songs is high enough for the record to stand on its own.

Like the super-impositions of the cover art, there’s nothing solid here (other than that all-pervasive bass-line), which is not necessarily a bad thing, but the general feeling of ethereal politeness does rather expose the moments.

Sometimes, Kath will try to replicate the past with a house-oriented number like Frail, where Francis tries her best to replicate Glass’s contagious shrieking but without the same stage presence. In spite of this, Amnesty (I) isn’t afraid of glossing over its faults in hopes of trying out new things.

The third LP from Jessie Ware sees her bring her diva mode to the forefront of her sound, but the lack of the scarcity and minimalism that saw her emerge at the turn of the decade results in the finished product lacking the effectiveness of her earlier work.

Each track in its own right has nothing inherently wrong with it, but put eleven of them together and it’s all a little one-dimensional.

While the better songs sound rough around the edges, their inferior material here sounds scrappy and juvenile.

Invaders Must Die isn’t a bad album, but in the end it suffers from having a beginning which is, if anything, too good.

Daughter seem trapped within the confines of their influences.

It's a cleanly produced album, sure, but it lacks the attitude of the era from where it came, the 1970s.

Softening their sound hasn't led to more fans, but to a blander, weaker and unsatisfying sound.

Too often the way of the beat ends up a distraction rather than a fully incorporated addition to good songwriting.

Much of the album’s electro-lite flavoring does provide some hummable moments, but as the cringingly tricked out Mexican Fender and stomping chants of La Mancha Screwjob suggest, they’re most likely to suffer a slow and gradual death at your local Forever 21.

To her credit, she has absolutely carved out her own unique sound, far from the epic, prog-punk productions of Titus Andronicus. However, in the process she failed to deliver a consistent batch of songs.

Something to Tell You doesn’t attempt anything new and keeps it safe, though, and when your best track is yet another sanitized extract of Tango in the Night, well, that’s not saying much.

It’s a loud, raucous affair for sure, but as much power and aggression Pop. 1280 can inject into each and every track they create, it can’t distract from the fact that Imps of Perversion is a muddled, frustrating affair, and it’s clear that Pop. 1280 still have ways to go when it comes to developing their sound.

For a band where constructing songs into rocket-fueled crescendos is their biggest strength, too often does A Black Mile to the Surface fail to take advantage of any momentum it builds, often taking the wrong fork on an ascent to a splendid finale.

When this EP gets it right, it is a triumphant nod to Dear's versatile ear, but when it settles for being weird for the sake of it, it's simply messy.

Wait For Me hugs the middle of the road with such caution, it’s strenuous to either love or hate.

The potential is there for this to be very good, but the fact that it’s so comprehensively safeguarded limits it hugely.