Horns, synths and samples float above soulful vocals by members of Ruby Suns, Born Ruffians and Braids, while dense layers of texture and polyrhythmic percussion give way to beguiling melodies that worm their way into your subconscious.

The record lags a little in the middle as the songs start to blend together. There’s enough differentiation that you don’t want to skip them altogether, but it’s a kink to work out on later records.

For the first time Audioslave sound more like a cohesive unit than a product of two groups spliced together.

It's consistently uplifting and bright, and its best moments feature powerful orchestral sweeps, a surprisingly adept disco hook and even some gospel. But the lyrics are often so cringe-worthy that A Head Full Of Dreams comes off like that one friend of yours who's so positive you want to punch him.

Love, Hate And Then There’s You isn’t entirely devoid of entertainment value--Stollsteimer’s misguided attempts to replicate the successful sound of the Kaiser Chiefs, Franz Ferdinand, the Strokes and other alt-rock radio staples at the time these songs were conceived turns out to be quite funny, however unintentional the humour.

Its best moments reference the label’s penchant for breezy, languorous guitar lines, like on the catchy Weekenders. If only Minks would lay off the synth and embrace the guitar more often.

Songs like Roll Up, Hopes And Dreams and The Race best showcase his self-assured charm.

Maybe the label was hoping to get back some of the Goo Goos' 90s magic, but that doesn't happen.

Their second album is full of clean, infectious dance numbers that bring to mind both New Order and Peter, Bjorn and John.

Sweet and Hoffs’s pedigree separates this covers comp from the chaff, which is why people like Lindsey Buckingham guest on their inspired version of Fleetwood Mac’s 'Second Hand News' and George Harrison’s kid, Dhani, on their take on 'Beware Of Darkness.'

This is not an observation about theme--the record is unremarkable in both sound and execution.

The album shows he’s progressed since bursting onto the scene four years ago, but it’s definitely not going to change the minds of those who think he’s ruining dance music.

It's all a bit of a muddle.

If you can deal with the nostalgia factor, it’s a pleasant but unremarkable disc.

His house-derived grooves don't have a lot of the swing and soul that older heads crave, but they're also not nearly as heavy-handed and macho as his haters claim.

So while Yellowcard's hearts may be in the right place, it's clear they're simply incapable of realizing this clumsy faux magnum opus.

Unfortunately, too many songs have that thin, cheap quality that so many indie dance bands were into a decade ago. Good thing they're so ridiculously catchy.

While opener 'Trash' sounds like the sort of thing Bloc Party should have done after "Silent Alarm," most tracks are hurt by a real lack of lyrical depth.

This is hot.

If you’re able to tolerate the graphic descriptions of rape, incest, drug abuse, dismemberment and felching (Google it), the reward is an incredible amount of introspection, and top-shelf production by Dr. Dre throughout adds to the replayability factor.

What he winds up with is an unfocused yet sonically balanced mess.

CSS are so desperate to do something new that they never stick with their strengths.

If maturing means 14 (regular edition) tracks of footy-stadium-worthy anthemic choruses ad nauseam, I don’t want 1-D to grow up.

When she strays into pop territory, her lyrics and vocals remind us of electroclash’s cheesiest moments. When she keeps it raw and downtempo, real talent shines through.

Lyrics are heavy-handed (especially on the Papa Don't Preach rip-off Keeping My Baby), melodies are forgettable, and her voice has little charm or personality. Disappointing.

The album definitely grows on repeat listen.

Still, despite his naive imitations, Costa has a gift for catchy hooks, and once he figures out who he is musically, the results could be remarkable.

Flowers plays it too safe. For a record about Las Vegas, he sure doesn't gamble much.

Slick production (including Pharrell, will.i.am and Timbaland) and guest spots from Kendrick Lamar and T.I. distract from all that Lothario shtick enough to make the album a poppy, easy summer listen that grows on you with each play.

This is no-frills rawk that's been dumbed down for mass consumption.

It seems as if they've done everything possible to distance themselves from their original, much more interesting sound, opting instead for songs with barely enough hooks and coherent structures.

Sitek attempts to do Johansson (and us) a favour by burying her monotonous voice deep in the mix, but unfortunately, the musical support isn’t interesting enough to carry the album. Skip it.

Allan has a powerful voice, but it goes to waste under drowning synths and self-indulgent production by U2's Flood, who seems determined to drain the pop element out the band and turn them into a narcissistic mess.

Not a mind-blowing work of art, but expect at least a few more singles to blow up over the next few months.

Unfortunately, subtlety gets lost in the process, and only about half the guest vocalist are actually effective.

Yoav’s whole shtick is that he only plays the acoustic guitar, but he runs it through a looping pedal to make drum and keyboard sounds. Conceptually, it’s an okay idea, and Yoav pulls it off, but it gets boring fast.

Drowners prove themselves competent in making a tight indie rock album full of enjoyable melodies, but their strict adherence to formula and professionalism is undermining and can be dull.

Lyrics are corny and sometimes funny.

The best rhymes come courtesy of Kendrick Lamar on Solo Dolo, Pt. II, and the worst are from Too Short on the album’s weakest link, Girls.

In the first few songs they stretch themselves creatively and come up with promising results, but halfway through it's back to overwrought ballads and middle-of-the-road mid-tempo rock songs.

Astbury's voice is just as deep and earnest as it ever was and comes through like gangbusters on opener Born Into This, while Billy Duffy's guitar work is still as raw and dirty as it should be--clear indicators that the whole album doesn't give itself time for ego or pointless filler.

50 is back with his larger-than-life persona and even bigger Mack 11, remaking his classic first album for the second time, with tiresome results.

Rather than try to duplicate the new-wavy sounds of their current output, the trio smartly keep the sound consistently raw, and lead singer Kelly Jones hasn't sounded this inspired or dangerous since 97's Word Gets Around.

'Buzzards And Crows' is a natural opener with its whirly fairground sounds, and 'The North' is a pleasant enough ballad, but when Barat croons, “Yeah, I get the fear, but I couldn’t be bothered” (just one of the many incomprehensibly suburban lyrics in this forgettable collection), the sheer laziness says it all.

The lack of memorable choruses and melodies is made all the more frustrating by the surprisingly decent production.

Given Grey’s connection to music’s biggest headline-makers, it’s ironic that her own output isn’t all that memorable.

Williams is at his best when he’s being weird, so cheeky title track Swings Both Ways, which finds him examining his fluid sexuality with Rufus Wainwright, is good. But any fresh moments are balanced by too many unlistenable ones.

The only tracks that don't make us cringe are the back-to-basics club bangers likely added to pad out the album, and even those don't contain anything to get excited about. Someone needs to explain to Digitalism that it's way too soon for mid-00s retro.

Whether it’s Africa, Black Sabbath’s Paranoid, a-ha's Take On Me, their hamfisted Billie Jean or (say it ain’t so) No Scrubs, every cover is unnecessary and pretty much unwanted. Cardigan-toting, alt-rock covering R&B was played out before it ever even happened.

Even Linda Perry, Swizz Beatz, Nellee Hooper and the Neptunes have their share of duff tracks, and it appears that's all they had to offer when Stefani came calling.

This pretty solid record shouldn't disappoint existing fans. However, it's more pleasant than mind-blowing, and you notice the pretty sounds more than the songs themselves.

Somehow, fond recollections of the bad old days in the ghetto with fellow superstar Wyclef Jean just don’t have the same resonance and uplifting power as previous songs that came from a place of near-defeat and unfulfilled aspirations.

Concocting a ruse about how the album came about after discovering a cardboard box of dusty and undated reel-to-reel tapes of the BPA’s lost studio sessions from the 70s seems foolish and unnecessary if the recordings were good enough to stand on their own merit. Sadly, other than Iggy Pop’s crack at the Monochrome Set tune He’s Frank, they’re not.

Songs like 'Death' and 'Nothing To Give' are strident due to big production and well-placed hooks. But commercially geared goth is so much more hideous than the real thing because it wants to be palatable and accepted.

Basically, if London Bridge doesn't make you want to rip your ears off, you'll enjoy almost 80 per cent of the album.

The combination of chugging half-time beats, machine gun riffing and techno's sonic extremism is way more pleasing than it should be, the weakest point being Jonathan Davis's earnest adolescent vocals, which we assume actual Korn fans will enjoy.

Gucci spews absurd, nihilistic imagery that demands attention, while Waka's penchant for repetition and siren-call ad libs can be magnetic.

It’s Time For A Love Revolution, his eighth LP, easily ranks among his highest achievements.

Five Jurass's virgin excursions into P-Funk and electro find some comfortable new sonic territory.

A lilting acoustic-y record with ethereal leanings, plenty of canned, overproduced studio gloss and occasional dangerous forays into mild rock.

His sixth album proves that his ability to make grown-up hits is stronger than ever.

Against all odds, Nobody's Daughter prevails with head-turning vitriolic blasts like Skinny Little Bitch, Samantha and How Dirty Girls Get Clean.

He’s abandoned the tres, a three-stringed Cuban guitar used uniquely on earlier efforts, in favour of a few not-so-good stabs at reggae. But he keeps his songs zippy and focused, and infuses many with foot-tappin’ playfulness.

With its confident, mature and meditative approach, his debut album belies his newbie status.

this sounds like the soundtrack to the hell of cheese-ball Las Vegas bottle service clubs.

Most of this over-egged sissy-boy schlock would make James Blunt wince.

Devin’s single-mindedness makes for a highly unified style, and the album’s relaxed, hazy production is the aural equivalent of comfort food. But the repetition is kinda tedious for an hour of straight listening.

The most frustrating part is that many of the songs are decent, but they're consistently compromised by the ham-fisted presentation.

Though Storch and other heavy hitters do their best to craft reasonable facsimiles of a broad range of Today's Best Dance-Pop Hits, they can't hide the fact that Hilton's a shit singer who can't carry a tune even when the vocal melody is reproduced note-for-note in the arrangements.

The latest release from former Soul Coughing frontman Mike Doughty isn’t quite as annoying as Matthews’s catalogue, but it comes close.

Whatever the case, Ratitude is both a clunker and a fitting end to a decade in which Weezer continuously spiralled downward.

While Bun B's weathered voice and lyrical detail add weight to his words, there are a lot of predictable OG conventions on this overlong album.

Oddly, Lasers is Fiasco's most commercial-sounding album – but think of it as club music with a conscience.

On Electra Heart, Diamandis trades her cabaret post-punk vocal histrionics and thrift-store chic for an unconvincing Jacqueline Susann bombshell image and more overtly top-40-friendly sound.

There are moments here, but ultimately Streetlights pales against BlaQKout, the Kurupt/DJ Quik collaboration that dropped last year.

Their five-song EP produced by Dave Grohl and featuring covers of songs by ABBA, Depeche Mode, Roky Erickson and Army of Lovers is ridiculously lightweight.

What sets Heloise, et al., apart from others mining the same sonic epoch are consistent hooks, guest vocals by Debbie Harry and catchy-as-hell disco bass lines courtesy of a rhythm section that’s tight­er than Williams’s neon spandex unitard.

This reinvigorated 40-year-old (!) Queens loudmouth makes a somewhat fleshy final Def Jam album, but it’s well-chiselled compared to his last ugly, irrelevant albums.

Now and then you get a glimpse of ideas that could’ve made the album more powerful if they’d been further explored. ... But the songs are so spiritless and phoned-in that those moments are too little, too late.

He doesn't sound convincingly comfortable in this power-ballad terrain that once worked so well for him in Temple Of The Dog.

The amoebic versions of Nirvana songs sound only unfinished and strange. If the goal was to render Cobain an artsy oddball more than a rock god with a Midas touch, then mission accomplished.

Fans of Chad VanGaalen will find much to love in Black Mold, the Calgarian’s electronic instrumental side project that reveals just how fertile his imagination is (in case we needed further proof).

The end result is a safe, predictable record that could very well be Metallica-lite (like the new Metallica), in addition to being pretty close to silly.

A shockingly good batch of rock, pop and punk tunes.

They have the formula down, but 10 tracks of this gets a little tedious.

A track like 'Weed, Blow, Pills' shamelessly promotes narcotics and, even worse, goes Mike Jones on us to get its redundant point across, ultimately cementing the main problem with this album: nauseating repetition.

Try as they might to sound different, or even to touch on issues bigger than their own narcissistic garbage, LP still sound like they're stuck back in 00, which is where they should have stayed.

Despite Azalea’s nimble delivery sometimes lapsing into the mechanical, there are moments on The New Classic when she sounds ready for prime time.

It’s when the pace slows that the record drags slightly, though Klein’s lyrics elevate even the mid-tempo songs.

Skip the album purchase and download a few singles.

This disc might not change your life, but it's an undeniably solid hard rock album that proves how much credit Slash deserves for the success of his former band.

Sure, her formidable pipes are as strong as ever, but on every song she comes across as a pale imitation of someone else.

The unexpected bit is that there are a couple of tracks where the Junkies appear to be making a move from their brooding ballad comfort zone toward brooding bluesy shuffles that very nearly get funky.

A deadly dull set of cliché-packed piano ballads probably isn't the best way for aging harmony synchers to prove to their shrinking tween audience that the old Boys (sans Kevin Richardson) have still got it.

Unfortunately, his songwriting isn’t much better, which is surprising given the catchy, melodic bass lines he’s consistently laid down at his day job.

Syd the Kyd mostly drifts through the music, and is more compelling when getting into trouble--as on Cocaine and Fastlane--rather than lamenting love lost.

P.O.D.'s new album sounds exactly like all their other ones.