Admirable attempts are made to emulate tourmates Lymbyc Systym on Blank Pages, but they fall short of that band’s visceral energy and edge.

LeBlanc's garbled vocal delivery only serves to obscure weak lyrics.

They've delivered faithful, appreciative renditions, but the elephant-in-the-room question is why anyone would cop this disc instead of an H&O best-of.

Miller's compositions are typically well crafted and slightly artier than what you'd hear on, say, a Josh Groban disc, but this isn't too far off that sort of pouty boy bellowing.

It's all soaring, boring hooks, ringing guitars cribbed from the last two decades of sad bastard Britpop and wussy vocals polished to a sleek finish that makes them ideal fodder for Hollywood soundtrack supervisors.

Where O was direct, raw and sober--cold and real in its confessional heartbreak--MFFF is aimlessly wistful and therefore more difficult to connect with.

That comedy gap between concept and finished product appears to be par for the course with Black's ventures.

Kasher has zero ability to or interest in dialing down his drama and giving Cursive’s highbrow emo rock room to breathe.

Everything moves in linear fashion backwards, with only Danger Mouse’s bold battering saving Beck from a horrifying relapse into dreary Sea Change melancholia.

On a disc that ultimately exhausts itself with boredom and clichés, it's just not worth it.

The bulk of Boys is sufficiently well put together; the generally witty pop walks that tricky line between edginess and accessibility.

Interesting, but not mind-blowing.

Top-loaded with impenetrable stabs at noise-rock-infused rap, Cherry Bomb is a frustrating exhibition of musicality mired in Tyler, the Creator's contrary sensibility.

Yes, all the songs are nice and pretty, but there's something missing. It could be that in 2016 there's palpable nostalgia for mid-2000s indie rock (see Wolf Parade reunion tour). But it's the actual music from a decade ago that fans are yearning for, not necessarily the newest versions of the bands themselves.

His guttural howl on The Shrine/An Argument is the only moment when Helplessness Blues snaps out of its preciousness and hints that this genre can be more than a soundtrack to brunch.

The vocals, which in the past did a lot with a little and felt incantatory, androgynous and liminal, now sound uncannily like Linkin Park’s Chester Bennington, a pseudo-teenaged smirk behind the frown.

A sleepy stretch of mediocrity that unfolds with lackluster monotony, Two Thousand once again fails to live up to the potential suggested by their One Time Bells debut.

Still, while we wait for a pop saviour to take the genre forward, Chromeo provide a nice enough tribute to its past.

Their fifth album, which is all hyperactive synth melodies and shrill sing-shouting in classic Matt and Kim style, sounds like it was smothered in thick syrup, drowned in glitter and then levelled out with soul-sucking effects for good measure.

Although Harris does her best with some tasteful harmonies to save the session from the usual Knopfler over-egging, there's only so much she can do.

There’s only so much nudge-nudge, wink-wink you can take before you want to shove a sock in the dude’s mouth. On the bright side, they stand a good chance of scoring a few top-40 hits with this dreck.

Skip the album purchase and download a few singles.

Most bizarre are the contributions of studio drummer Terry Bozzio, known for his work with Frank Zappa, who, despite his reputation as one of rock's most talented stick men, fails to sound heavy, menacing or even relatively interesting.

The problem is that he hasn’t yet developed a signature sound that immediately identifies a track as his own, nor is he capable of writing the sort of provocative rhymes that stand out.

The Brixton duo’s music fails to connect with any of the collaborating vocalists, to the point where you wonder if those involved were even in the same room together.

When you have to think this hard about music, it becomes a somewhat joyless ride, especially since Booth and Brown deny the listener a single danceable beat until track 10.

It'd be one thing if the new trio built on the band's legacy. Instead, Yours Truly regurgitates Sublime's 90s ska-punk blueprint and gussies it up with a new layer of radio-ready sheen.

It's not that The Captain & The Kid is a bad album; it just sounds terribly dated.