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.