Petty’s classic pop knack, breezy melodies and laid-back drawl take a back seat to Campbell’s meandering, jammy solos and the album’s overwhelmingly old-guy-blues sound.

Drake's hooks are flimsy and irritating. His long-winded emo choruses gnaw at your brain. He complains about fame way too much. He mentions Kelsey Grammer for no reason. He's completely humourless. Worst of all, he sounds like a frog – not like Kermit in Rainbow Connection, but actual croaking.

The band wisely retains the elements that worked the first time: intricate, jittery guitars, driving bass and creative rhythms, best displayed on the title track and Black Gold.

More than 130 minutes long, Time Flies opens with the untouchables (Supersonic, Roll With It, Live Forever, etc.), veers into the questionable (The Hindu Times, All Around The World) and the avoidable (The Importance Of Being Idle), and ends with late-period tunes that demand reconsideration (The Shock Of The Lightning).

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

At times you kind of wish he’d settle down and just write a proper pop song, but the intoxicating mess of textures and ideas is too addictive and fascinating to complain about.

LP4 hints at the band's potential. The mildly weirder arrangements and quirkier synth twists on Party With Children are signs of what they should have fully run with.

Born Ruffians’ sophomore album is a cohesive, occasionally repetitious helping of choppy indie pop, almost brutalist in its minimalist instrumentation and dry-as-a-bone production.

It's primal, visceral, addictive stuff – a perfect mix of sweet and evil unlike pretty much everything else out there.

You can’t really fault the band for successfully doing much what it did in the 90s, but don’t expect Purple. There’s no Vasoline or Interstate Love Song.

Aside from the ridiculous song names (New Juices From The Hot Tub Freaks, Sweatmother), it's unwaveringly cohesive and frequently hits the mark, but may lack enough variety for some.

Murphy is still a brat, but this is a more emotionally mature and personal album than most of us thought him capable of.

Infinite Arms further fluctuates between the vigorous (NW Apt.), the understatedly pretty (Evening Kitchen) and the yawn-inducing (title tune).

The band continues to find new ways to expand within rigid, self-imposed parameters. Although the album veers away from the spaced-out psychedelia of 2007’s Attack & Release, it retains much of that album’s slickness.

Nas isn't as passionate or well-informed about Africa's issues as he is about his own, a problem on an album that's supposed to be all about... Africa....Meanwhile, Marley dutifully toasts over the record's limp, rootsy production but really only wakes up for the harder beats, which are few and far between.

He’s sounding more Sly Stone than Otis Redding this time, which gives him room to get delightfully weird and psychedelic while still keeping everything deeply rooted in R&B.

Its intriguing combination of 70s Bowie glam, James Brown soul and Outkast weirdness can't really be taken in after one spin. True rewards come from repeat listens. Finally, something worthy of the hype.

If Stripes fans want to give Dead Weather another chance, this one deserves space in the record collection.

The weakest link is Lemonworld, which trips itself up on too many thoughts. But the rest of this misery tour? Masterful.

It's a great album to trance out to, but not as memorable as we'd hoped.

Occasionally beautiful, often irritating.

There's no particular deficiency, but the new approach pushes the Brooklyn-based Athens, Georgia, band closer to the middle of the road than ever before.

It's tempting to hate it for failing to recapture their earlier unhinged, chaotic glory. But doing so would be to miss out on how good they've become (despite themselves).

Together is the flawless execution of can't-shake-loose melodies, genius arrangements (oh, those group harmonies!) and production that leaves you energized.

Front and centre is impressive guitar work; the band’s got a knack for writing spring-loaded hooks that build into beautiful shoegaze-inspired swells.

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

Like the elder statesmen, the teenage California quartet offer skewed good-time indie pop that won't change your life but will sound fantastic blasted from a front porch on a summer day.

Recorded mostly live off the floor, including some of the vocals, Paul’s Tomb has a power that the band’s previous albums lacked.