It was possible to ignore Schnauss' new age leanings previously but they're rammed home mercilessly here making too much of this album sound like Enya-period Sigur Ros.

Disappointing, frustrating and exhausting, 'Astronomy For Dogs' finds a band trying too hard to cram too much into one sitting.

In isolation you can imagine any of these songs may have appeared over the last 10 years giving a warm comforting feel, but listened in its entirety the effect is strangely soporific, a steady morphine drip running from start to end.

A patchy, flawed effort.

As a whole, the album feels less definite, less driven, than the 'Want…' albums, which is both a strength and a weakness.

If 2004's 'A Ghost Is Born' was an experimental step too far then 'Sky Blue Sky' finds a band regressing tamely in to Dad-rock. Wilco need to rediscover that middle ground that suits them so well.

The Sea And Cake are ultimately an infuriatingly inoffensive band.

They have made this album many times before and one assumes they will make it many times again.

'Baby 81' sees a band lose focus from what made them tick in the first place.

'Cassadaga' is much less of a draining emotional journey for both chief player and listener alike than Bright Eyes previous work.

There is little to recommend here.

Great album though this is in it's own right, the failing of 'The Endless Not' is that it just sounds like it's happy to play safe. No shocks, no surprises... and , sadly, none of what made TG arguably, together with the Sex Pistols, THEE most important force in the evolution of modern popular music.

Despite occasional thrills, for all The Twilight Sad's epic ambition and admittedly accomplished sound, this is a hollow record that struggles to fully transcend its influences.

Dubious lyrics notwithstanding, this is exactly the kind of album that a formerly drug-addled, ludicrously randy, city-dazzled English suburban boy ought to be making when he reaches the onset of middle age.

Staunch fans won't be disappointed, but it's hard to envisage new ears pricking up on hearing 'Octopus' woeful musings.

Such is the reliance on his voice to provide resonance both melodically and lyrically, there isn't a great deal else to fall back on should the listener find it objectionable.

The Ponys are the band Black Rebel Motorcycle tried so desperately hard to be.

'Pocket Symphony' fails to grab in the same way that previous Air albums have and places too large an emphasis on mood, texture and composition to ever really be anything other than polite background music.

This veers between quite good and bloody rubbish with only a couple of flashes of brilliance here or there.

It's a rather sad indictment that by the end of the album you almost forget its The Stooges gainfully toiling away.

Alas, 'The Cost' is closer to the Noughties ipoddery of 'sensitive' folksters like Damien Rice or James Blunt than a Fleetwood Mac or a James Taylor.

'A Weekend In The City'... fails because it tells us nothing new.

These songs are full to the brim with ideas and a charming naivety - but there's a major hurdle that ultimately compromises the enjoyment: the vocals.

I usually find Shins albums grow on me slowly but surely yet after a good dozen plays I feel my faith isn't being repaid this time, and as a fan that's frustrating.

Some of this record is excellent and after all this time they can still sound like four teenagers kicking up a racket in a rehearsal room.

'Love' is trying to be all things to all people and suffers for its lack of ruthlessness and direction.

It's hard to truly love a band that are so chameleonic that they sacrifice signature definition for adventurousness.

'Public Warning' is a good record. It's just unfortunate that (no doubt at the behest of the major label moneymen) Sov's Stateside commitments have led to it emerging here rather bloated, feebly, and late.

'Chops' isn't wholly disastrous, but it's all too often a reminder that, for roughly his first decade onstage, Childs was an infuriatingly insular and mildly indulgent performer, and it now appears that he was able to make such genuinely fantastic records in spite of that because of the healthy influence of his band-mates.

The Information is as creative, tuneful and interesting as you could wish from an established artist.

The Killers album is, whisper it, pretty good in places.

A lap or two behind many of the albums it seemingly aspires to be (Cat Power, Radiohead, Fiona Apple and Elliott Smith comparisons have been made before and seem almost invited) 'Knives...' still has enough personality and original thought to shield it from accusations of simple derivation.

Experimental it ain't, but this summer in a shiny flat box it is.

'Crazy Itch Radio' bumbles along with mid-paced beats and, it seems, too many disparate influences to really hold together.

The sonic palette here is just so relentlessly perfect that, for me, it becomes constricting and cloying.

And so it goes on sonic cliche after awful lyrics after terrible synth settings after lazy drum beats after... well, you get the picture.

The 'Idlewild' experience is mostly regrettable and one that will leave you feeling cheated.

Whereas previously his songs felt carefully and beautifully crafted, here he seems content to merely plunder a whole host of archaic musical styles and immerse himself in self-congratulatory jams, and a result you end up with a less than satisfying hotchpotch of songs.

MSTRKRFT have essentially made an album of great productions and remixes and then forgotten to invite any artists or records along to help them out.

Nearly every line contains a shock, a sharp intake of breath. To say this album is worth more as a social document than a musical one is no insult.

While there are some moments of greatness (the menacing, psychedelic 'Dog Sleep', the mournful, pretty 'Don't Cry That Way'), the majority of this double album is dull, turgid and instantly forgettable.

Former admirers, be warned that 'Without Feathers' will send you into a headless, flailing flap; while any newcomers to The Stills will be left with a plump, bald turkey on their hands.

Too much is sodden with his overbearing ego.

'Kratitude' is a far from flawless record and can be a little too hip for its own good.

Almost everything about 'Kicking The National Habit' is righteously unfashionable.

Musically there's nothing on 'Stars of CCTV' that stands out as particularly innovative or imaginative[;] it's above average modern indie fare made with gusto by people who want to make records that sound like the records they like: The Clash, The Specials, The Verve and a bunch of other bygone Britpoppers.

Even on repeated listens, the search for the showy dazzle of The Killers, the lyrical tomfoolery of the Kaiser Chiefs or the sheer stadium smartness of Franz Ferdinand proves fruitless, and it becomes apparent that, in an age where indie's proving to be the stronghold of overachievers, 'Cuts Across The Land' may have missed its moment.

The lack of a linear structure results in the individual songs banging against each other logjam-style, with the unfortunate effect that 'Fab Four Suture' begins to grate.

The trouble is, the much-lauded braggadocio of 'Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not' is hollow.

With the ability of the participants, surely there could have been more interesting material to explore, and sadly 'The Brave And The Bold' ends up being anything but.

'For Screening Purposes Only' reeks with the all-pervading whiff of vapid irony.

So as sturdy and rocking as 'The Indian Tower' is, it never quite lets you into its world, though if you manage to break on through they're likely to bore you to death by reading Guitarist Monthly aloud and swapping Gary Moore tablature like Pokemon cards.

While a few get close, not one remix here stands up to the original on 'Guero'.

A joyously audacious opening salvo.

Lyrically the record is less cringe inducing than 'Escapology' but Robbie has been let off the leash for a while in this respect, and while sometimes he can be funny, he needs people to tell him when he's being trite and just downright embarrassing.

Despite its many wondrous moments, 'Feels' is not a record for everyone.

There's no let up in Kuperus' constant yelps around the difficult end of her vocal range, and it's this that, ultimately, lets 'Gimmie Trouble' down and disappointingly makes this otherwise excellent Adult. album feel rather indulgent and immature.

The whole experience becomes rather draining after a few listens.

A little wanting.

It is undeniable that they can produce beautiful sounds with their equipment, it's just that they do not seem to be able to orchestrate it to any purpose afterwards.

On first listen 'Harmonies For The Haunted' seems slight enough to be a collection of b-sides and discarded songs from the first album.

It's a mastery of creating fantastic dirges, then manipulating them into slithering beasts backed by tight drums, precise guitar scratches, and Dunis' quavering vocals that rescues 'We're Animals'.

This is a record that brattily demands total attention, and as such, will either be lauded as a bold journey, or derided as pretentious indulgence.

KW's album can only be thought of as even remotely good while we don't have a young, hungry KRS One, RZA, Rakim Allah, Gift of Gab or Ol Dirty Bastard to challenge him.

The sad thing is, even at her most mainstream, Bjork's always been truly artful, but, in this case, she's merely painted a vulgar picture.

This is a rather stronger record than [Daft Punk's] on the whole, even if it likewise suffers from flaws in execution.

You'd probably want Missy to wash her hands before she got anywhere near a real kitchen if this album is anything to go by. The perv.

'In Your Honour' is as rancid and moribund and as redundant of ideas as it is possible to be.

There is no doubt [Martin] has talent, but there are just too many retreads, too many regurgitated ideas, and no fire, no raw anger, no big hairy bollocks.

The question is: do you actually need another disc like this, given that it doesn't quite have that sense of otherness that Boards of Canada have in spades, or that sound-as-texture that Aphex Twin utilised so sumptiously on 'Richard D James', or Amon Tobin's truly forward looking drum programming.

About as disappointing a follow-up as you could ever imagine.

While there's some fresh experimenting and choral loveliness, it sounds formulaic and tired by Electrelane's standards.

A frustratingly self indulgent and inconsistent double album that pitches itself somewhere between the classic country rock of 2001's 'Gold' and the lovelorn despair of 2004's 'Love Is Hell'.

While 'Bleed Like Me' is easily better than 'Beautiful Garbage', it's still not worth buying. It's recognisably Garbage, but it's unarguably garbage too.

Too often tracks drag us down below the high standard an artist like Beck Hanson has set himself. Red Hot Chili Peppers outtakes with some harmonica and vocoder balanced incongruously on top are frankly not good enough.

Too much of it is straightforward four-to-the-floor anodynity, and a number of tracks run out of ideas almost immediately, explore touchstones they've caressed more inspiringly before or, worse, do both.

Alright, so there's no 'Destroy The Heart', the lyrics are uniformly unremarkable, and the odd track is even, dare we say, a touch ropey... 'Days Run Away' is still better than it's got any right to be, and a marginally heroic homecoming with it.

It's a joy to listen to but tough to recommend.

'Happiness In Magazines' is likely to make you smile, and may even have you remembering a bygone era when Blur provided the soundtrack.

There's an 80s Anglophilic feel throughout, and like the era they're paying homage to it's all very hit and miss.

The album suffers from serious momentum problems. You get something that hammers in a good and interesting way and then a few minutes later it's like the tap of a blue tit's beak on a milk bottle top.

Whether this is an album that actually suits them is another matter, but it actually makes them feel entirely relevant and, for as prolific a decade-old band, that’s high praise indeed.

The Neptunes have lent their Midas fingers on production duties, but they've gone their schmaltzy route rather than into party bangers mode.

This album contains unprecedented levels of female vocal annoyance.

As an exercise in hubris and chutzpah it's a rather fascinating affair.

It’s stripped down, tough and raw, but a world away from any gangsta pose – this is more inward facing, an attempt to expand the horizons of hip-hop, striving for a new rap language, with a free flow sprawl of image and polemic.

The key flaw with this album is that it doesn’t have any of the bangers that GC can do so well.

A collection of rehashed moments from his brilliant though patchy career, a sowed together patchwork of pastiche.

This ain’t no classic.

It's a clever, chic and defiantly underground record, alright, but it's guilty of trying too hard when clearly it doesn't need to.

This might be quality above innovation, but it’s also maturity above cliché, and above all, passion over cynicism.

While it's got to be said 'Amerika's Nightmare' certainly has its moments over the space of a complete album the familiar themes and reference points start to feel a shade tired and predictable.

Badly Drawn Boy's been sketchy before, but never quite this artless.

It's as if they're trying to mimic Primal Scream but on ‘Let’s Make History’ they’re more like an under the weather INXS, and on ‘Armed Love’ you could even draw comparisons with Ocean Colour Scene. Eeeeeeeeee!

Blueberry Boat is a frustrating, niggling, great idea of a record.

Despite their reputation for distinctiveness parts of 'The Tipping Point' feel distinctly under par by the Roots own high standards suggesting that the departures of MC Malik B (Slacks) and human beatboxers Scratch and Rahzel have, in some ways, led to a successive narrowing down of the range of the Roots' previously loose and eclectic sound.

A decidedly schizophrenic experience, if a frequently beautiful and, at the very least, relentlessly promising one.

Now there was nothing wrong with Stone Temple Pilots, but anyone who’d hoped for Guns‘n’Roses mark II (or III) will be very seriously disappointed. Weiland’s dry, powerful voice cancels out the music, like light cancels out dark, or Owen Wilson cancels out Ben Stiller.