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

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.

Too much is sodden with his overbearing ego.

Listening casually is OK, as you can get by the annoying Pharrell and enjoy some of the silly retro groves. But pay any degree of actual attention and there are problems.

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

Far too often, 'Wiretap Scars' feels limp, lifeless, bereft of dynamics.

This record is more riddled with more clichés and pure, retro water-treading embarrassment than anything [Courntey] Love ever conjured up.

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.

Hugely disappointing.

After listening to the whole of this album we'd have to admit that Pole remains as much of a mystery as ever. Only now we're not sure we're still interested in finding out much more...

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.

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

For someone so traditionally dancefloor-driven, there are none too many grooves here, and, even for an artist whose most famous lyric may be "la la la", there's not exactly a lot to go on in terms of substance.

That the band that churned out some of the best records ever made in a phenomenal two-year creative splurge should be reduced to anything as pubby as this is nothing short of tragic.

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

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.

A weak Meth album produced poorly and without imagination in the main, by an assortment of losers, with each track featuring a guest emcee.

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.

This album is bollocks. Not the bollocks, mind, just plain old fashioned middle-American bollocks, the sort of 70s, vaguely psychedelic-tinted, vaguely funkdefied bollocks that Lenny Kravitz and old school MTV made their own.

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

Now we see. It is all clear. DMX believes what they say in Def Jam board meetings. He actually believes that what Mr Budden and Just Blaze did earlier this year is what one should do in hip-hop right now - meaning, shout popular thug slogans over irritatingly OTT beats for an hour or so.

The problem is that I Created Disco goes on for nearly an hour and barely changes tack once.

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

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

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.

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

This album, if it came from a newcomer, could kill a career stone dead.

There is no New here.