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.

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.

All too often the guitar-led tracks expose their limitations.

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

There are too few ideas here to really make 'Keep On Your Mean Side' worth our devotion.

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

Resembles nothing more than a U.S. major label executive’s idea of what dance music should sound like.

They've got better stuff in them, we believe, but, meanwhile, 'The Power Out''s strictly a forty watt affair.

An unholy brew of overreaching ambition and soul-destroying complacency.

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.

There is little to recommend here.

This hack-job (bish-bash-boshed out by uberproducer Stephen Street) takes all the bland, tawdry, white-bread bits from the past two Suede albums, butters them up with a smear of Bon Jovi balladeering, chews them into gloop with nicotine-stained, plastic dentures and... well, ends up flushing a once-great career straight down the in-at-number-16-out-the-next-week toilet.

The problem is, whilst the debut had more hooks than a fishing rod sandwich, this just doo-wop-yawn, the sort of nursery rhymes kids never remember.

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.

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!

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

It took U2 10 years to reach this level of blandness.

A Victorian freak show with a cracking voice, but just a few stolen Prince and Stevie Wonder tunes, Har Mar Superstar seems to be humiliating himself and reaching for the lowest common denominator in search of lays and some fleeting personal success.

If The Delays had succeeded in making the latter five-sixths of their debut as wondrous as the first portion, they could be credited with fair miracles.

Timbaland has revealed himself to be a crass, stupid, venal prick who is pretty much talentless outside of production for other people.

Startling for all the wrong reasons.

Supporters have argued that this is " a perfect comedown album". In the sense that you'll feel like you're coming down even if you haven't taken anything, yes.

There are many more interesting artists out there doing the kind of thing Jamie does with more panache and originality with voices that don't make me want to throw myself under an underground train, but they're not from Wimbledon.

'Lions' is a mediocre album.

The songs are pretty, the guitars are mellow, all complimentary and measured; dull, in other words.

An album of repetitive, insipid riffs: eleven tracks flakier than chippings and more irritating to your facial passages than toxic MDF sawdust.

A rather predictable and mundane package.

As welcome as emphysema.