Not to say Cohen is not an artist to be treasured, just that Old Ideas may not be entirely essential.

The results can be more interesting than listenable – and the musical contents do seem wilfully random.

There's an undercurrent of sentimentalism running through Come of Age....But originality is hard to come by.

The music? It is of course exciting, youthful, dazzling in its energy and simplicity.... However, you may feel, given the track listing, that you have been this way before...

The ballads will be the tracks from Little Red to own the charts for the foreseeable future, but it’s on the 5am dancefloor that Katy B’s second album will score its biggest impact.

Collections constitutes a fairly sharp decline.

A dance album that spins the decks back to the turn of the millennium.

Here, the North-east new-wave revivalists refresh their default angular moves with nervy propulsion (“Give, Get, Take”), elegant synth-pop (“Brain Cells”) and electro-glide reflections (“Is it True?”).

A strange end to a strange album, whose mood, to invoke one of their earlier songs, is not so much "Fuck You, It's Over" as "fuck yeah, it's over!"

A patchy affair which too often fails to transcend its blatant P-funk influences.

They show a weakness for the winsome, but Faye O'Rourke's fabulous foghorn fixes that: when she takes the mic, Cars' promise rings out loudly.

For all the virtuosity in his fingers, Jerry is no singer, and this collection of tasteful exhibits needs faces [guest singers]. The faces save the record.

She makes a half-decent dance diva on "I Need Your Love", but I'd ask whether that doesn't defeat the object of being Ellie Goulding, though I still don't know what that object is.

There is in these performances a slightly mannered theatricalism which you will need to reconcile with any desire you may harbour for either simple affect or no affect at all.

Save Rock and Roll features unexpected excursions into rave-pop, and numerous celebrity cameos, but enough airbrushed pop-punk to prove they haven't forgotten which side their bread's buttered.

Just when the world is no longer particularly bothered about a new Arctic Monkeys record, they've finally released one worth being bothered about – at least in parts.

Songs typically travel from the spindly to the epic, and extol the virtues of living life to the full.

It's about time he delivered something of substance. YCTAODNT fits the bill, kinda. It's long on heartbreak and short on yee-haw affectations.

Their festival-friendly rap-rave-metal goes "the-generation-that-are-going-to-change-the-world" political.

[In French] it's beguiling and sexy. When she crosses the Channel and sings in English, she's a ten-a-penny kook-merchant.

It's pleasant enough, but on the whole feels like Hynes' sketches towards an album, rather than the finished item.

Set your sights high, by all means, but when each track sounds like an attempt to emulate a specific great (Bruce, Bob, Leonard, the Band etc) the confused listener can't help but be left thinking "Will the real Low Anthem please stand up?"

Her voice hangs inertly among racks of lustrous guitars like a worn shirt.

It's an album you can hear without ever really noticing. Radox for the ears.

In place of politics, or any kind of point, all this album offers is a parade of premium brands, from Grey Goose to Louboutin. The overriding sensation is akin to reading one of those luxury-shopping magazines you get on planes while a mediocre hip-hop station plays over the headphones.

Any good songs sound like demos awaiting their final form.

It plays like a very conventional, early-90s pop record.

They've brought touches of ska and Latin into the mix, but KD&L still don't do anything Imelda May can do better.