His quest to bring sexy back to Britain founders amid gauche come-ons ("Your aura/ It's so shiny") and strained emoting.

George hasn't been as enjoyable in ages.

For the most part the songs are full to bursting with youthful melodies that lift the weight off the more serious of topics.

[A] more thoughtful, diverse creations in which floating organ and mellotron lend a wavering melancholy to songs like “Maybe We’ll Drown” and “Lemon Memory”, pierced by contrasting guitar rages of keening angularity.

This is as close to the live iteration of Chromeo that one of their records has ever come.

Mostly this standard boyband fare, reheated, and topped with modern pop sprinkles. It just feels so unnecessary.

If you’re a longstanding Belieber by this point, you’re probably used to the tonal shifts of his adult material. But, outside of his hardcore devotees, Bieber remains more of a curiosity than a consistent, coherent creative force – Swag won’t do much to change the conversation.

There's no surprises here.

Being F&M, they can’t help adding funky, syncopated twitches to break up the four-square march occasionally.

Oddly erratic. ... The way he darts between different sounds is exhausting and, ultimately, messy. On certain tracks he raps like he has something to prove, on others it's like he has nothing.

It’s a pity there are some disappointing songs here because elsewhere on the record there is real brilliance.

With their lyrical focus on teen sex, money and the misplaced glamour of crime, at times it's like “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”, for boys.

Musically, it’s an odd mix of ambition and disorder, with Doherty’s familiar raggedy-ass rock tempered with poignant moments.

“Heading South On The Great North Road”, sounds like an outtake from Sting’s musical The Last Ship. But otherwise it’s fairly standard AOR fare, only baring its teeth on the snarling “Petrol Head”

Some of the dullest music released all year.

It manages to grip the imagination for a while but ultimately, not knowing the root cause of the action, leaves one adrift in amorphous emotional distress. But there's much to admire here.

On his first album in 13 years, Robbie Robertson resumes his fascination with the great American mythos.

Slightly laconic, slightly ironic, ["No Problem"] makes for a brilliant contrast with the production duo's galloping stutter-riff groove, heralding a run of crunching fuzz-guitar riffs that brings to mind the UK big-beat heyday of The Prodigy.

It's a perfunctory affair, further fragmented on my download version by the muting of Wayne's stream of expletives, which renders large parts of it unintelligible.

The dominant mode throughout is tepid bluegrass, heating up a little for “Phoebe.”

Most are dully baffling.

Despite being further from their comfort zone, this second foray into theatrical composition, a ballet based around a Hans Christian Anderson parable, is vastly more adept, involving the deft interweaving of electropop and orchestral elements within a series of impressionistic tableaux sketching out the theme of conflict between creativity and destruction.

There’s a dispiriting aridity about The Mountain Will Fall, which lacks the joyous eclecticism of DJ Shadow’s earlier albums.

While Joyride has its shining points and attempts to remain true to a cohesive, moodier (albeit more mature) tone, it’s missing the strong, catchier elements that helped Tinashe rise in the first place. But there’s no reason to count her out just yet.

Drew has always been a superb writer; and working with the likes of singer-songwriter Foy Vance and Kid Harpoon, he amplifies a well-tested formula of meticulous, modern production with retro-sounding equipment, beneath his old-soul vocals that sing about a futuristic, almost alien landscape.

At no point does The Album push for edge or originality. But you’d have to be the barbecue grinch to deny its lovingly crafted, feel-good vibes. Pure, safe sonic ketchup.

The interpretations range from the admirable to the abysmal.

The most impressive item here is the deep-soul duet with Miley’s sister Noah Cyrus, “Waiting”, in which Bugg’s aching delivery is perfectly tempered by her fragile sweetness, like vocal salted caramel.