The album arguably gets worse as he gets better, particularly in “Quicksand”, with its Coldplay-esque promise to “patch you up, we’ll work it out”.

Behind the whippy synth flourishes and propulsive stompbeats that snag one's interest, the lazy charmlessness of the duo's rhyming quickly grows tiresome, a situation unalleviated by the occasional appearance of a Busta Rhymes or Calvin Harris. Fun in extremely small doses.

The songs rely on cringeworthy conceits like “Red, White & You” or rote expressions like “Sweet Louisiana”, while the refurbishing of the domestic abuse anthem “Janie’s Got A Gun” just tips it further over into queasy melodrama.

On Spirit, Depeche Mode get serious and political, which doesn’t really suit them.

It’s all a bit depressing, and not helped by the plodding music, which sags back into plonking piano quadruplets and dissatisfying, baggy sax, leavened by the occasional squall of guitar.

Some of the riffs are winners, but it's just not enough to carry the album.

It's all typically hard work to decipher, both lyrically and musically, but unlike Yorke's earlier endeavours with Radiohead, this time I'm rather less convinced that it's going to be worth the effort. It's certainly less fun.

Always exquisitely unbothered, the indie-rock poster boy now sounds like he can’t be bothered.

It's 16 years since Mariah Carey's first Christmas album, and there's nothing here to suggest she's developed significantly since then.

Speech Debelle shows some welcome signs of maturity on this follow-up.

The three-year gap between albums will ensure this tops next week's album chart, but it's a drab, unrewarding experience.

In places, it's a disastrously over-egged pudding.

For all his personable self-deprecation, the blend of operatic pop on which his reputation is built seems strangely thin and insipid.

Meat Loaf's latest, which covers much the same territory [as The Wall] but without any depth or desire to understand.

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

It’s mildly funny and philosophically intriguing. Little else is in this team-up of exhausted pop forces.

The Jayhawks release their most insipid, uninspired album in years.

This was an opportunity for untethered rapping and bold experimentation that still exists within the bouncy freedom of Smith’s once-playful musical universe. Unfortunately, Based on a True Story just isn’t it.

Too many of these tracks are slight ideas and punning phrasework over-egged into grotesque wedding-cakes by Dudley’s billowing strings, leaving Fry stranded in the position summarised in “Brighter Than The Sun”: “I’m a man out of time/Looking for a mountain to climb”.

Throughout, the sound is brittle and strident, like space-rock-candy, with Deborah Harry's allure buried far too deeply in the crowded mix to be particularly effective.

The comforting simplicities peddled in tracks like “Reunion” and “Knockout” offer the rock equivalent of Donald Trump, currying favour without getting too specific.

Whether it's the involvement of Coldplay's Guy Berryman in the production, or simply their shift to a major label, on You & I The Pierces have lost much of what made 2007's Thirteen Tales of Love and Revenge so beguiling.

The record’s sprawling R&B slow jams are more likely to inspire snoozing than shagging. Weighing in at a bloated 18 tracks, it’s got the soggy dead weight and wonky springs of a fly-tipped mattress.

MS MR deal in a similar kind of blandly alienated, metrosexual pop to Hurts, with Lizzy Plapinger's sultry-soulful vocals allied to Max Hershenow's electronic pop arrangements.

With Peace Trail, Neil Young slips into self-parody again, with a set of desultory peacenik songs too simplistic and patronising to be taken seriously.

Compared to Chase and Status's fizzing 2011 debut, No More Idols, this sounds creatively knackered.

Despite the dearth of original melodies and ideas, there’s an obvious nod to the Everly Brothers’ 1958 “All I Have To Do Is Dream”. And throughout this record, Mendes’s savvy songwriting team are harking back to retro influences to suit the vintage ice cream parlour shades of the singer’s shirts.

It’s pleasant enough, but let down by Jurado’s unengaging vocals.