PS I Love You stand worryingly characterless--as nervy as that inadvertently muttered, instantly regrettable moniker--in the corner of the party; forgettable faces soon cast into history once the fresh night air hits intoxicated skin.

While the signature style they have debuted with is admirable, some time to experiment and push the boundaries just a little further will make NewDad a true force to be reckoned with.

Does the record deliver after all these years, then? Occasionally, but not satisfactorily when playing with the tempting what-ifs.

Problem is, this is essentially the same stuff they released in 2008, and since there are 77 minutes of it, it's entirely too much of the same stuff.

Larsson knows her strengths, but she knows them too well. If she could only break down the facade further and reach beyond her comfort zone to meet the listener halfway, she would be unstoppable.

Equally far from disappointment or ascendency, it tacks about its ashen existence, perfectly fine and perfectly listenable and perfectly suffering for it.

Drenched in minimal, slow and moody arrangements, Badwater, like Speck Mountain’s previous efforts, gives no apology for its intentional pace. In fact it revels in it.

The songs here are elegantly crafted, and keenly constructed, but there is absolutely nothing on the record that you haven’t heard – done better - elsewhere. Your enjoyment of the album will depend entirely on just how much soft-focus, meandering indie music you can stomach.

The fact that Pattern Is Movement defies genres is both its strength and its downfall.

You’re left shrugging, like, okay, whatever. As recalibrations, or simply maturing, goes Cruel World is as mixed and contradictory as her debut.

Sadly, so much of Somewhere Else exists in such a haze that it’s difficult to really find anything to sink one’s teeth in to.

Ultimately the album's uneven tempo and uncertainty at its heart make it unclear what Hyperdrama wants to be and to whom they still appeal.

By catering to everyone in an effort to uplift, Common doesn’t connect with the listener as much as he could–and as much as he has in the past. Common's big tent might be too spacious for its own good.

Providing a sweet escape from the overwhelming world that inspired it, M83’s Fantasy is one that listeners will drift in and out of, but it retains the exhilarating signature sound that the multi-instrumentalist is rightly admired for.

Griff has a talent made for the stage, but Vertigo is often hindered by its avoidance of risks.

Ultimately, Indian Yard doesn’t really leave the listener knowing Ya Tseen. But some songs do hint at a distinctive identity.

‘Their most mature work’ it may be, but listening to a shuffle of all their output to date outlines a noticeably poorer quarter.

The Afterparty is messy, amusing at times and intentionally touching on uncomfortable moods, that honesty is appreciated, and the songs themselves feel fine, if underwhelming when they’re describing such potentially big emotions.

The real problem with The Classic is it just can’t often enough avoid the pitfalls of mediocrity, whether pastiche grooves, lackluster songwriting, or Joan’s own vocal limitations.

Love-burnt and ambitious, Drake has produced something better than its predecessors, but without the fallback of crowd-pleasers, it is hard to see it standing the test of time.

The credentials are there, the ability is clearly there, but for now these emperors are yet to truly shine.

While their aesthetic hangs in the balance, they’ve proven on The Age of Fracture that they have it in themselves to achieve cohesion.

Always Strive and Prosper is arena rap in jet-set dance-pop drag, and while A$AP Ferg’s talent occasionally flickers when it’s directed in the wrong places, it shines brightest when he’s just being himself.

While Independence Day doesn’t shine in the same way as the more refined Money Can’t Buy Happiness (executively produced by accolade heavy Dave), it shows a Fredo even hungrier, relentless and refusing to loosen his ties to the street.

On Happier Than Ever the tempo never quite reaches fever pitch; instead, Eilish is content with the tranquillity of tried and tested methods - tentatively pushing boundaries, rather than cranking the distortion up to 10.

The band fails to keep up that feverish tempo, and the album’s bewitching beginning quickly gives way to less inspired, repetitive numbers that plague a majority of the record, especially its weak second half.

There is no question that this is a work of devotion, even a work of love, but as a document of raw emotion, it is lacking, it feels overly considered.

It can be straightforward, but more often than not on Too Much Information it’s actually quite clever.