“Brillo De Facto” prove vaguely purposeful efforts on the surface here, a second, third and fourth listen reveals a band seemingly bereft of inspiration, regurgitating tame Fallisms with--and it really pains your writer to say it--riffs conjuring every middling young rural pub rock band of the early Noughties.

The record is certainly sparkly, but its hollowness is glaring. SALVATION is so desperate for someone to call it iconic that it neglects what makes an icon anyway – personality.

Despite all of the duo’s lofty intentions, slick artwork and studio trickery, the soggy samples and limp singing guarantee you won’t go back for seconds.

Fall Forever’s bare-bones approach is perfectly pretty, but never vital; perhaps, sometimes, more is more.

Expecting Moroder to reach the heights of "I Feel Love" is, of course, futile, and yes, after a few repeated plays you may find the odd track or two that stand out from the rest, but there’s little you’ll love to love here.

There’s plenty of kernels of good ideas here, but very few of them feel properly developed; just as their genre’s been thrust into the spotlight, Sleepy Sun seem to have developed stage fright.

Anthems never quite lets itself be business as usual; the sound is cleaner, but not polished to a sheen. The anger is still there, but it’s tempered a bit--only a couple of tracks (including the aptly named "Fury of Chonburi") really pick up the pace to a recognisably Libertine degree. Lyrically, though, every facet of the band’s existence is dissected.

Yes, B-sides and rarities are sort of supposed to feel rough or incomplete, but A Folk Set Apart seems to be characterised far more by its misguided decisions than by its lack of polish or perfection.

This is not a terrible record, just a bland and misguided one.

It’s perfectly passable, but everything that marked The Head and the Heart out as potentially exceptional has been buried.

Songs is the sound of a talented man with a little too much focus on trends and on a too-wide cache of influences, to the point where even he sounds unconvinced by his own music.

Friends is White Lies’ least inspiring record both musically and thematically; they appear to be back in identity crisis mode, and it might not be recoverable this time around.

The underlying intensity to their music on previous records is stripped away, leaving in its wake a bland and largely forgettable experience.

It was too easy for Weiss and Presant to make a record like this: they’ve not challenged themselves, and they’ve certainly not challenged the listener.

A Youthful Dream sounds too much like the result of a punk group attempting to break out of the strictures of their genre without knowing exactly where else to turn.

Uncanny Valley is unfortunately too insignificant to escape the looming shadows all around.

I Said I Love You First barely even tries to entertain during its runtime. It’s fundamentally uninteresting music.

Black Radio 2 just falls short of being anything more than generic sounding pop, produced by a jazz trio tinted by success.

Effluxion doesn’t ask questions, or make you want to ask questions, or answer any that you might have had. The only question you can ask of Effluxion is what the title means.

We're left with 14 songs that, as promised, deliver a more personal side of Sheeran, who pens ruminative statements such as "Is this the ending of our youth when pain starts taking over?" ("End of Youth") yet he still alludes us through pop songwriting that is convinced emotions need to be dressed up as repetitive pedestrian motifs and served up on a silver platter.

People will say it's better than its predecessor, but at least that album had the good sense to be as gross as it was unlistenable. JESUS IS KING isn’t even as hilariously shit or infuriatingly offensive as Ye – it's one great tune and a bunch of other ideas, and it isn’t entertaining in the slightest.

Ultimately, those adamant that the mid-Noughties garage-rock revival was the most important thing that's ever happened to music might find something to enjoy from The Making Of, but for the rest of us The Bohicas have produced remarkably unremarkable first effort.

The Dare is trying to present the New York songbook to the Zoomer masses with such generality that he legally cannot be paternity-traced to any one act. Slap a bass on top of some rumbling rhythms and a synth so glitchy that every line feels like a mis-input that made it through post, and all that’s left to do is pull a line from your notebook of “TikTok virality potential.”

Sisyphus is a tragic waste of a vivid storyteller.

The Strokes have shamefully settled for average, and have failed even at that.

It’s simply not striking enough to elicit a stronger response than this, as well polished as it may be.

It’s not a hilarious disaster, it’s not a tabloid tell-all or, you know, actually good. It’s Smith’s late career in a nutshell, just about getting over the line thanks to his star wattage, and all the weirder for its smoothed-out polish.

The stories he attempts to weave into each track mistake frankness for plainness, venting with both the vagueness and the strange specificity of an Instagram story stating, “Only the real ones will know.”