Mostly, these are exquisitely constructed slow jams--especially recent single ‘Cookies’, The-Dream-esque ‘Crazy Sex’ and the cashmere-soft, Kelly Rowland duet ‘All The Way’--but the pace becomes stagnant after a while.

Though Shangri La is at least entertaining, it’s without that lasting, killer incision that will guarantee longevity.

White Denim continue to teeter there.

The enjoyably fluffy, pacy tunes here match Best Coast’s debut, but the content makes you want to scream ‘Get a f***ing life and chill out!’ at the speakers.

Shulamith picks up pretty much where that album left off, mixing elements of yacht rock, soul, hip hop and dub into a smoothly melancholic whole--but at times Leaneagh’s vocodered emoting makes you wonder if this isn’t just Dido for the blognoscenti.

The moments of clarity indicate a record that yearns for change.

Basically, you can listen to all 11 tracks of This Is... Icona Pop and have a reasonable time, or you can put I Love It on repeat, forever, and have the time of your life.

It is hard to care too much about something this safe.

London Grammar’s polished take on trip-hop is quietly dramatic, sometimes beautiful and well worth a listen.

This is as forceful, salacious and dangerous as they’re likely to get.

while the likes of Animal Collective and Yeasayer can sound like they’re from other times, places and planets, Delorean sound more like they’re making music for a lacklustre university recruitment video.

Anger, bitterness and scorn spike the discomfiting atmosphere at every turn.

While there are individual moments that are up there with the band’s best, Right Thoughts falls short of the return to form the opening tracks suggest.

The five songs here are awkward bedfellows.

It’s an interesting mix of the wide-eyed and sparkly and the beachfront and nonchalant that makes for a hugely radio-friendly record that won’t dent your credibility.

What lets it down is that it is unutterably, irrevocably and unswervingly dull. Dull, dull, dull. As boring as the hum of a fridge.

Lynch showcases a grim neighbourhood that seems electrically oppressed somehow, synthesised echoes murmuring like residual radiation.

‘A Ton Of Love’ shows they’ve not lost their knack for passably impersonating Echo & the Bunnymen, but really, you deserve better than this hazily indistinct angst.

Magna Carta Holy Grail is a solid example of a decent modern rap album and nothing more.

Don’t Forget is just possible to enjoy. But only in mod-eration, of course.

Throughout, Niblett’s lonesome, PJ Harvey-like voice and grunge-bitten guitar are central, while disorientating snare cracks serve to underline her forlorn tales of domestic crises.

Secondhand Rapture feels overlong, hampered by a lyrical palette that seems to mirror the relationship struggles of a Twilight film.

In the end, it’s all a little too demure to really shout out loud about.

The raspy sonics can’t mask some of their most shrug-worthy songs to date.

The suave Londoner’s debut is a deeply ridiculous affair, but something about his Cave-meets-Cohen shtick endears.

Though Brightest Darkest Day isn’t a world-changer, you have to admire this pair’s indisputable dynamism.

So, all in all: not a bad album, but most of the time it’s more harmless midge than lethal mosquito.

So with their fourth LP, where they burst from the tracks with peppy numbers like ‘Holy’ and Biffy-esque choruses on ‘The Woodpile’, it’s a mite disappointing.