Nothing about Deep States feels authentically trippy, authentically dark or authentically weird. Near-on every element feels both forced and misguided, be it the performances, songwriting or the production. If in desperate need, just relisten to that Squid album instead.

By failing to commit fully to straight pop craftsmanship or to genre-bending experimentation, the project feels lyrically bland and sonically uninspired.

Notes has no such common context, and ends up feeling flat, directionless and inessential, where its forebears felt vital, worthy of devoting a life to. For a band with proven dexterity in deftly capturing the nuances and quick changes of contemporary conversation, it is disheartening to witness them with nearly nothing of note to say.

Utterly forgettable.

Unfortunately Girl realistically functions as little more than a jumbled hodgepodge of colorless notions, and another notch on the wall.

The outright corniness of some of the tracks--the steel drums of “Night Chef”, the softened yacht-rock of “Conceptual Mediterranean (Part 1)”--test the listener’s patience. Ultimately the purposeful superficiality of Out of Touch renders it inessential.

Sacred Hearts Club is record of frustration on the listener’s part--we know they’re capable, but Foster the People have again failed to recapture the brand of youthfulness established in their hype-fuelled industry breakthrough. Equally, they fail to mature into an alternative sound with adequate craft to entice attention.

The Home Recordings largely serve as a further step back along the creative path, to a point where we either see songs at their most infantile stage or at a crossroads where Cobain, the tireless perfectionist, probably realised he could take them no further.

All Your Favorite Bands is plenty polished, but scratch the surface and there’s close to zero going on beneath it; it’s the kind of record that you’re in danger of forgetting before it’s even finished playing.

Full Bleed reveals a complete lack of understanding of the dynamics of black metal. It doesn’t sound like a black metal record and never gets close to sounding like it.

Comebacks are often ego trips, but never quite as brazenly as this.

Seventy-five percent of the tracklisting consists of lovingly bastardised fan-favourite versions of demo tracks that have been online for up to eleven years.

The album is lacklustre, and suffers for a lack of purpose and intent.

Blonde is a crushingly unoriginal piece of work, weirdly proud of its derivative nature, and anybody who wanted to listen to this kind of album could easily find a raft of better records in the last few years alone.