Opener Rollerblades is pure whimsical flimsy as Doolittle’s high raspy vocals do a injustice to what is a decent song. All structure disappears in the middle before a predictable rinse and repeat ending. The whole arrangement has as much substance as Jack Johnson spending a wet weekend in Camden. Moneybox is more catchy but has an even more annoying vocal, and obvious sampling. The mix is all wrong with the tinny music a mess over some smart sassy lyrics: “Do me a favour… don’t jingle your change sir…”. The irony of this is sure to be lost if and when Doolittle becomes a huge star.

Police Car is a sign of hope musically; much more controlled but horribly laboured and a terrible metaphor: “I forget to be cool… I try my best to not get arrested by you…”. Seriously? Halfway through and it’s already starting to grate and even a weak attempt to liven things with some brass is utterly pointless. At least the song is throwing off the shackles of pretence to do something original. Go Home tries the same and ends up stuck between pop and swing, without the voice or the timing. Into the last minute it disintegrates into more of the same. Sweet backing vocals provide a lift but that doesn’t help a complete lack of substance.

The Eliza Doolittle EP tries so much to be liked. Doolittle injects at much of her personally as she can – showing a glimpse of individuality and song writing skills – but the approach is confused, the songs are weak and paper-thin, the delivery is a mess, and there is a complete lack of direction and substance. This is a first effort, OK, but thousands of singers are trying to make it and very few succeed – that’s the harsh reality. To keep things in perspective you need to make a huge impact in these difficult times: you need to make people stand up; you need to be noticed; you need to write smart, interesting and engaging music. On the strengths of this debut, it’s not going to happen.

It is always interesting to hear what bands do after they release a Best Of compilation, especially if it is only after a few really good albums. This is what Katatonia did next. An odd move, designed mainly to expose the band to a wider audience and showcase later work. The follow-up to Viva Emptiness is The Great Cold Distance, well received in 2006 but not quite pulling in the quality of the previous album. So in 2009, the band still going strong, lead by Jonas Renkse and backed by the dual guitarists of Anders Nystrom and Fredrik Norrman, release an eighth full-length album: Night Is The New Day.

From the outset this is classic Katatonia. Opener Forsaker moves effortlessly from muddy guitars to Renkse’s soft listless vocals and back again in the first two minutes, bringing on a soaring solo at the mid point. Renkse delivers a typical downbeat message with “the dark will rise; abandon your freedom / give up the right to find your true self; forsake your own reason”. Drummer Daniel Liljekvist shines in the outro. Another highlight is the remarkably tuneful Idle Blood – with Renkse in superb from “You there / bringer of my despair” to “…but I am turning my back on you; you know I do” recalling a moment of self-loathing or the hatred of a nemesis. Even the song’s darkest lyrics are delivered with a light touch into a final dream-like minute.

Throughout the album Katatonia sticks to a now well-established plan. The Longest Year is quiet, delicate and reflective verses bringing a heavier anthemic chorus only twice in the four and half minute running time. Liberation follows the same format, albeit more pronounced and with an excellent added guitar, bass and drum interlude, before the final word from Renkse. The wonderfully gothic Nephilim arrives in a torrent of wicked grinding chords – the dual vocals lift an otherwise arduous trudge through familiar territory. Inheritance is probably the most ambient song Katatonia has produced, flowing into a fragile drifting minimalism. Late on, first (and probably only) single Day And Then The Shade should be the most hard-hitting track, in spite of lacking a memorable chorus but ultimately the whole arrangement is flat and lifeless. This leads to closer Departer, the album’s longest song. It is also the most beguiling with breathless ghostly vocals, no obvious riffs, and a very subdued elongated ending to an unsurprising album.

Renkse has described Night Is The New Day as Katatonia’s most varied and diverse material on the same album. This is not entirely evident even after repeat listens, and even after that it is debatable. The band’s distinct sound and a tendency to create songs within a restricted formula does create a predictability and a safeness, even if they are played with skill and imagination. You know what you are getting and there are few surprises. Within this, musically Katatonia has never sounded more controlled and focused. It is elegant and delicate, full of open spaces and deep breaths, but few really outstanding moments. The big problem is for three albums now Katatonia has not moved on. It is very much the case of not messing with a safe thing.

Back in 1992, Alice In Chains were just another Seattle band. Not quite Pearl Jam or Nirvana, not quite metal and a bit too goth for grunge, the band filled a hole but never stood out from the crowd. Dirt is a great album, followed by the acoustic Jar of Flies, but nothing like this. Black Gives Way To Blue is the album Queens Of The Stone Age can only dream about. Now, in the same year that Pearl Jam released a short, punchy, resurgent ninth album, Alice In Chains has opted for a completely different approach. Black Gives Way To Blue is massive. With an average song length of five minutes and two around seven, this collection of dark-edged, gloom-rock, guitar anthems is a challenge, but an absorbing and rewarding one.

“A new beginning / time to start living, like just before we died…”. The opening lyrics of All Secrets Known pull no punches. This is a band being up-front and honest about where they are. The single Check My Brain is a glorious distorted guitar-grind with a soaring upbeat chorus about moving to Los Angeles: “California’s alright / somebody check my brain”. Last Of My Kind is Alice In Chains of old, blending churning guitars with dark vocal melodies and an old-school Metallica-esque hook. At nearly four minutes, the guitar-work intensifies for the last two minutes. The first sign of the band’s acoustic side is the majestic Your Decision – again more brilliance from Cantrell and bassist Inez. An impressive first half ends with the seven minute epic, and first single, A Looking In View. This is the band at its darkest, all muddy grinding multi-layered guitars, demonic vocals through clenched teeth and strained muscles. Powerful stuff. The DuVall and Cantrell combination is intense and harmonic in equal measures and another great outro sees out the final minute.

When The Sun Rose Again has excellent melancholic vocals from the outset. This is another dark acoustic ballad with a brief blast of electric at the central point. This leads to Acid Bubble, heavy with evil chords on each verse lifting for a lighter chorus. It is one of the only times the album begins to drag, every note is protracted and drawn out. But then it changes, completely. This wouldn’t be a great rock album without some ‘prog’ injected into the rock. After the brief interlude, the song settles down again for more of the same, only to return in the final minute. Lessons Learned is much more interesting with purposeful vocals, driving guitars, and another lifting hook/chorus: “…know when to find it / in your darkest hour, you strike gold…” just about sums up the nature of Black Gives Way To Blue. Take Her Out tries the same thing but feels overdone given all that has come before. More excellent guitars try to liven things but this could easily be removed and the album wouldn’t suffer.

Into the final two tracks and Private Hell is exactly what is claims to be. One of the times the obvious references to Layne Staley are revealed, this is a heartfelt and honest tribute. One of the best songs musically. But the tribute is in two parts. The title track brings the album to a close. Featuring piano from Elton John (yes, really), Black Gives Way To Blue is the only way to finish this album. “Tomorrow’s haunted by your ghost” becomes “tomorrow’s forcing a goodbye” and the album ends with the words: “I’ll remember you”. What could have been a depressing moody ten minute grind-fest ends in delicate controlled lightness and hope.

The decision to replace Staley with DuVall, a singer who has an uncanny likeness to Staley, is both brave and logical. The vocalist in a band is just another instrument, equally as important as every other member of the band pulling equal weight. You wouldn’t substitute a cello for a banjo, or add a Gibson Les Paul to a string quartet. It makes no sense to break the sound that defines what you are. Alice In Chains retains its sound thanks to DuVall, but for the most part due to Cantrell, still the core of the band (all but two songs are written exclusively by him). The trademark dark harmonies are ever present thanks to further contributions from Inez. No singer is replaceable. Queen is a perfect example of this – if you have to change the sound, change the band and move on. So, it’s hard not to accept this album without some emotion but it is easy to accept it musically. With masterful production from Nick Raskulinecz, and excellent musicianship throughout, Black Gives Way To Blue is a painful grieving process manifesting as a huge triumphant behemoth of a rock album.

Hypnagogues is a weird and wonderful experience that threatens early on to deliver something different on each track. Singer and guitarist Tom Mayne is a sublime mix of Ian Brown, Jason Pierce and Frank Sidebottom. Opener Sweden is a brilliant torrent of monologue John Cooper Clarke lyrics eventually gliding into a dance-induced chorus. Mayne namedrops Ideal Homes, Annabel Croft, talks about downing pints of fish oils and feeling crap but living until he’s a hundred and twenty four. That is just a taster of a wondrous trip through a frantic mind. On first listen, it seems like an entire album like this would be a huge breath of fresh air but what transpires turns out to be a smart move. Never holding on to a single idea for too long, David Cronenberg’s Wife swiftly move on.

Can’t Keep Doing What You Do is less talking and more ‘singing’, a clanking, stomping, uneasy pop song that’s not sure if it wants to let anyone know what it is. The first real highlight on Hypnagogues is the majestic The Lou Reed Song, so unashamedly an homage disguised as a rip-off it finds that sweet-spot both musically and ironically before unfolding beautifully into a blatant finale. It is also home to the best line on the album: “So you’re in a good mood, but the party it brings you down / ff you don’t want to go home barking, then stop acting like such a hound…”.

As with all music that tries to do something new and unique, not all of Hypnagogues works. Fight Song is like a bad journey through a budget ghost train ride at a seedy faire. It lacks any form of melody. Likewise In The Limo is a drunken attempt at a Pogues cover – a mean feat but Mayne and the band execute it perfectly. After a minute it gets truly irritating. Even the guitars and the big ‘sing-a-long’ ending does little to improve things. You Should’ve Closed The Curtains brings back the style in spectacular form. Playing out like The Stranglers at their most eclectic, this tale of voyeurism brings together sultry vocals, swathes of strings and harpsichord. The racy Body To Sleep With continues the oscillation, a quick blast of disjointed punk-pop.

Desperate Little Man could be Mark Everett at his best, a bitter-sweet slice of storytelling with lost love, stark imagary and honest reflection. The arrangement is exquisite. Make Me A Channel Of Your Peace is dark, creepy guitar-based indie with distant nasal vocals. The instrumentation just before the three minute point is breathtakingly delicate and controlled against the edgy vocal delivery. In contrast Jailbird is too obvious, packed full of tongue-in-cheek metaphor: “I was roughly fingerprinted, there was no chance of bail / She even took my shirt, I had to be strip-searched…”. Back to a high for the closer Drawn Again, a slow mesmerising trawl from the depths, again full of wonderful imagery and observations. In spite of Mayne’s prosaic tone, he has an oddly tuneful voice. The tumbling guitars and violin dance away into the last minute.

Hypnagogues is twisted, direct, melancholy, uplifting, dark and light. Tom Mayne’s vocals are responsible for the unique approach of David Cronenberg’s Wife but the band play a big part. The six musicians combine through interesting and brave arrangements to compliment the words of the front man which rarely falter. Mayne’s unwavering attempts to ignore structure and convention (if the words don’t fit, just say them quicker so they do) is refreshing and compelling. Hypnagogues is far from great. But like all great art it has plenty of delicious faults.

The biggest let down is the lyrics. Unintelligent and obvious clichés mix with trite pseudo-rhyming and truly horrible scansion on every track. This is beautifully demonstrated on big opener K.I.A (subtitled Killed In Action just in case you don’t know what the acronym means): “I live in the middle of a combat zone / I’m too scared to pick up the phone / I went to the market to fill up my heart / now I’m in a coma / state of the art”. As an opening line it’s pretty terrible and things don’t get much better. Musically it’s not bad and the chorus packs a punch even if Chester is singing about supermarkets, 4x4s and ditches full of VCRs.

When Shaka Rock is bad, it’s really bad. Beat On Repeat is the Clash taking the piss out of LCD Soundsystem. Black Hearts (On Fire) goes from limp-wrist to disjointed hopeless mess. Seventeen doesn’t know what it is, a mixed up fusion of laboured guitars, lame chorus and relentless pounding piano. But La Di Da sums up the approach perfectly. It starts OK, all spiky guitars and spitting lyrics, until we get the line: “I don’t know anymore what I need and what for / all I know is there must be something more”. Stop wondering and find it!

Onward, Walk is astonishingly awful, blending the stylised swagger of Kasabian with the vacuous nonsense of PJ And Duncan. Times Like This reworks the Doobie Brothers and has the most bizarre shouty chorus. “From the Hollywood Hills to Ecuador / everyone’s the same when they hit the floor”. Again, another apt line. “Times like this / you need your rock’n'roll” will have you reaching for the latest Dance Anthems compilation. If there is a better Bryan Adams rip-off this century than Let Me Out then it’s not worth hearing.

Shaka Rock has its moments. She’s A Genius kicks off like the Black Keys. Fantastic! But the cool muddy guitar riff is the only redeeming feature. Chester’s over-the-top vocals vomit over everything and leave your pounding hangover aching for something stronger than codeine. The final minute is a master class of simple, full-on, in-yer-face pop-rock. Goodbye Hollywood tries so hard to be good but ends up a bad Counting Crows imitation. Even when the band escape the shackles of the past, they just move a bit further into the recent past. The song concludes with another decent last minute; free flowing and genuinely good. Start The Show will be the new gig opener – it’s that obvious. All but the last minute (that’s three decent minutes!) is horrible before a massive guitar ending kicks in. You can almost picture the accompanying light-show.

Shaka Rock ends well but it’s too little too late. She Holds A Grudge is an honest open-hearted love song and the best writing on the album. Within the pseudo-country backing is a proper song trying to escape a band that are painfully out of ideas.

But one thing remains the biggest dividing line: lead singer Nic Chester. He is both the driving force of the band and the constant irritation bellowing the vocals when a more subtle approach is required. Even in the quieter moments, Jet’s vocalist turns it up to eleven and then finds one more notch on the amp. Chester’s voice is a constant and nagging problem. So is the band’s reluctance to move forward and stop recycling the past. Retro is great if you turn it into something new and interesting. It’s a shame then that Shaka Rock tries so hard and does too much. Call it irony, call it having fun, call it retro-rock-chic (actually, probably not), it doesn’t work unless the songs are good. Sadly, predictably and ultimately, they are not.

The big problem with Last Night is ambition makes way for detachment. An attempt to create a soulful celebration of dance music created a lonely journey through the empty clubs and bars in search for fulfilment. The listener, like the central character of the album, finds only desperation and frustration, an intended conclusion perhaps but not expected, based on the promise of a great night out. A vibrant scene is vehemently deconstructed in fifteen tracks.

But Moby has always been an outcast and his music reflects this constant disassociation with the real world. This ideology is at its most striking with the glorious Hotel, blatantly dismissed by Pitchfork (the review predictably and inanely uses the word “bald” in the first line – yeah we know) and many other music magazines as vacuous attention seeking and an attempt to revisit Play and 18, arguably Moby’s most critically acclaimed albums. But even though Wait For Me feels more like going over old ground, it is in a good way.

The core of Wait For Me is four solid songs: the deep south crooning and alien shimmer of Walk With Me featuring Leela James on vocals, upbeat electro-guitar pop Mistake (the only time Moby sings), and the gorgeous Jltf (preceded oddly by the shorter Jltf-1) with vocals by Melody Zimmer. Last is the title track, all piano loop, sad strings and the excellent Kelli Scarr doing a passable impression of Sinéad O’Connor on Massive Attack’s 100th Window. The contributions from “guest” vocalists is superb throughout with only the subtle arrangements of Hope Is Gone spoiled by the overpowering Hilary Gardner.

Within this is a wealth of wonderful instrumentals, from the Mogwai-esque Shot In The Back Of The Head (video by the aforementioned David Lynch) to the piano and string duel of closer Isolate. Only the tiny Stock Radio is a pointless minute of buzzing nothingness. A Seated Night is part choir, part church organ, and opener Division is a great intro of simple strings. Slow Light is also impressive; building after a steady start and then filling out to form part of a dreamy conclusion.

Wait For Me proves that Moby still has much to offer. Look past the man and you will find a soul still trying things, old and new. The album is a bit of both, doing what has worked before just as well, and doing what usually doesn’t much better. The low-fi approach contradicts the huge aspirations which threatens to drag down the atmosphere but Wait For Me is not just a diluted Play. It is exactly what critics of Moby least expected – a collection of songs free of pretension, arrogant self-promotion and introversion. A beautiful example of an expert at work.

For the most part Horehound is like PJ Harvey fronting the Black Keys. Kicking off in style with the stuttering fragile blues of 60 Feet Tall, Mosshart is sounding superb, as is the blistering guitar solo. Hang You From The Heavens is another great Fertita/Mosshart collaboration. The only track on the album exclusively provided by White is the intense organ grind of I Cut Like A Buffalo complete with Nick Cave arrangement and weird edges.

So Far From Your Weapon builds from vocal interplay to crashing drums. Again Mosshart is on brilliant form, down and dirty and delivering a powerful chorus. Treat Me Like Your Mother is familiar Stripes territory with added guitars and electronica and everyone playing their part – astonishing guitar work but the tin-pot drums could use a finer mix. Mosshart is joined by White for vocals and the last minute descends into RATM. The duel vocals continue with Rocking Horse with an old west horror-movie groove leading from one horse to another in the form of Dylan’s New Pony, and more great backing vocals.

The huge electronics and distortion of Bone House leads into the bass-driven dub instrumental 3 Birds. Veering off into Spanish guitars briefly, the song steers a steady course before the big finale. No Hassle Night is deep and dark, if a little dull but the closer Will There Be Enough Water? is truly compelling; menacing and brooding, all atmospheric guitars.

Horehound, and the formation of the Dead Weather, is further proof that Jack White is a driving force. Mosshart has never sounded better – she really needs to get back to Jamie Hince and put this much energy and contribution into the next Kills record. White and Fertita provide excellent guitar work, produced but raw and edgy, like the vocals throughout. And Lawrence is a magnificent bassist, ever-present but never over-present. He and White deliver some neat drums to complete the ensemble. But it is Fertita who shines with the addition of piano and synths – changing the mood constantly.

The White Stripes, the Raconteurs, the Dead Weather? Who cares, as long as Jack White is making music and getting this much out of his fellow musicians.

I have been a huge fan of Kasabian ever since the band’s debut album smashed its way into my ears and introduced me to a world in which ladrock swagger met electronic and guitar fusion mixed with plenty of self-confident cocky attitude. The follow-up Empire was hard work at first but I warmed to it within a few weeks, as the slower more down-beat band evolved from such less-than-humble beginnings.

The problem is, back then they could get away with it. Tom Meighan and Sergio Pizzorno were tenacious and arrogant but more importantly they were charming and engaging; a pleasant compromise between Oasis and Primal Scream, Kasabian were the future. Now the future has become a third album. West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum is not as insane a ride as you might expect from the title. In fact it is very straightforward. What started as a homage to a nineteenth century psychiatric hospital ended up as a frustratingly bland, badly executed, mind-achingly dull album.

You do not know how much it pains me to say this. It really does.

Given how Empire closed with the brilliantly brave and audacious The Doberman, I expected great things from West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum. The first signs of trouble arrived with the single Fire. Strangely it turns out to be one of the best songs on the album, even though the parts do not seem to fit together and it is all a bit laboured. This is something that plagues the album throughout. I have no doubt that work has been put in, ideas have been realised and time has been spent making this album. But the end results ‘sounds’ like none of these things happened. And that is why it doesn’t work.

At times the album is just bad Oasis. Yes the comparisons have been made at length but there was always a gap wide enough to distant the two bands. After the spirited Underdog, Where Did All The Love Go? is so Beatles-esque it could have been penned by an adolescent Liam. At two and a bit minutes, Swarfiga is an interesting instrumental. It lacks any real stomp and purpose and sounds at times more like a soundtrack for a bad ghost train ride in Blackpool.

Borrowing heavily from Twin Peaks, the awful Ladies And Gentlemen (Roll The Dice) is a tuneless drunken mess. Secret Alphabets is so disjointed and random that the constant jumping from one idea to the next is a constant distraction. Shame as the instrumentation in the last couple of minutes is genuinely good. Closing track Happiness attempts to be Screamadelica in a single piece of music. The execution feels like a final slap in the face. As clichéd as it sounds, happiness it is not.

It isn’t all bad news. Fast Fuse injects much needed pace and energy into the lethargy, stays close to the band’s roots but has a film of dirt over the polish. The western soundtrack West Ryder Silver Bullet is an engaging journey but drags hopelessly until the last minute of dramatics. Thick As Thieves in this respect should work but sounds like a piss-take, especially when it runs out of lyrics halfway through. Vlad The Impaler has all the right ingredients held together by a thumping bassline but it is still just going through already well-trodden motions.

West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum is best when Kasabian are doing something different. A horrible paradox because I don’t want Kasabian to be different. I want them to be Kasabian! I want a return to the glorious pomp of the debut that grabbed my attention in the first place. I want the attitude back. The energy. The what-the-hell-are-you-looking-at bravado with a jaunty smile. I want them back.

As a real fan of the band I wanted to inject some real personal thoughts and opinion into this review. That is why it is written in the first person, something I rarely do. I feel so strongly about this album and maybe more listens, the right mood, or a revisit might yield more positivity. But for now West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum will remain one of this year’s most important and painful disappointments.

Opener Ocean And A Rock is a mesmerising metaphor-filled love song, with Hannigan’s delicious musical vocals delivering such wonders as “I feel you in the pocket of my overcoat / my fingers wrap around your words and take the shape of games we play” followed by “I spoon you into my coffee cup / spin you through a delicate wash / I wear you all day”. She conveys a level of depth and involvement Dido can only dream about. There are clear Damien Rice influences in the darker moments and Hannigan’s band for Sea Sew impressively includes Cathy Davey providing backing vocals, and Vyvienne Long and Tom Osander borrowed from Rice; they provide a wealth of talent and deep resonating music from the start. Venn Diagram, proving that even the most simple of subjects can inspire an idea, is equally as effective. Sitting somewhere between Marianne Faithful and Martha Wainwright, Hannigan delivers a wordless vocal chorus that gets darker and more menacing at each visit. Musically the delicate brass is a wonderful touch.

Sea Song is softer and whimsical, with an almost Eastern European Romany folk sound. If anything it becomes a relentless ramble but is over before it has a chance to become a distraction. But the signs of decent are becoming clear. From here Splishy Splashy (a contender for worst song title of the decade, let alone the year) is a horribly dull nursery rhyme. It is all a bit too light and airy with little substance. Thankfully this leads to the best song on the album: I Don’t Know mimics Edie Brickell at her magnificent best. The sensual charm of this folk-pop love song is an instance highlight and some of the best song writing: “If you eat what you’ve been given, or push it round your plate / I’d like to cook for you all the same / I would want you, I am game” captures the innocent recollections of Kate Rusby. What emerges is an engaging mix of instruments, some more great brass and a slightly wild liberated ending. Excellent.

Completely different, but almost as good, Keep it All is dark and haunting, cold yet emotional. The song is all sharp edges and angles complete with buzzing Stylophone and a busy multi-layered outro. Compelling stuff. The Bert Jansch cover Courting Blues, also covered by Nick Drake, is not as out-of-place as it could be – treated with respect but with the now familiar Hannigan stamp. On the down side, it does drift away into wordless vocals and too much “atmosphere”. Pistachio is another low, with an attempt at the same empty chorus formula, all sound and no substance. It could easily be Jack Johnson and a horrible turn for the worst. Expecting a final lift, Teeth is the big bold ballad. No structure but plenty of emotion and huge sweeping movements. Hannigan’s vocals, however, are superb. But it is the start of another, and final, down turn.

The final song on Sea Sew should be a worthy closer but Lille is a limp reworking of Coldplay’s Kingdom Come, with toy instruments and simple plucked strings. It is clear why this was a free download lead single. The attempt at a delicate production makes for a frustrating listen and the subdued ending to such an annoying collection of ebbs and flows is worthy of the oceanic theme. Obvious as the comparison sounds, and maybe that was the idea, it fails to make an impact musically and suffers from under-ambition.

There is much more to Lisa Hannigan than just a musician living in the shadow of Damien Rice, but to reach her full potential, she really needs to step out into the new light. There are flashes of brilliance on Sea Sew but most of it is way too comfortable. The tendency to fill empty spaces with wordless vocals, the overuse of brass sections, an atmosphere created by low bass strings – all become too obvious. In spite of a promising start and four great songs, not enough happens with the remainder. It is a shame as there is evidence of well crafted, lovingly conceived and genuinely thought-out ideas on Sea Sew. But only half of it truly translates into a great album.