Along with fans' short attention spans, bad drum sounds and talking loudly at gigs, one of the most wearying aspects of music today is the mystery of how so many achingly dull bands become so popular. 

Witness Razorlight: a band whose hubris and column inches are in inverse proportion to their ability as songwriters.

Some critics have lapped up this painfully average album in a way that suggests that they either haven't heard enough also-rans in bars and clubs or have let their standards plummet to such an extent that even non-events are something to acclaim.

With characteristic modesty, Razorlight frontman Johnny Borrell has said that nine of the 10 songs on this album could be singles. If that's the case, it's time to load up on batteries and canned goods and retreat to the nearest cave.

While 'In the Morning' and 'Kirby's House' are pleasant, the rest of this album is a thrilling mix of bad lyrics ("Who needs love? Who needs a heaven up above?"; "All my life, there's panic in America"; "I don't know what you mean to me, but I'm starting to think that it's a mystery"), rehashed sounds from the 1980s and laughable attempts at deep and meaningful ('America', 'Los Angeles Waltz'). 

So, of course, guaranteed to be huge. Now where's that tin opener?

Harry Guerin