By pioneering the vile concept of adult-orientated-indie, Travis greased the pole for every quivery-lipped drip from Lightbody to Blunt. Not content with installing this impotent aural gruel as the country’s primary musical diet, Travis insist on continuing to make records of their own. ‘The Boy With No Name’ is everything you’d expect from a new Travis album and less. The occasionally pretty melodies are played and sung with all the soul of a platform announcement, while Fran Healy’s vapid lyrics plumb new depths of banality when he rhymes “birds of a feather” with “shame about the weather”. Why does it always rain on Travis? Because they’re lifeless drones who should be modelling cardigans rather than sullying this wonderful thing we call pop music.