Taylor's attraction lies in her ability to switch herself effortlessly between vastly different styles.

Harlow deserves credit for veering away from commercial expectations, pursuing a fresh sound, and keeping things short and sweet. But praising an artist for limiting the runtime of a relatively mediocre album is no huge compliment. ‘Monica’ is an easy listen, something jazzy and inoffensive to put on in the background.

After singing about so much Americana for the past decade, it seems that he’s now had to cross the Atlantic in search of fresh geography to mine.

Inevitably, the record descends into a series of multi-band cover-offs, the listener acting as Caesar, deciding which ‘winning’ version should really have made the cut. Half the time you feel like you’re doing the compiler’s job for them.

True Meanings tends to blend into a lilting mush over the course of 14 tracks that rarely stray from the beige end of the sonic palette.

They wisely avoid toying with any Darkness-style irony, but the Keys' insistence on authenticity does leave the album a little flat and humourless. [2 Sep 2006, p.21]

This isn’t a bad or a lazy album, and Elbow are too good a band to ever be dismissed, yet one can’t help but feel they could push their envelope a bit further.

The result is an eccentric grab-bag of styles and influences, with enough harps on it to keep Joanna Newsom fans happy, and even a retro 4/4 beat dancing in on the aptly named ‘Disco Compilation’.

With a swelling back catalogue, it’s becoming increasingly clear what does and doesn’t work for Yachty’s solo output: skippable braggadocious freestyles? No. Endearing and experimental takes on hip-hop that demonstrate his more individualistic approach to being a major rap artist? Yes please.

‘Mutator’ might well find favour with fans of his distant descendants like Squid, Perfume Genius, Sleaford Mods and Black Midi. A quarter of a century on, this lost rumble from post-punk vaults finds new context, as a lesson in uncompromising art from an old master.

Sanchez’s gorgeous vocal is what truly stands out.

It's far from bad, but if you're still waiting for a Clinic record as great as the utterly seminal Internal Wrangler, keep waiting, and probably don't hold your breath.

It’s not an easy listen and moments, notably the faux-soul of ‘Shame’, can grate, but this is a fascinating and rich record.

Life And Times is unchallenging pap. But it's furnished with the odd line of lyrical craftiness and melodies that, on the whole, manage to keep the stabilisers on his career because (as always) they make the seemingly untenable emotions of their writer sound tolerable.

The nostalgic nods become wearier in the second half, but Beauty & Ruin is strong enough to add weight to the argument that alternative rock belongs to Bob Mould; everyone else is just borrowing it.

It'll do for a fleeting one-night stand, but Mechanical Bull isn't the rekindling of a romance that we'd hoped for.

Fever Dream is perfectly listenable, but missing the magic spark that made them smash successes when they first emerged.

There is a sense that Lifeguard will only kick on from here, finding greater balance between the competing elements in their music while also growing in confidence when it comes to taking creative leaps.

It's no classic, but perhaps the surprise here is that Manson’s music can work without the shock shtick.

While there’s nothing quite as dynamic as the best work of Shelton’s labelmates Sharon Jones and Charles Bradley, Cold World provides a rousing listen for fans of vintage soul.

Lang struggles when he shoots for huge, belting rock’n’roll – most of the more conventional tracks fade into the background. ... Instead, Lang feels far more at home and intriguing with the intricate, slowly unfurling ‘Final Call’.

This is a pretty good Black Keys record that chiefly serves to underline how wedded they are to the fundamentals of their own process.

Needless to say, this is 45 minutes of Satanism, anti-capitalism, rebel protest, warfare and gore in which every form of sludge/speed/death/pop/goth/punk/armadillo metal is flung onto an increasingly gooey and formless pile, like a torture chamber’s heap of discarded body parts.

The messy trip-hop of 'If I Could' and screeching synth line of 'First Snow' mean Nausea lacks consistency, but it's a clever and rewarding record.

Even if it gets a bit bedroom experimentalist, POS is Buck 65 with balls, and has more ideas and soul in one cut than an entire Fiddy wet shit.

There's a certain lack of substance throughout the album which isn't fully covered up by Rose's elegant stoner shimmying.

Despite its dips, there are plenty of strong reasons here to keep Dinosaur Jr from extinction.

‘Free Love’ sounds like a tug of war exertion without the fun, satisfying results of albums past.