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.

Intrepid it ain’t, but sometimes the straightforward approach has its rewards.

‘Flatlands And The Flemish Roads’ evokes feelings of motion, ‘Ode To Viennese Streets’ a sense of relaxation, but strip away their titles and the concept evaporates, leaving a warm but undemanding album.

No Time is a fine and strange album.

Ultimately, the pop sheen Adams applies on The Voyager is at odds with Lewis' songs. By always opting for directness, he's failed to let her do justice, musically, to the darkness of her inspiration.

As a statement of blingy opulence, it’s a big look. As gangsta move, it’s pretty potent too. At the same time, though, it proves that while Shabazz Palaces are definitely moving in hip-hop’s orbit, they’re spinning further out than most.

It won’t convert the unconvinced, but Petty sounds as inspired as ever.

Equal parts The Runaways and Weezer, but still going, and still good.

The Black Angels’ psych scholarship pays dividends here.

The result is not unlike Lana Del Rey, but with fun instead of fatalistic gloom.

Lyrically 2 Chainz knows he's no street Shakespeare, but as this EP shows, he can certainly knows his way around an arresting tune.

The two-piece create an irresistible sense of longing that’s more disarming than Donovan’s smoothest pants-off line.

Having now racked up multiple albums of tastefully burbling electronics and inscrutable guitar oddness, Instrument still suits the term: rarely does it ‘rock’ at all, so TRR may as well have progressed beyond it. It’s by no means without merit, though.

Creosote’s first album since doesn’t have quite the same woozy charm, trading the lush and eerie textures for gentler, more traditional ditties, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t still pleasures to be plundered.

[A] great debut record laced with melancholy and beautiful moments.

It’s not much more than the sum of its influences, but when its influences are this strong, it really doesn’t matter.

It’s bolder than before, and easily their best-executed album yet.

In spite of all the terror and uncertainty, it's the warmth that lingers.

Most of the scattershot pastiches hit their targets.

The result is a record that fully embraces the theatricality of its genre but falls just on the right side of ridiculous.

They fare better on the more tuneful, less screechy 'Midnight Hours', but as a whole the album would have benefited from some ruthless editing and extra production spit and polish.

Although Leven recites a fair number of hippie clichés (“Make some peace, everyone” implores ‘Seasoned Sun’), it’s her inventive use of an arsenal of rich, vintage synths that rescues Season Sun from cloying sweetness.

There’s a reason that the London-via-Kendall four-piece, centred around siblings Fiona and Will Burgess, have been attracting such attention. In fact, there are 11 of them on this debut full-length. Much of it’s down to Fiona Burgess’ sad yet sultry vocals and the way they stretch across these dreamy, largely synth-based songs.

For all the flash and flair, the freshest, most intimate moments here are the result of holding back.

Here he delivers a 14-minute psychedelic disco odyssey ('Comment Revoir Oursinet?') about missing his teddy bear. The rest of 'L'Aventura', his sixth album, is deep-pile funk ('Sous Les Rayons Du Soleil'), bouncing electro-soul ('Aller Vers Le Soleil') and as cheesy as a Camembert cravat.

It’s respectable enough but a stronger dose of Fink’s maverick tendencies would be welcome.

The doomed relationship cycle in eternal motion or the sound of a heart that won’t stay mended, Honeyblood is visceral pop music giving its prettiest snarl.

Just as Moz's stance as a one-man outsider army and ringleader of the tormentors is restated, so is his standing as the godfather of indie disaffection and despair.