You have to admire the way Gaga fearlessly throws herself into, say, a disco mariachi arrangement on Americano, but she should be careful: her frequently righteous tone and overindulgence in clunky Catholic metaphors threaten to mire her memorable melodies in schlocky self-help proselytizing.

Pala is a party record aiming directly at the pleasure centres – not at all a shallow pursuit.

That the songs retain their vibrancy and ambition with this new energy – more focused, less stridently theatrical – is a testament to her songwriting and enduring appeal.

Stelmanis brings a more musical sensibility to the formula, even if it's still miles away from mainstream pop.

The less experimental C'mon is confident and warm, suggesting that the band let the reverberant setting dictate the tone.

His guttural howl on The Shrine/An Argument is the only moment when Helplessness Blues snaps out of its preciousness and hints that this genre can be more than a soundtrack to brunch.

Move Like This doesn't so much rebuild the Cars' old engine as take the classic model for a cruise in the country.

The lyrics are dense with vivid imagery that could be autobiographical but may just attest to the duo's ability to create intimate moments for their listeners to enjoy.

His vulnerable warble is still intact, his lyrics remain tenderly existential (aside from, uh, Shave My Pussy), and the noisy bits just make the softer tunes all the more gutting.

The Double Cross, a slyly titled nod to their anniversary, returns to the songwriting style not of their beloved first two records, but of the equally strong One Chord, Navy and Bridges era.

It's difficult not to fall head over heels for Saadiq's hard-working showman ethic, especially when he threatens to take the party past the three-minute pop format (which he rarely does, unfortunately).

He clutches that control so tightly that the album has turned out insular and ill-conceived.

It's a remarkably controlled album that reveals layers of texture with every listen.

Considering Zeffira's vocal training and Badwan's ability to project, they could have made a boisterous entrance. Instead, hushed tones and sweet melodies lure you in and keep you listening.

Pants wraps everything effectively in a dreamy fizziness that softens some of the stranger dark edges, but he doesn't hide his increasing interest in pop song construction.

There is something especially poignant and inspired about his 12th studio album.

It's that classic Beastie Boys sound, and a reminder why they've set the gold standard for posse rap.

It's really only when you find the time to sit down and listen to it all that it starts making sense. Yes, this may require some patience, but you will be rewarded.

Over-emoting at every turn, she obliterates otherwise innocuous soul, R&B and reggae-inflected songs with gimmicky vocal histrionics, strident attempts at melisma and the kind of callow self-help lyrics that are apparently mandatory for all young pop stars nowadays.

On A Mission's song arrangement is spot on and completely avoids the awkward transitions that can dog "genre-defying" projects. A must-have.

It sounds like fun was had in Dave Grohl's garage, but this good album could've been great had they spent more time songwriting prior to plugging in and cranking up.

If you already didn't like Brown – he would classify you as a "hater" – this album's combination of lewd (Wet The Bed, No Bullshit) and saccharine (Next 2 You, Should've Kissed You) content, delivered in that gross, oozing cadence of his, will only aggravate you further.

Gesundheit's tunes have an intimate lullaby quality, like a more playful Julie Doiron, and her airy voice sends them into flight. She has amazing range, inventive melodies and vivid lyrics held steady by her plucking guitar.

Cautious listeners should be warned that this is a very dark and strange album, but wrap your head around the dissonance and general creepiness and you discover one of the more startlingly original takes on 60s rhythm and blues ever put down to disc.

You can sense that she's still a bit uncomfortable flirting with pop music, and hides the most accessible and melodic songs in the second half of the album. Then again, if you can't deal with a few dissonant free jazz horn explosions, you probably weren't going to pick up this record anyway.

Flux Outside flies by effortlessly and still leaves you with choruses you'll be singing to yourself long after the disc ends.

Under 30 minutes long, Badlands is a short burst of concentrated energy that gradually slides into less compelling instrumental murk.

Parts & Labor still do plenty of rocking out, but their tight compositions save them from overindulgence.