When he shuts up, and lets the shambling jangle and daydreamy exotica take over, it's great. When he sings, it's murder.

Bracing stuff.

Just when the world is no longer particularly bothered about a new Arctic Monkeys record, they've finally released one worth being bothered about – at least in parts.

When it's good, it's a thrilling and ambtitious state-of-the-nation address.

The most rewarding part of this double-disc is the first quarter. Not that the hissy old demos and rarities on the rest of the collection are without their charms. But it's the opening section which really whisks you back to another age.

Haunting and harrowing, the uncomprehending first reactions are combined with a score both alarming and consoling. Also here, Mallet Quartet (2009) and Dance Patterns (2002), but it is WTC 9/11 which packs the most powerful punch.

An almost comically deep, rich baritone croon, it carries echoes of Scott Walker, Nick Cave, Elvis Presley and, more prosaically, the guy from Crash Test Dummies.

Feels Like Home is musically conservative, socially ingratiating, politically vulnerable. It is unmistakably a piece of product. But it is also brilliant.

Wonderful.

A surprising (if a little sad) return to form.

Spalding tries to breathe new life into the dead form of smooth jazz-fusion. And nearly succeeds.

Lakeman writes, sings, plays, produces and mixes, which may or may not explain the rather dry, stoney sound of the album and the rhythmic forthrightness of the playing.

It is, almost inevitably, charming.

The ballads will be the tracks from Little Red to own the charts for the foreseeable future, but it’s on the 5am dancefloor that Katy B’s second album will score its biggest impact.

It's touching, witty, and like everything else the Bostonian ever does, brilliant.

Ultraviolence is more of the same, but less.

Happily, beardy-weirdy Texas psych-folkies Midlake manage to weather Tim Smith’s split with no pinch in purpose or progress.

Subjects resulting from such reveries include imperialism, the environment and the more familiar home turf of love and longing. Nobody does it better.

As befits a novelist, the songs are narratives concerned with the big issues. Life, death, that sort of thing. Good record.

Fusion fans might be confused but as a sentimental affirmation of melody it's Metheny to the core.

[In French] it's beguiling and sexy. When she crosses the Channel and sings in English, she's a ten-a-penny kook-merchant.

With treasurable details – the dubbed-up refrain of "Black Icy Stare", the Merseybeat-ish groove of "Karmatron" – feeding into an overall ambience of lotus-eating sensuality.

Over rudimentary backing beats, in that "ya feel me?" accent, his humour often hits the spot. However, the going-through-Customs skit, followed by a track about having his urine tested at the airport, is as tedious as it is righteous.

As long as you don't ask too much of it, it's good knockabout rowdy fun.

Right at the end of what is officially the most depressing month of the year comes a shaft of unadulterated sunshine.

A barrel of laughs it ain't. Over sparse, semi-orchestral backing, Gahan tackles the big ones.

It recalls MGMT before the wheels came off. Which is no bad thing.

What We Saw..., then, is the usual Spektorish mixed bag of literate genius and "look at me" showboating.