Restlessness and drive applauded, but oh for the sound of those demons.

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

Flitting between 1980s soul-pop and jerky indie, it has its big, brash, pop-rock moments.

It isn't long before their second album goes sour, settling into a pattern of either doctrinaire psych-rock or alt-country which recalls the Dandy Warhols in their more meandering moods.

Not for the faint-hearted, nor those offended by religion. Often brilliant.

Ultraviolence is more of the same, but less.

Though less folky than their 2010 debut, Blood Speaks sticks to the harmonies and arpeggios formula that made their Jack White-produced "Gastown" single so memorable.

Bracing stuff.

Yorke's lyrics, consisting mainly of repeated aphorisms and clichés ("A penny for your thoughts", "I've made my bed, I'll lie in it"), don't suggest any great depth.... But the sounds, bringing in elements of tropicalia, Afro-funk and laptronica, with glitches, rainforest sounds and superb analogue-synth squelches (if anyone steals the show here, it's Godrich), mean you hardly notice.

All elegantly arranged and written in self-consciously prosy style. He'd say wry. I'd say borderline sententious.

Not easy. Not pleasant. But touching in parts, if only because of Martyn's honest gaze.

He's not breaking any moulds--it's solid, guitar led, pop-rock--but then Marr is the man for that job.

If you replace the techno with ambient tones and piano noodles, he can sound a little reedy and exposed.

Like most of Unapologetic, it's ["Nobody's Business" is] instantly forgettable.

The caprine warble of solo Steve Nicks has broken its silence after 10 years to explore the idea that nothing lasts forever, especially in affairs of the heart.

At times, listening to The Civil Wars is like wading through a swamp of still-raw emotion. It is an album that is more haunted than haunting.

Beyoncé's strident triumphalism is displaced by muted heartbreak and the cookie-cutter R&B of her mega-sellers ditched for a subtle, stripped-down sound that suggests someone's been listening to Janelle Monae.

There’s a personal context (Mac’s dad was a famous singer of spirituals), the band is great, the vibe folksy.

New project HDBA (a translation of the German name for the board game Frustration) sees him actually having fun, after a fashion.

Balminess, after all, is the chief asset of this second album's slow-rolling, harmonic country-gospel jams.

In most cases, the cupboard seems its best home.

It's the very definition of "not bad", but surely there's some urgent paint you need to watch drying instead?

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

Nothing you wouldn't expect.

It all hangs together quite nicely if, as ever, rather uninvolvingly.

If you loved Williams the way he was, rejoice. If you didn't, it may be time to switch off the radio and television for a few months, and bury your head in a bucket of calamine lotion.

It might be more accurate to say that nearly all of the songs on Whispering Trees aim for "Satellite of Love" but come closer to achieving Sky dish of desire.

Rizzle Kicks are best when brisk and larky--more heartfelt musings on love and being true to yourself are banal.