Listening to Piss in the Wind can be a pretty gloomy experience, as it piles futility on futility. Ideas and tunes go unfinished. Yet its graceful, open ended melodies and raw emotions also tune into a very human ghost in the machine.

I doubt many listeners would be able to identify these as Tomlinson songs. But this is a likable, grounded collection of sunny-side-up pop from a likeable, grounded guy.

A record like this should go out with a bang. Instead, it’s a bit of a limp finish to an otherwise fun record from one of our most charismatic pop stars.

There is evident ambition on Play, but not a holistic or thorough one. Probing attempts to broaden Sheeran’s sound are offset by melodic and lyrical choices that are too safe.

There are incredible highs here, but too much that feels like a first draft.

You can really relish these songs as outpourings of vulnerability, confusion and anger. They could be perfect to help lovely folk to dance away the pain of messy breakups. But you don’t have to strain too hard to hear them on the incel’s playlist either. Hickey’s a tricky one.

The songs are individually worthwhile, but get lost in the aggregate: Guitar rattles through agreeable ditties about life, love, and music at a clip that makes them blur together.

Although both the solid, retro stylings of The Love Invention and the more delicately dreamy Flux contain some lovely melodies and beautifully detailed production, the woman herself seems less edgily present than she while haunting 2000’s “Lovely Head” or on 2003’s “Strict Machine”.

No Rain, No Flowers turns out to be a muted effort.

If you’re a longstanding Belieber by this point, you’re probably used to the tonal shifts of his adult material. But, outside of his hardcore devotees, Bieber remains more of a curiosity than a consistent, coherent creative force – Swag won’t do much to change the conversation.

Virgin doesn’t find Lorde back in her finest, most exhilarating form. But it’s a record that sees her heading in that direction.

At 14 tracks, Remembering Now has a slight paunchiness to it – something that grates particularly during the drearier slow numbers, such as “The Only Love I Ever Need Is Yours” and “Memories and Visions”.

This is not Young’s best work. It is, however, a record that should raise smiles on the faces of the faithful.

Something Beautiful isn’t quite as crazy or groundbreaking as she seems to think, but its spirit of adventure encapsulates what we’ve come to know and love about one of our most frustrating yet endearing pop stars.

At times, Vega’s use of clunky rhymes undoes the elegance of her more literary lines. ... It’s still lovely to have Vega back in action. Her level-head, outward-facing ideas and collected tone really steady the heart and offer the mind safe opportunities to wander.

At times the whole jazz-hands-emoted, Original Cast Recording! vibe can grate; the stageyness undercutting the intimacy of Taylor’s sharp, literate lyrics. At others, the evident effort of performance plays winkingly well into the choreography of her self-dramatising self-analysis.

This was an opportunity for untethered rapping and bold experimentation that still exists within the bouncy freedom of Smith’s once-playful musical universe. Unfortunately, Based on a True Story just isn’t it.

No wheels have been reinvented on Rushmere. But it’s a solidly crafted and comforting addition to the band's earthy, fraternal oeuvre.

Her soothing voice, though very lovely, doesn’t always sell the cleverness of her lyrics.

Too much of this album purrs by, forgettably and disengaged. Banks really needs to bring herself into focus.

Versions of these 10 tunes have already come out in the relentless flood of confusing, multi-format material that flows from Young’s archives .... One of the USPs of this release is that these are all original 1977 mixes, making it maddeningly essential for completists.

Polari is brash and bold on the surface, but Alexander flails when searching for something truly profound to say.

His vulnerability is admirable – if only his songs were half as daring.

AAA doesn’t give us the faintest clue as to who these women are – or why we should care.

There are deft sonic nods to the madness of Harley Quinn – it’s a pity there aren’t more of them.

The sense of fun that propelled Perry to international stardom has been replaced by a weariness (or perhaps wariness) of the industry she once dominated.

At times it does play like the soundtrack to a rather pretentious spa – but Cellophane Memories snuck up on me with its subtle, synthy scrapbooking. Slyly seductive stuff, if not Peak Lynch.

Mathers’ rapping maintains his signature sharpness of diction throughout; it’s the content that’s at fault: punching relentlessly downwards, so joylessly, so without inspiration.