It’s a pity there are some disappointing songs here because elsewhere on the record there is real brilliance.

With their lyrical focus on teen sex, money and the misplaced glamour of crime, at times it's like “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”, for boys.

Musically, it’s an odd mix of ambition and disorder, with Doherty’s familiar raggedy-ass rock tempered with poignant moments.

“Heading South On The Great North Road”, sounds like an outtake from Sting’s musical The Last Ship. But otherwise it’s fairly standard AOR fare, only baring its teeth on the snarling “Petrol Head”

Some of the dullest music released all year.

It manages to grip the imagination for a while but ultimately, not knowing the root cause of the action, leaves one adrift in amorphous emotional distress. But there's much to admire here.

On his first album in 13 years, Robbie Robertson resumes his fascination with the great American mythos.

Slightly laconic, slightly ironic, ["No Problem"] makes for a brilliant contrast with the production duo's galloping stutter-riff groove, heralding a run of crunching fuzz-guitar riffs that brings to mind the UK big-beat heyday of The Prodigy.

It's a perfunctory affair, further fragmented on my download version by the muting of Wayne's stream of expletives, which renders large parts of it unintelligible.

The dominant mode throughout is tepid bluegrass, heating up a little for “Phoebe.”

Most are dully baffling.

Despite being further from their comfort zone, this second foray into theatrical composition, a ballet based around a Hans Christian Anderson parable, is vastly more adept, involving the deft interweaving of electropop and orchestral elements within a series of impressionistic tableaux sketching out the theme of conflict between creativity and destruction.

There’s a dispiriting aridity about The Mountain Will Fall, which lacks the joyous eclecticism of DJ Shadow’s earlier albums.

While Joyride has its shining points and attempts to remain true to a cohesive, moodier (albeit more mature) tone, it’s missing the strong, catchier elements that helped Tinashe rise in the first place. But there’s no reason to count her out just yet.

Drew has always been a superb writer; and working with the likes of singer-songwriter Foy Vance and Kid Harpoon, he amplifies a well-tested formula of meticulous, modern production with retro-sounding equipment, beneath his old-soul vocals that sing about a futuristic, almost alien landscape.

At no point does The Album push for edge or originality. But you’d have to be the barbecue grinch to deny its lovingly crafted, feel-good vibes. Pure, safe sonic ketchup.

The interpretations range from the admirable to the abysmal.

The most impressive item here is the deep-soul duet with Miley’s sister Noah Cyrus, “Waiting”, in which Bugg’s aching delivery is perfectly tempered by her fragile sweetness, like vocal salted caramel.

Two Vines glows with a relaxed, beachside warmth that brings to mind “Standing On The Shore” from their debut.

This isn’t a bad collection overall, if less than the expected redesign.

His talent survives in these songs. So does its fatal fracture.

Arrows may also be trying for anyone tired of Welch/Goulding/Houghton orchestral overdrive. But it's worth fighting through that for the cacophonies of prettiness.

He quietly champions racial harmony on “Get Along”, and embraces stylistic experimentation on the mandolin-driven “Pirate Song” as well as the reggae-tinged “Love for Love City”, which features steel drums and a guest turn from Ziggy Marley. It won’t be enough to alienate long-standing followers or to attract too many new ones, but Songs for the Saints is nothing if not heartfelt.

Departures in sound are often unwelcome when we're already so happy with where a beloved band are, but, in this case, their experiments are a complete success.

Throughout, he's supported by Stooges guitar riffing of brutal directness and simplicity, occasionally fattened by the horns that lend an apt touch of soul sleaze to the latter track.

An impressive show, but not one likely to persuade doubters.

Produced by the Coens with T Bone Burnett, the album captures well the sanctimony, bogus bucolicism and beatnik romanticism that characterised the age, along with that tang of “revolution in the air” (to quote its most successful adherent).

Valgeir Sigurosson’s production of 2013’s Tales Of A Grasswidow lent it a cohesion which is sadly absent from Heartache City.

Weird!’s eclecticism frequently threatens to overwhelm. ... Where Yungblud is consistent is his lyrics.

He goes straight for the pop-rock formulae. This would have worked better over a shorter span, but yawning as it does on the same mid-tempo pacing means that tracks blur to filler and some good lines get lost in the sludge. The lack of guest vocalists doesn’t help either.

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.

A comeback shouldn't sound this much like treading water.

[Lead singer] Justin Young assert[s] that he's "too self-absorbed" to be the voice of a generation. This wouldn't be so bad if the music didn't follow suit, with lumpen punk-rock grinds and spartan guitar-rock trudges.

On Between the Walls, About Group continue to explore the space between free collective improvisation and Alexis Taylor's songs.

Bar an impressive freakout on “I Wish I Knew (How It Would Feel to Be Free)”, his piano playing rarely warrants centre stage. But his character--a kind of suave jazz-bar lech--is the heart of the show. ... As cash-in celebrity Christmas covers albums go, Goldblum’s has a lot of spark, and even a little soul.

Despite a four-year wait, the songs on their second album, For Ever, still sound like understudies for Mark Ronson mega-hits.

As a listener you want the artist to sound comfortable in their own skin. But by the end of Case Study 01, it’s hard to be convinced that this is really him.

This Jack White-produced comeback album suggests there can be few septuagenarians keener on raising hell.

It's beautifully presented in an absorbing blend of acoustic guitar, piano, cello, and the occasional tint of vibes or ambient colouration.

Repent Replenish Repeat follows in much the same vein as 2010's prickly The Logic of Chance: glitchy industrial-electro grooves and jerky, uncomfortable rhythm programmes, over which rapper Scroobius Pip inhabits the grey area between maverick articulacy and feral antipathy.

At its best, on “Ride My Dub”, “Expanding Dub” and “Call It Dub”, the results offer snatched glimpses of the eternal in the fleeting moment. Even better than its parent album.

It does seem as if Paloma’s sacrificed some individuality for some of that bankable overwrought wailing.

There are lots of little things to like about Little Mix’s third album.... But there are too many instances here of registers painfully over-reached, and uneasy compromises between emotion and arrangement.

It’s the quiet weariness of “Shipwreck Love” that’s most effective, its minimal alliance of guitar and violin gently emphasising Steve’s promise to offer a safe harbour from the “hidden shoals, breaker of souls”.

Essentially, this is yet another album of formulaic EDM pop and Latino R&B dancefloor grinders, more market tester than art.

While not entirely successful, this high-level summit meeting of two giant talents from half a century ago confirms that neither of the principals’ distinctive talents has suffered serious decline.

If it's not quite the jump from Bob Dylan to The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, it's the closest recent equivalent, a prodigious rate of development for such a tyro talent, all the more remarkable for not being reliant on significant musical progression, so much as raw songwriting ability.

As ever, California gets plenty of mentions, though there’s less filler than usual, the album reaching a yearning epiphany in the string-draped song for a son, “The Hunter”.

To the delicate folk of their earlier work has been added a robustness that takes the Brighton-based six-piece in the direction of Blur.

Ultimately this is an album of shadow versions that leave you yearning for originals.

The Metallica Blacklist serves as concrete proof, if any was really needed, of just how influential Metallica have been outside of metal. ... You still wonder if it was absolutely, 100 per cent necessary to include quite so many covers. But there’s no doubting the passion that has gone into such an ambitious project. Headbangers at the ready.

Olympus Sleeping feels dated, and a little forgettable.

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

It's all delivered with their usual panache, though at times the emphasis on utility leaves one yearning for a little of their more psychedelic extremity.

While "Lioness" is a far better posthumous collection than Michael Jackson's Michael, from almost exactly a year ago, it's a poor substitute for the high-octane musicality of Frank and Back To Black.

Depeche Mode's weakest album in some while.

Whether it's the involvement of Coldplay's Guy Berryman in the production, or simply their shift to a major label, on You & I The Pierces have lost much of what made 2007's Thirteen Tales of Love and Revenge so beguiling.

There’s a wickedly infectious energy, wit and filth to her confrontational braggadocio.

It's all warmly wrought and pretty, if a trifle insubstantial at times.

It's a feisty, assertive affair, but let down by weak production and a lack of musical focus.

Måneskin are a band who know what they are and what they’re good at – because while it’s true that Rush! starts to feel amorphous, you’d be hard-pressed to find a single moment in its 50-minute runtime where you’re not enjoying yourself just a little.

The results are smoothly pallid even by their standards, the usual modes of exultant melancholy and epic sympathy exacerbated by the earnest thrumming of acoustic guitars that punctuates the familiar piano vamps.

Things pick up in the latter stages, starting with the ebullient “Laughing Gas”, which wouldn’t be out of place on any Tom Petty album. As they proceed, the band’s stays seem to loosen up, and they explore different avenues with commendable spirit.

The results are often enjoyable and always interesting, with the 11-minute journey of “A3”, in particular, navigating an angular, monochromatic turmoil akin to an Arctic ice field.

Outrage! Is Now is a deeply satisfying record to listen to, and one that the band seem to have had fun making. It’s sarcastic, witty, and the best thing they’ve produced so far.

There may be none of the heart-tugging vibe of octave-spanning “Without You”, or the abundant melody of “Everybody’s Talkin’”, but Losst and Founnd resurrects a treasured voice in songs full of vim.

Lyrically, the album does fall short, but then Sheeran has spent over a decade trading in vague yet universal issues. ... For the most part, Subtract is testament to the old adage that less is, often, much more.

This solo album is stuffed with aloof, adolescent apocalyptism and self-regard set to lumpy, mechanistic beats and cluttered arrangements.

As the album proceeds, the band’s strident Mumfordry becomes all too wearing, these songs patently designed more for festival singalong than introspective reflection.

This music’s unhinged, pinballing molecules have a wild energy, here and there.

Example's obvious delight in sensory experience shines through in his intricate play of syllables and the warmth of his singing voice. His best yet.

While Take The Crown undoubtedly contains many individual tracks sure to tickle the mainstream pop palate, that doesn't in itself make for a great album.

If the music could hold its own, No Man’s Land might make for a more tolerable listen. But the instrumentation is plodding and occasionally appropriative, while elsewhere there is unfortunate evidence of Turner’s limited vocal range.

It's all tastefully arranged.

The result is an album that in one swoop restores contemporary significance to the Presley brand.

Perversely set to chortling, bustling electropop synth figures, these songs present existence as “bounded by brackets of life and death, alone from first to last”, delivered in Middleton’s glum brogue, with only the most wafer-thin hints of humour tempering the onslaught of self-recrimination and hypochondria in a track like “Steps.”

It’s Robinson’s soul-scorched vocals that hold everything together, his relaxed charm shining through whether he’s engaged in perplexing, mystic narratives or offhand, recreational encouragements to “relax your mind”.

While there are high points – many of them, surprisingly, found in their Unlocked iteration – the album fails to leave an impression in the same way as the singer’s previous releases. You’ll like it, for sure. But you may not remember it.

Seth Lakeman new album is dominated by the past, through celebrations or commemorations of old ways, occupations and disasters.

Despite the dearth of original melodies and ideas, there’s an obvious nod to the Everly Brothers’ 1958 “All I Have To Do Is Dream”. And throughout this record, Mendes’s savvy songwriting team are harking back to retro influences to suit the vintage ice cream parlour shades of the singer’s shirts.

It's not all suddenly-grown-up rock music, of course, with tracks like “No Control” and “Fool's Gold” retaining the boys' perky teen-pop charm; and whatever style is adopted, the choruses are all reassuringly collective singalongs.

Garth here sensibly celebrates simple good times in songs like the twangsome “Honky Tonk Somewhere” and its cutting-loose continuation “Weekend”, where copious location namechecks enthuse that “it’s weekend all over the world”. Elsewhere, “Baby, Let’s Lay Down And Dance” tacks its cheeky proposition onto a “Long Train Running” groove, while the chugging boogie of “Pure Adrenaline” suggests how ZZ Top might sound if they were country.

The sound here is occasionally brasher--most notably on the gentle opener “Everyone’s Looking For Home”, suddenly overwhelmed by a startling, brash mariachi climax--but generally sticks fairly close to the Laurel Canyon soundalike stylings of Outlaw’s “SoCal” sound.

While the record could have been a few songs shorter, Expectations is expansive in that it isn’t one big radio hit after another, which proves Rexha is opting for longevity instead of manufactured pop.

Beady Eye may be just Oasis minus Noel, but this debut is rather better than the past few Oasis albums, if sadly no more innovative.

This debut album proper fails to develop or change-up his formula of predatory sexuality expressed in tremulous tones.

Rockstar is so long that it can feel like a bit of a slog.

The tremulous piano ballad “Young Blood” is far from the dance fodder singles of Ellis-Bextor’s past, while the sombre tone of tracks like “Until the Stars Collide” suggests that she’s re-positioning herself in the prim Nordic-diva territory of Agnes Obel and Ane Brun. A good move.

Relaxer is effectively Alt-J’s folk album: still studious and tending towards complexity, but here tempered by a rootedness that snags emotions more directly.

Producer Hal Willner has surrounded Marianne Faithfull with some great New Orleans musicians, and got her covering a few Crescent City soul numbers. But it's not territory she occupies comfortably: she doesn't have the abandon to animate Joe & Ann's "Gee Baby", and her delivery of Allen Toussaint's "Back in Baby's Arms" is painfully stilted.

The Lost Sirens actually bests its parent album, which was not New Order's finest hour.

Vessels’ remix of “E.V.A.” and Copy Paste Soul’s “Tomorrow” both temper brisk, scuttling pulses with tender string textures, while Petar Dundov’s take on “Sputnik” builds from spartan beginnings to an epiphanic, widescreen electro synthscape.

“Paradise Is Under Your Nose” is the stand-out, a stirring folk lament kept on track thanks to the vocal duet with co-writer Jack Jones of Trampolene doing the heavy melodic lifting and some keening fiddle from Miki Beavis, but there’s only so much the Puta Madres can do. As with most Doherty releases, it’s back-loaded with meandering, semi-bothered filler.

Some of the backing tracks have novelty appeal--the cartoonish, kazoo-like loop of “Bird Song”, the Qawwali elisions percolating through the Zayn Malik duet “Freedun”--but the most striking work here is her virtually acappella treatment of “Jump In”, with just a sparse beat beneath her rhythmic vocal repetitions.

Bovelle’s dub skills ensure there’s depth and disturbance in the band’s angry bricolages of whines, whirrs and harsh, stabbing guitars dancing around Mark Stewart’s edgy, political caterwauling on tracks like “Instant Halo” and “Pure Ones”, while Shocklee cooks up a bulldozer funk maelstrom of splintering sounds for “Burn Your Flag” and “City Of Eyes”.

While it's pleasantly effected for the most part, it's hard to get involved in someone else's nostalgia.

A sort of also-ran footnote to the diva tropes handled with so much more panache by Mrs. Z.

The main failing lies in the lack of distinction of the material, and the lack of excitement in its execution: the only time the album teeters on thrilling is when Neil Young’s Les Paul disturbs the peace of “Down the Wrong Way”.