The Coup [has a] breadth of musical settings, which range from indie guitar riffs to itchy techno pulses to a string quartet and French horns.

She can do all sorts with those pipes and Hit Parade finds Murphy celebrating her many textures.

It’s an engrossing set throughout, leading one through the subdued swirls of “Dawn Chorus” to the climax of “The Uncertainty Principle”, another work whose throbbing organ and cavernous twang owe a distinct debt to Can.

It's his band's most musically diverse effort.

Ezra’s third album delivers precisely the kind of easygoing, family-friendly happiness we’ve come to expect.

Fay Hield’s singing throughout is open and honest, delivering the stories unencumbered by needless ornament or moralising.

This is clearly a band determined to take no prisoners, their attention condensed to a tight focus on each song’s momentum.

No matter how sepia, settled or bowed the tone, On Sunset remains sonically voracious, Weller still challenging himself to make the greatest, most adventurous music of his life. The Changingman strikes again.

An album that soothes, shakes and surprises at every turn.

Norah Jones and Jack White sing on three tracks apiece, respectively languid and predatory, the end result being a short but perfectly-formed portal to a different state of musical mind.

In expressing all of these [themes] without tumbling into absurdity, it helps to have a klaxon whine like Ozzy's delivering them, while Tony Iommi cranks out those trademark slow, molten-lead riffs that trundle through 13 like tank tracks.

Expect reassurance rather than revelation and you’ll find the lesser-worn pages of the American songbook elegantly traced.

It’s a mature mix of reflection and assertion--albeit corralled this time into just ten tracks--in which Weller’s musings on life, love and society are channelled through a diverse series of musical modes, most of them constantly seeking to seep into other styles.

It’s playful and elaborate.

Proving that it is possible to have too much of a good thing, the five discs of this outtakes-and-all edition take the (let's be honest) rather meager delights of Brian Wilson's unfinished "masterwork" and wring the life out of them.

This fourth LP polishes that dancier sound into his slickest dancefloor-ready music yet.

Ani DiFranco's first album in three years finds the self-proclaimed Righteous Babe in feisty, thoughtful form.

The words themselves are glorious, as frequently absurd and brilliantly imaginative as some of the best sci-fi writers--Arthur C Clarke, Philip K Dick, HG Wells--while the instrumentation recalls their cinematic adaptations, or classic superhero cartoons.

It’s not a perfect album--like so many, at 17 tracks it’s way too long, and there’s too little variation in tempo and mood--but it’s yet another confirmation of what can be achieved when subtlety and sensitivity are the driving forces.

This is one of Wainwright’s finest albums.

The songs on Tigers Blood feel natural and unstudied.

While there are plenty further examples on the bitterly disillusioned Dark Matter, the most effective songs here are those which pack a more personal emotional punch, echoing the solitary desolation he’s mined throughout his career.

Stone delivers what may be his masterpiece in Broken Brights, an album that seamlessly inhabits the resurgent Laurel Canyon sound.

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.

Jelly Roll is still finding his place in the world – you can hear that in his songwriting – but the polish and potency of this album suggest he’s almost there.

There's a world-weariness to some of his songs that's as attractive now as ever.

For fans who first became acquainted with Jordan’s music around her debut EP Habit, Lush is a continuation of Jordan’s coming of age tale--nostalgia for lost love, the overwhelming sensation of being a rising, young musician and the chaos of getting older. Jordan’s 10-track record parallels the beautiful plain-spoken lyrics and catharsis echoed by artists like Soccer Mommy and Julien Baker.

A slow-burning triumph.