Guilt, sickness, depression and death have their haunting power acknowledged. The optimism of a songwriter who sees the world’s love and beauty through his own sometimes deep pain rarely falters.

For the most part, All Ashore feels like a breath of fresh Appalachian air. Both forward-thinking and imbued with an appreciation of the traditional sounds of America, it might not harbour a universal sense of appeal, but that makes it all the more beguiling for those who that fall for it.

Glimmers with fantastic, layered production. Instead of merging sounds so they become indistinguishable, each chime, each clatter of percussion, is given its space – as a result the whole album feels remarkably fresh.

There's nothing wildly inventive about her modern take on the vintage vibe. But it’s nonstop fun.

The album feels baggy in places, leaving you wondering if they’re trying too hard to tick every box. But most of the risks the band take pay off. A very promising debut.

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

Laidback and tidy, but fun.

There’s an ever-expanding diversity of appeal to Turn Blue that should win new fans and please the faithful.

Both musically and lyrically, the project cleaves to that kind of silly-spooky, funfair innocence, in a way that lends the album a freakish, cartoon unity denied to some of Tare’s previous projects.

The result is a work with greater resonance and presence, which might secure her mainstream success.

This album feels like the most cohesive and considered statement of who he is, both as an individual and as a solo artist. Stylistically, it has everything: chamber pop, grunge, classical, Latin, rock.

When they stray from their core heavy rock duties, there’s an Oasis-like magpie quality to the songs, be it the way that the acoustic harmony-pop of “Happy Ever After (Zero Hour)” recalls ‘60s pop trifle “Sitting On A Fence”, or the way Dave Grolsch’s Lennon-esque inflection on “Sunday Rain” is winkingly set within guitar and dynamics echoing Abbey Road’s “I Want You”.

Can’t Rush Greatness is a bold statement, yes, but one that Central Cee does, by and large, live up to.

It has a winning blend of respect, technique and humour.

While the combination curdles occasionally here, there are moments of majesty which justify the gambit.

It's not the greatest story ever told--the depth of insight runs to little more than "Friends--how many have them? How long before they split like atoms?"--but the overall warmth is engaging.

They’re best when they work together, with the charming simplicity of the island-flavoured “Feel About You” and beach-strolling “Red Sun” contrasting nicely with the tart, twitchy urgency of “Too Far Gone”.

While he may have grand notions of his own artistry, it often – in Atlanta, or in his very best music recordings – lives up to it. Bando Stone may be the work of a man high on his own metaphorical supply. But more likely than not, you’ll end up high on it too.

It’s entirely delightful, and Andy Bell has never sung better, discovering his “inner choirboy” again.

It's their most cohesive album in some time.

A pleasant-enough handful of easy-going songs, in which the focus on warmth has left them lacking bite... but the warmth of that voice is undeniably beguiling.

This is actually one of the Lips' more coherent efforts, despite its wild diversity and devil-may-care attitude.

At times Locket’s sheen can flow rather frictionlessly over your ears, pretty but perhaps a little mass-produced. Yet it’s an album that reveals deeper, more enduring layers and real emotional skin beneath all the shiny fabric and pouty poses.

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.

The high priestess of emotional turmoil returns to her apparently turbulent personal life on this latest album, vacillating between obsessive devotion, self-assertive morale-boosting and the kind of masochistic abasement depicted in "Mr Wrong".

There's a drive and urgency about Maximo Park's The National Health that perfectly matches frontman Paul Smith's dominant lyrical theme, of taking arms against a sea of troubles in order to forge a better life for yourself.

Van Morrison's best album in some while is a set of songs that, despite the relaxed tone of their jazz-blues settings, foam with indignation about the venality of capitalist adventurism.