The result is more urgent, less reassuringly structured than your typical Elbow record.

Put simply, the album blends gospel, blues and rock but with some exciting interpretations of interesting old records.

Badass has been criticised for failing to take his retro stylings anywhere new, but he lovingly recreates the Nineties vibe with an appealing low-slung swagger and infuses it all with a thoughtful, pavement-pounding philosophy.

There is nothing particularly daring about the album but it's classy and enjoyable.

Dealing frankly with love, rejection, frustration, self-doubt and self-acceptance, almost every one of the 10 tracks is catchy and distinctive enough to become a hit.

Despite its relentlessly downbeat content, then, Moby’s music is just too satisfying to be depressing.

Even the simplest songs here are studded with magic moments that shift the centre of gravity.

Everything on this flashy, melodramatic album punches its weight. If it had come out in 1985, it would have ruled the world.

McRae is primed for success, though, and while her songs can verge on self-indulgence – there’s a fair amount of navel-gazing at play – they’ll surely speak to a teenage audience. This is well-made, ear-wormy pop music, guaranteed to hit a nerve.

The best thing about Real Power is the way three perfectly balanced musicians concoct a sound of such thrilling dynamism, wit and energy without ever getting in each other’s way.

The pair bring a gritty stiffness to Tim McGraw's Open Season on My Heart and Harris brings a searing power to Patti Scialfa's Spanish Dancer.

On the whole, My Soft Machine lacks the clarity of Parks’s exceptional debut, and can veer too often into repetition; there’s a lack of journey in the individual songs, meaning you end in much the same place as you started. Her lyrics are, as ever, expertly crafted, but they deserve much more musical supporting oomph.

At best, its familiarity is warm and inviting for seasoned fans; for some it will feel lazily identical and lacking in ambition. But it’s an overwhelmingly powerful and energetic musing on the never-ending anxieties and strain of life that don’t leave just because you enter adulthood – exactly what keeps their fans coming back.

It feels more like a primer for live shows rather than an end in itself, a set of water colour sketches to be inked in later.

Every number is cleverly honed to leave you wanting just that bit more.

The sticking point for some might be Broderick’s voice, which shares a boyish sweetness with singers like Jens Lekman and José Gonzalez--perfect for country ballads but which struggles to carry some of the slighter compositions.

Delphi Dancing has a nice meaty electronic bass line and Cocteau Twins-like vocals. Meanwhile the single At Your Feet is a lulling piano waltz. Being covered in puke at 3am would have been much more tolerable had I known about this song five years ago. Elsewhere, though, the songs feel a bit too improvised.

It is as if one of the saddest albums you will ever hear is masquerading as a set of party hits. Nevertheless, No Shame should be compulsory listening for every young wannabe who still thinks pop stardom will be a panacea for all their problems.

Still channelling Lynyrd Skynyrd, REM and the Band, the rest of the Crows keep the tyres on the tarmac like pros.

The air is predictably valedictory, freighted with reflections on love, faith and intimations of mortality. 'Don't go to any trouble/You know I won't be here long . . . ' he sings in Westerberg's Any Trouble - in a voice as strong and clear as a bell.

A genuinely superior slice of small hours electro-pop.

All 11 songs are of high quality.

Pick-n-mixing sounds and being savvy about who they work with has paid off beyond trying to maintain quality from track one to track 13. So take it for what it is: a collection of songs that happen to be next to each other, some of which are glorious (most of the singles) and some of which are a bit cringe (Gloves Up, A Mess).

As always with Mehldau ambition often tips over into pretentiousness, but one forgives him because there’s a real musical sensibility at work.

What Kasabian have lost in aggression they have gained in depth and sensitivity, and the result is a vivid, adventurous album set at the outer limits of rock and techno.

The opening four tunes are extraordinarily catchy, yet each is marred by queasy allusions to sex (Zombie Love) and drugs (Dirty Luck), which’ll be a turn-off to many listeners.

On a set of compact, meaningful songs about surviving in the age of anxiety, the sympathetic weave of the reunited band embodies the very spirit of empathy and togetherness for which Steadman seems to be reaching.

There's a confident, bouncy feel to Give Me All You Got.

Springsteen has charisma and conviction to match anyone who has ever picked up a microphone, allied to a dynamic grasp of exactly when to ramp up and when to hold back, and he delivers these songs like they mean the world to him. In other words, he’s got soul.

Full of tunes and pizzazz, it's unexpectedly good fun.

Play it soft, and it drifts into the background. Play it loud and something much more vigorous and compelling emerges.

Goldfrapp hark back to the bombast of a time when electronica was all about man (or woman) versus machine. On Silver Eye, the machines are ascendant.

It's hardly a novel idea to cover these songs, but Isaak's versions succeed through skilful arrangement, vibrant recording (mostly at Sun) and above all some remarkable vocal performances.

Morrison’s joy in tackling this rich repertoire is palpable.

This is some kind of triumph for Blige and for Britain.

After an opinion-dividing experimental phase with 2009's Humbug, roar back to melodic life on their fourth album.

It's all an interesting time capsule and what makes it worthwhile for Cash fans is that there are 26 previously unreleased tracks. Disc 2 sounds a tad more produced but a song about dismissing a former lover--Wide Open Road--and the jaunty Five Minutes To Live are treats.

The performances are superb.

There are much more vibrant records and live songs in Los Lobos's back catalogue but this is a sweet reminder of their talent.

Come for the drama, but stay and swoon for Lambert’s intoxicating, heartfelt closer: Dinah Washington’s Mad About the Boy.

There is ultimately something sketchy about Boarding House Reach, pulling in so many directions that it suggests rough drafts for more fully formed work to come. But for all that, there are so many rich ingredients in the mix, even misophones should find something to soothe their troubled ears.

Mixing up elements of rock, pop, blues, jazz, soul and funk, each song finds its way into a supple groove and just bounces around there as though Amadou's guitar strings and Mariam's vocal chords were made of musical elastic.

She’s at her best channelling the mature, suburban melodrama of vintage Tammy Wynette on Stay at Home Mother and the all-out D.I.V.O.R.C.E.-style heartwrench of Waterproof Mascara, on which a little boy’s mother thanks God for a cosmetic that “won’t run like his daddy did”.

Here, leading lights of electronic music remix King Midas Sound's underrated debut album to striking effect.

Real Life builds up to a pitch of doomed drama from a corrosive slash of guitar as Tesfaye confides that even his “Mama called me destructive”. But Ed Sheeran fails to rescue him on the tedious Dark Times and Lana Del Rey--who ought to be his perfect partner in pop-noir--adds nothing but a bored spritz of vocal perfume to the lethargic Prisoner.

Everything may remind you of something you’ve heard before, but Gallagher remains a singer who can deliver utopian exhortations and sneering put-downs with equal conviction, even in the same song.

Brightest Blue is an album of sleekly produced, emotional gushing electropop elevated by Goulding’s vocals.

In short, if you're stuck in a traffic jam, this is a record which will make you want to open the sunroof.

The music is an acquired taste but Tales From The Barrel House is certainly a modern musical artisan at work.

On Out of Heart, Flohio deserves credit for bridging the worlds of rap and electronica, but you’re still left wondering: who is the human being behind this aesthetic? If she’s to truly level up artistically, Flohio needs to give us a clearer idea of what the reflection in the mirror looks like.

This is Kasabian’s second album with Pizzorno on the microphone, so tightly honed that if it had been a young band’s debut, I think we’d be clambering over ourselves proclaiming Kasabian rock’s saviours.

With the jolly, moreish melodies in other songs including Danae there is much to enjoy in Mythologies. But it’s also a 23-track album that commands attention, sonically speaking, for only a fraction of its duration. A seat at the ballet itself is needed to best marry the music, stories and movement.

Pop music has become saturated with soft, emotional ballads (the songs of Billie Eilish and Gracie Abrams spring to mind). McRae offers a welcome change – if you want tunes packed with snappy, catchy choruses and racy lyrics that make you feel powerful and sexy, then look no further.

With Blake re-accessing his quirkier side after years of solid songcraft, and Childs guided away from his more loopy excesses. A hatful of memorable tunes, too.

It is the sound of an old rocker at full steam ahead, determined to keep on rolling for as long as he can.

Pacier than her self-titled 2018 debut, the new album is still too long. But lengthiness suits R&B’s slow-burn tendencies: lingering over syllables and songs, letting new albums simmer.

Assured and still in thrall to the spinning lights, Little Red confidently and unpretentiously reflects Katy B’s transition from eager young clubber with a curfew to a mature young woman with a home of her own and the ability to hold a little something in reserve.

Without the hip-hop beats that peppered her first album, the songs here lack a sprinkling of brashness--a little of the Kim and Kanye touch would have helped.

In all it’s a fascinating mix, which should attract new recruits to Kokoroko’s ever-growing legion of fans.

Gretchen Wilson's version of Don't Come Home A Drinkin' (With Lovin' On Your Mind) is feisty and Lee Ann Womack is helped by having Buddy Miller on accordian and Patty Griffin on backing vocals but several of the 12 songs are pretty routine covers that add little particularly interesting.

He knows how to fill a dance floor. But his music comes with the sharp awareness of how it feels to stand, alienated and feigning aloofness, on the sidelines.

Hall’s deadpan tones offer the same strangely reassuring grounded presence on the opening track, a bullish political anthem Black Skin Blue Eyed Boys. Yet with its slick funk and soul groove, I can’t remember the Specials ever sounding quite so smooth.

It’s effectively atmospheric, giving a raw, insomniac groove to the gritty notes draining from electric guitars and a twitch of dirty old fluorescent bulbs in the glitchy drum beats.

Earle is a busy man, writing novels, acting and recording but he has found time to make his 14th album full of wonderful moments.

The affection is winning, as is Metheny's mastery of the guitar and harmonic subtlety, but the tone of ruminative gentleness does start to seem unvaried.

Ilo Veyou is a magnificent, kaleidoscopic oddity, unafraid to risk ridiculousness in pursuit of the sublime, fearlessly unlike anything else you'll hear this year.

Life has been a struggle for the son of Steve but the closing track, Looking for a Place to Land, suggests there is some light at the end of the tunnel.

Without a feeling that it’s intentionally waiting for the rain in order to go out dancing in it, it draws on its authors’ memories of the good times – reflecting, according to Philippakis, right back to their earliest days – and projects them huge and bright.

City Planning certainly conjures the feeling of a commute into a sprawling metropolis, while Die Cuts is a supple collage of contrasting voices. But, sadly, neither will have you wishing you could listen to everything again.

Hardwired is two CDs, 12 tracks and 80 minutes of in-your-face, punch-to-the-guts, dense, harsh, shouty rage with absolutely no let-up. Frankly, if it was half as long it would be twice as effective.

Athough the two old giants of country music can't hit all the notes of youth their phrasing is neat and nuanced on their fourth album together.

This, for better or worse, is clearly the music Rihanna likes: leftfield, stoned and strange. It is Rihanna without hits. This strange album, released without warning over the internet for free, may well be a reflection of the fact that not even her own backers really expects this to be a commercial blockbuster. It is more an exercise in rebranding, transforming the hit girl into a serious artist.

It could have been mawkish but it's a simple, affecting and lovely tribute.

Parping away beneath her synthesised fantasies and hypnotic dance floor dramas, you can also hear the unlikely stirrings of an Eighties sax-solo revival.

It remains a fairly relentless listen and at least a couple of tracks too long. Yet the album’s tale of survival against the odds has powerful personal relevance beyond its often clumsy social commentary.

The songs are slickly constructed but you can't help feeling it is familiar territory and not a patch on past triumphs.

WE is their sixth album, and every bit as good as their best. ... With a work as ambitious and boldly realised as WE, Arcade Fire know they have nothing to fear by inviting comparison to rock’s all-time greats.

It is a witty, catchy delight that demonstrates Skinner still has his ear to The Streets sound.

Uptown Special veers wildly from high to low brow, stupid to sophisticated. Occasionally the mix jars but mostly it’s a compelling collision, falling somewhere between a chin-stroking jazz poetry recital and a riotous teenage disco.

The Now Now ultimately sounds exactly what it is: music made on the road as an escape from homesickness.

Lipa’s cooly commanding voice holds the attention on expansive melodies that make the most of her range, flowing between rich low tones, a husky middle and sweet highs. It is precise, luxurious, energetic without ever really breaking a sweat.

Lungu Boy should go down as another triumph for Asake. The Nigerian’s third album is at once cohesive and versatile and will surely see deserved play in the bedroom, at the gym, on the dancefloor and beyond.

Everything is quite extraordinary; an orchestral poem of spiritual surrender that offers up a gorgeously bleak depiction of “the whole magnificent emptiness”.

The album is the second in the four-volume Nomad series and the Cowboy Junkies said they felt they owed Chesnutt something. They have paid their debt in handsome fashion.

Arrangements are marked by clarity, one thing easing into another in a beautifully measured fashion.

There are interesting multi-part song structures and deft modern production quirks, with touches of autotune and sampling that don’t overwhelm the more classic guitar and keyboard arrangements. Melodies are big and bright and everything is encased in walls of harmonies.

You don’t have to be greater than the sum of your parts when the parts are already as great as this.

With Ross’s voice shifting from deadpan sweetness to striking shout over bare-essentials grooves adorned with just a twist of something startling on each track, I Am Moron is much cleverer than it would have you believe.

Producers Dave Kaplan and Dave Darling have sanded the new arrangements of smooth oldies such as Gentle on My Mind down to the rough grain. The result is a deeply moving record--a warm, valedictory squeeze of the listener’s hand from the cowboy hunk.

While there is room for improvement, I Hear You is an impressive debut album, tackling a multitude of genres with remarkable confidence. It’s yet another step in the right direction for Peggy Gou.

For an album drawing on despair and recovery, Dancing with the Devil… The Art of Starting Over is a life-affirming pleasure from top to bottom.

Anyone expecting a stroboscopic hoedown may be disappointed, but if it’s great performances of great songs you’re after, then fill your boots.

It is, as ever, heart-on-sleeve stuff, with all of Coldplay’s musical diversions bound together by Martin’s golden gift for melody, almost simplistically direct lyrics and emotive crooning. But, oh my goodness, you’d have to be made of sterner stuff than I to resist.

The results are always interesting and fun, but often hard to get a hold of – a slippery confection of influences that never stay still for too long lest they reveal a lack of depth.

Her gorgeous 1960’s Dusty Springfield style version of World of a String could be a pop hit in any era.

Even at its most ambitious, everything is swept up in a blizzard of overcharged guitars and stylised snarling that would have sounded old-fashioned in 1981, let alone 2024.

It's more Glee Club than cutting edge pop queen, and, as is so often the case with big pop albums, too many production teams spoil the froth.

Everlasting is an eclectic mix.