Smoking in Heaven is hugely enjoyable.

It seems churlish to complain about songwriting and production as madly ambitious as this – filled with nuance and detail, sweeping and dizzy in its self-absorption, it builds at moments to an operatic grandeur.

Division is by far Sheeran’s smoothest collection.

There are motivational numbers such as Get Things Done, with its great elastic-bass hook. But more often Hesketh is in the trenches.

The quality wanes a little in the album’s second half, but there are four or five bangers, all told – ample firepower to win fresh converts while supporting both Harry Styles and Arctic Monkeys on the stadium circuit this summer.

It is an absolute blast, a crunchy, punchy, smart, deliciously goofy charge through new wave pop rock. It bursts with earworm hooks, snappy choruses and the delightful sense that the duo at its heart are having such a hoot they don’t really care what anyone else thinks.

Not every track is a solid smash of that wit, brio and sheer quality, but even minor tracks such as Cool and Hallucinate keep up the melody and movement with a spirit of sensual fun that would make Kylie Minogue weak with envy, whilst monsters such as Physical and the slinky Pretty Please are going to have Gaga pulling her pop socks up.

Wall of Eyes comprises just eight tracks but it’s far from slight. String arrangements by the London Contemporary Orchestra add a lush cinematic quality to the album.

Relaxer dazzles and delights the ears yet still feels like the work of a band who might have something to say, if they weren’t too precious to actually come out and say it.

These exquisitely voiced musings on love, healing and mortality really hit the spot.

What makes it so compelling is a classic rock Americana set up deftly interweaving lazy twin guitars and splashes of Hammond organ over steady rolling chord progressions that gather power with each repetition.

Those who loved The King Is Dead should certainly enjoy the EP--a sort of CD extras from a fine main production.

Eyeye may be more of the same from Li, but as a distillation of her music to date, and a final confrontation with heartbreak, it’s flawless.

He genuinely tries not to romanticise his despairing condition and is unforgiving about his own flaws, although the sheer gravity of his voice and dark appeal of his loner stance can’t help but exert their own seductive pull.

In Coping Mechanism, we see the singer becoming bolder and braver as she departs from mystic R&B and soul roots. In just 11 full-throttle tracks, Coping Mechanism gives us a glimpse at the future of rock.

This album is a belter, a shout-it-to-the-rooftops, punch-the-sky, yell-along-at-the-top-of-your-voice storm. It is crammed top to bottom with monster riffs, anthemic choruses and the sheer exuberant thrill of being young, in love, and armed with a fuzzbox.

Tomorrow... deepens on repeated listening, with Yorke locating moments of beauty and calm in the eye of his anxiety.

Safe hands, then, when it comes to glossy, catchy hooks and tight structure: almost every track on It’s Nothing feels like it could be a single, as much 1980s synth pop as 1970s soft rock, with an undeniable glimmer of Haim on songs like Rotten Peaches.

The album, which was funded by producer Jeffrey Gaskill through Kickstarter, is full of treats; and Johnson deserves 21st-century acknowledgement.

If a great cover version should reveal new dimensions in both song and singer, then this album is filled with them.

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.

Tempest’s turn of phrase is constantly arresting.

The most compelling tracks take drastic liberties with the original material, deconstructing Kinshasa sound systems into industrial-tropical hoedowns that reflect postmodern London more than Africa's teeming townships.

The songs on What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World, produced by long-time collaborator Tucker Martine, are more intimate and personal than some of the early Decemberists narrative songs.

The album, produced by the celebrated Béla Fleck, has treats galore.

If you enjoy the dark imaginings of PJ Harvey and Nick Cave, this is worth immersing yourself in.

As always, his technical control is astounding.

His voice has that ability to spring from soulful growl to angelic falsetto that always gets TV talent show chairs spinning.