This is glorious summer music, possibly the summer of 1974, but sunshine all round none the less.

Full of groove and grit, it's raw and enjoyable.

The foray ultimately fails because Laurie's voice is no more than adequate.

Blending hi-tech and lo-fi, modern synthesised sound and old-fashioned song writing, her work plumbs torrid emotional depths, similar to alt-rock stars such as Lou Barlow.

Following 2009's hookup with Drive-By Truckers, Potato Hole, his latest record finds him backed by hip hop combo The Roots, who nudge the 66-year-old organist towards his funkiest excursion in years.

A flat-out belter of the Adele/Florence school, surrounded variously by daft orchestral sturm-und-drang and flimsy ProTools disco/house. Better may come.

The first half's vocal tracks woefully resemble standard-issue chart fodder. There's some better instrumental stuff later on, but, overall, it's ordinary.

Sparsely arranged around piano, guitar and his gruff vocals, it's sombre, but affecting.

Even where the musical ideas are strong, they're sapped by the determinedly relaxed ambiance.

Pecknold enthusiastically revealed how the album was a direct result of his indulgence in MP3 piracy, as he tracked back to discover Fairport Convention, Roy Harper, Crosby, Stills & Nash, Joni Mitchell, Paul Simon, Bob Dylan and all the heroes of the Sixties folk boom.

It's an album marinated in sadness, so much so that in places it veers into the maudlin, but Harris's poetic steel usually saves the day.

Fairport Convention are like the Stanley Matthews of folk music--age does nothing to erode essential quality.

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

With Mirrorwriting Woon proves to be a genuinely exciting British soul star in the making.

Though her career has been occasional, momentum from a recent Spex reunion has resulted in this terrific solo record, which channels her kitschy style into a synthy pop sound.

Her soprano singing is a little derivative of Krauss's but is still sweet and clear and is surely a work in progress given her youthfulness.

Although something of a melting pot, this is an original and accessible album, blending world influences with old time American music.

The rapping hasn't been completely abandoned, but the emphasis here is on his sweet soul voice and a thumping Motown groove, an intriguing change of direction that's both passionate and populist.

His harmonies have a louche charm, his trumpet sound has a fascinating vocal intimacy, and he makes lightning-fast interplay with the quintet, especially sax player Walter Smith III.

Slipping easily between lush orchestral pop and electronic symphonics redolent of Air, she also keeps a firm hand on the lyrical tiller, occasionally even bearing comparison to the poetic pith of Leonard Cohen.

Together they make efficient, likeable, club-friendly pop, with the house numbers less memorable than her drum and bass leanings.

Inspired by his hometown of Torquay and musically taking a leaf from Steely Dan and Fleetwood Mac, swapping his computer for the studio seems to have paid off with these brilliant, sunset funk songs.

This latest effort is more muted, but no less complete, with fabulous images of rustic solitude and existential dread married to smouldering country-rock.

Alison Krauss and Union Station have a marvellous chemistry as a band - and it's as impressive as ever on Paper Airplane, their first album together since 2004.

The new songs shimmer with languid, sun-kissed grooves, anthemic choruses that U2 would kill for, along with a fine line in tender romance.

This debut switches effortlessly from r&b ballads to punchy rap tunes. With her big voice and ballsy attitude, is she Ilford's very own Pink?

I worry about where they can go next with such a restrictive musical template, but here they have managed subtle refinement without sacrificing the essence of their primitive appeal.

Using entirely analogue tape, Vig, together with top mixer Alan Moulder, brings a deliciously lump-free production consistency to the Foos, who have often erred between the indigestible extremes of thrash-metal and acoustic angst.