He’s a unique talent, no doubt, and has once again made a work on his terms. It’s at times an exasperating listen, but that’s kind of the point.

It may be breathtaking in places, but Flossie's Lungs are just a bit too full of bluster.

The lustiness of his Bob-cat yowl on warm and well-weathered numbers such as 'King Of Spain' makes 'The Wild Hunt' a refreshingly clean listen....Ambitious? No. Delicious? Yes.

As it is, it’s good, but not as consistently great as we’ve come to expect from him.

Blur's most inconsistent and infuriating statement thus far. Infuriating, because divested of four solid-gone clunkers '13' could pass muster as the best of Blur.

While there’s nothing quite as dynamic as the best work of Shelton’s labelmates Sharon Jones and Charles Bradley, Cold World provides a rousing listen for fans of vintage soul.

It’s admirable to see him balance his signature sound with hints of exploration in collaborations such as ‘Monsters You Made’, all while remaining true to his mother tongue.

‘Eyeshadow’ treads more familiar ground, thrillingly injecting the Welshmen’s knack for an anthemic chorus with Thursday’s pulsing, wide-eyed intensity. Rickly fans may be uneasy with No Devotion's softer synthpop moments though.

The monotone pace is lifted by the sprightly ‘3 Days’, but ultimately Woman is cloyingly pedestrian.

He flirts with past glories on the throbbing ‘I Am Dust’, but Splinter never sounds ahead of the curve he created.

Whether she's actually poverty-stricken or just pretending, the 29-year-old has put together a set of songs so delicate it has all the impact of a flutter of nymph wings.

The urge to dislike Josh Ritter is somewhat overwhelming. But, like a diseased puppy with an adorable smile, it's just impossible to take him out back with Pa's shotgun because he still has an ear for a good tune--even if it is one of Dylan's.

While this fifth album, marrying incisive political commentary with intense introspection, epitomises Ghostpoet, it doesn’t add any new colours to his palette. He doesn’t sound like he’s even trying to push himself.

Despite its five or six great tracks, Graduation feels more and more like the work of a follower, not a leader.

Tasteful and perfectly executed, but workmanlike.

Dismiss this as uninspired “dad rock”, or embrace it as a dad making the music he’d want to hear.

'Walking With Thee' is barely forty minutes in length, but feels about half that length - not because it flies by, but because throughout, it barely feels substantial.

The problem is simply the songs: route-one, four-chord grunge adrenaline hits that have none of the haunting and eerie dissonance that set them apart from bands like Wavves, and the rest of US indie’s surplus of breezy slacker-rockers last time around.

Every track here follows the same pattern over identical lackadaisical rhythms, her vocals never rising beyond a low-slung murmur with most of the lyrics drawing the same conclusion: she’s bored.

While they’re not bringing anything musically innovative to the table, they’ve re-packaged the sounds in a way that feels distinctly 21st Century. It’s extremely good fun and presented without pretence – and that feels like enough.

If you've got patience it's a quiet joy; if not, it'll drive you nuts.

The irony of ‘Jump Rope Gazers’ is that as The Beths push themselves to do something different for album number two, they actually end up with the sonic sameness that the first record miraculously avoided. Only now do they sound like they could just be any other band.

And for her second album of Amos-aping MTV-branded Lilith Fair fodder, the barmiest, prettiest pretender to Tori's throne of corporate crackpot chic deals unashamedly in that tired and trusted heavyweight heart-tugging currency: relationships.

It works, up to a point, but means the whole smooth and romantic-sounding affair, though not quite boring, lacks that special spark.

Seventh Tree is bound to ruffle a few electro-feathered fans, but there’s no denying it’s a venture that sets the pair into new experimental territory.

Musgraves’ assertiveness feels like a real glimmer of light amid the sparse compositions that run through this thoughtful, imperfect, down-to-earth record.

Presented as a 96-minute opera, his fourth studio album is a haughty gesture weighed down by its own folly, scanning instead as pathos.

The Saturday Night Live trio pick up where they left off with 2009's Incredibad.