Despite the tonal left turn, she’s still driving in the middle of the road, with always-predictable shifts in cadence and chord.

As with her previous album, it’s tidy and tasteful rather than gripping, with the exception of the wonderfully beguiling title track, a swirl of arpeggiated harps and hushed melodies.

For all of its escapist ambition, Season High’s genre-hopping feels more like a showcase for Little Dragon’s pop competence than the sound of a group swept up in instinctive creativity.

As a collection, What’s Now is peppy, confident and a little scathing but, like its title, it feels slightly too open-ended to make a real splash.

Home and Lose Your Love are pleasant, if earthbound, disco-house tracks bolstered by cut-and-shut samples of Brainstorm’s We’re on Our Way Home and the Emotions’ I Don’t Wanna Lose Your Love. But Truth Is Light is UK garage on non-alcoholic cava, and the dance tracks, with their interminable cosmic arpeggiation, have less poke than a 1980s hand-dryer.

There are no sonic fireworks here, nor bold, ear-grabbing melodies. Rather, the 53-year-old trades in elegant songcraft and romantic ruminations, completely out of step with modern trends.

Love Will Save the Day is touching, not trite, and if there isn’t an obvious smash in the mould of All I Wanna Do or If It Makes You Happy, Be Myself certainly punches its weight in sass.

An album that is not particularly consistent in sound or even sentiment--the worthiness of Easy Target is matched with half-of-the-title track Sad Clowns, a patronising and crankily retro missive on chivalry.

Big riffs and a honking saxophone pile into swampy blues, moonshine country, rollicking rockabilly, glam racket and sometimes baffling cacophonies--but whenever things get too chaotic, their sharp songwriting pulls them back from the brink.

If only she had skipped the sub-Beyoncé jam, the Get Lucky-style one and the Rihanna-ish trap track featuring meme makers DJ Khaled, Migos and Missy Elliott. Beyond those fairly obvious pop bids, the empowerment ballads are pleasingly understated.

As with such completist compilations there’s a fair chunk of filler here, and over time its 21 songs begin to congeal into each other a shade, but as an introduction to the band’s many charms, it’s solid enough.

Their meat-and-two-veg indie is still enjoyable: managing to balance satisfying guitar distortion with all-together-now euphoria (Bless This Acid House), whilst nailing scraggy Sgt Pepper vibes (Put Your Life on It).

The mood throughout is of beauty rather than bite, slowly waking up to the world.

Styles is remarkably good as a confessional singer-songwriter. ... Not all the album’s musical homages work: Styles is desperately ill-equipped for the rock’n’roll raunch of Only Angel and the glammy Kiwi. Alas, his voice sounds no more like Rod Stewart than it does Rod Hull, while the lyrics are a torrent of hoary pub-band cliches that suggest his heart isn’t really in it.

The venerable label throwing everything at him in the hope that something sticks. But the horny retro soul of No Good Time and It Ain’t No Use sound antiseptic when they should be down and dirty; the R&B slugging on Familiar falls a little flat; while a version of Here Come the Girls works only because it’s a note-for-note copy of the Allen Toussaint/Ernie K Doe original.

With vocals smoother than a vat of cocoa butter, Evans moves from poignant duet (Legacy, One in the Same) to Juicy-style sexathon (A Little Romance) alongside him, although--naturally--it lacks a certain improvisation and cohesion.

All the zeitgeisty signifiers are there, but The Cure doesn’t quite work.

The album is most remarkable for the intensity and urgency in Ayisoba’s thrilling and insistent harsh-edged vocals.

Fans of the girlish northern voices of sisters Becky and Rachel Unthank, and the soft, shining piano of Adrian McNally, will adore it; others might get lost in the whispery sweetness of Dream Your Dreams and Never Pine for the Old Love, longing for more gravel and grit.

The Amazons have a playful rockiness that could see them rise above the surfeit of indie revivalists, but right now they’re still a little too close to landfill.

Its moods are wide. There are strains of folk tunes on Tellisford, retro-by-numbers electronica on Cundall and Woolley, and more conventional songs, which come alive with guest vocals.

In the past their sampling has been atmospheric, but the snatches of Ken Bruce and Sports Report here are self-parodic.

It’s a short yet extravagant blow-out, a Heston Blumenthal banquet of an album, so consumed with its own belligerently perplexing path, it may exclude peripheral fans.

The consistent thread is Booker’s raw electric guitar, and while there’s perhaps too much going on for it all to hang together all the time, he’s happiest at his simplest.

Despite a few generic offerings (No Goodbyes is mostly just the singer breathily uttering the words “don’t go back” on loop), this is a solid pop debut that is high on summery nonchalance.

At its most straightforward, Crack-Up features a digressive, segmented, prog-rock-style take on the sound of the band’s first two albums, with mixed results.

When things click, as on the album’s standout track Tuttifrutti, and the melancholic tang of the band’s best songwriting peeks out behind the silly stuff, it works gloriously. But occasionally, as on the gelato-worshipping Fior Di Latte or the sub-Moroder Fleur De Lys, the mix seesaws into preposterousness.

There are three generations of Berry guitarists and guest appearances from the likes of Nathaniel Rateliff and Rage Against the Machine’s Tom Morello. Perhaps this explains why it doesn’t sound anything like the work of a 90-year-old man. The riffs are instantly familiar as those with which Berry defined rock’n’roll in the 1950s and his themes are mostly youthful.

The sonic atmosphere he creates with sample-manipulators Jan Bang and Erik Honoré can be faintly terrifying--the three of them should be given a horror movie soundtrack immediately--but also occasionally beautiful.

Following 2015’s collaboration album with Phantogram comes a new solo record that throws bold flavours into the pot but ends up absent of subtlety and distinction.

At times, you get the impression their retro stylings could be deliberate--on Euromillions, echoes of the Clash’s Know Your Rights are too loud to ignore--but generally the critiques of consumerism and anonymous society feel generic and vague.

The unplugged format can get samey, but his delicate guitar playing is a joy and Via Chicago’s presumably metaphorical opening line, “I dreamed about killing you again last night”, never sounded more lovely.

Sadly, nearly every song is made worse by Khaled’s inane shout outs of “another one” or “we the best music”, making you yearn for a Khaled-free version.

It’s utterly uncompromising and very much for a select audience, but it is hard not to admire the band’s continued willingness to bash at the boundaries of extreme music.

There are only a handful of actual songs, linked by burbling interludes, but they are good ones: Get Lost is a densely lush deep house anthem, while Hard to Say Goodbye’s uptempo disco and chirpy wordless chorus vie with a melancholy mood.

What is on offer for the rap fans who simply don’t care about Jay-Z’s personal life? Truthfully, not much. It’s a likable headphone album for the backpack-rap crowd, deliberately avoiding the sort of club anthem that might spoil the vibe.

It’s hard not to feel that, had they let them run a little wilder, Something to Tell You might be a richer album. For now, they seem content in their comfort zone, striving for--and occasionally achieving-- glossily depthless pop perfection.

Harris seems unsure whether an 80s boogie revival is the future of either dance music or mainstream pop, however. Elsewhere, there’s a sense of bets being hedged and versatility being demonstrated to varying degrees of success.

Listened to loud, these songs drift warmly away on the air, but up close, Stables’ voice burrows into the ears, sounding direct and sweet, like a dear old friend you’re reconnecting with, or a more grounded Cat Power.

It’s all lushly produced, accessible stuff, but one fewer men sinking into a downbeat persona, rather than a fuller personality, would be welcome.

It may have been born from a place of disruption in Rose’s life, but Something’s Changing is unabashed easy listening to its core.

This EP is nothing but on-brand, however; euphoric emotion, an earnest, universal message and a coating of tacky charm.

There are songs worth hearing and genuinely thrilling music here--but rather a flawed one.

There’s a sense of sheer urgency in Cooper’s voice as he describes an apocalyptic city scene on Fireball; Genuine American Girl dabbles in smart gender politics and Fallen in Love is a tight throwback to classic blues laments. However, more shiny than screwball, it doesn’t offer the same treasure you might well find lurking in Cooper’s attic.

While there are oddball lyrical themes throughout, it orbits a grownup indie rock world.

[Terrace Martin's] latest project uses some heavyweight jazz talents but takes us into more mainstream R&B territory, with decent neosoul numbers including Intentions (featuring Chachi) and You and Me (featuring Rose Gold) mixed with rather bland and soporific fuzak.

Despite their past volatility, these days the outfit have a relatively stable lineup--although scholars will note that Smith’s wife, keyboardist Elena Poulou, has now left. It doesn’t seem to have had much of an effect on New Facts Emerge, however, which continues to plough a familiar, fractious furrow.

The trouble is that the timbre of his voice is a little colourless, and audibly draws on the intonation of others: the laconic astonishment of Big Sean, the conversational musicality of J Cole and Common, and the jazzy hectoring of Mensa’s beef target, Drake. He may need another three years to craft a voice of his own.

It’s a pretty album rather than a potent one, but there is genuine ambition in this small-town boy’s debut.

Today, the guest list--ranging from soul singer Eska to Tricky-like rapper Elliott Power--isn’t so starry, but it is effective, and Mark Lanegan delivers the strings-soaked symphonic goth of Looking for the Rain with typical aplomb.

It’s all lovely, although some songs drift into pretty but insubstantial washes of sound, so the album may not quite pack the punch needed to change her fortunes.

The droll title of their seventh album, 24-7 Rock Star Shit, neatly brings these tropes together, but it’s also a record that proves that the band’s reluctance to be swayed by fame and fashion can seem like stasis: Jarman’s whiny, distinctively-accented vocal and the loose, lo-fi guitar rock (invariably heralded by a blizzard of feedback) are the ingredients in a recipe that has barely changed in a decade.

Lyrically, it’s what you might expect, with odes to the medicinal properties of marijuana (Medication), lamplit sweet nothings (Grown and Sexy), and a string of socially conscious lamentations.

Ghostpoet is merely exploring the world around him, but unlike Radiohead’s OK Computer, incredibly insightful and prophetic 20 years on, its unambiguous, unbridled hopelessness is wearing.

Stranger moments fare better than the bluesier ones; they make you think of small-label releases, found in attics, which get reissued on 180g vinyl. More weirdness, more wonder.

Saxophonist Jack Wylie rarely improvises in any meaningful way. Instead, his languorous lead lines are pitched somewhere between Arve Henriksen’s FX-laden trumpet and Graham Massey’s soprano sax in 808 State. But among the rather snoozy trance dirges are some delicious moments.

Tribe is great in places, unbearably awful in others, with far too much going on over its 17 tracks.

There’s none of Blunt’s deadpan chat and only a couple of (possibly Copeland-delivered) female vocals, a shame as some of the tracks are pleasingly punchdrunk trip-hop instrumentals that cry out for a top line, however meandering.

Belfast deep house duo Bicep finally release their debut LP, and it fitfully lives up to expectations.

Although he has, mercifully, put hip-hop to one side, this lacks the authenticity of a real raconteur.

One for those who like their journeys cosseted and steady, rather than rough-and-ready.

Across its 15 tracks, there are moments of greatness: Reindeer King is a swelling piano ballad about grief that boasts an ambient underside, while the aforementioned Up the Creek fuses a countryfied guitar loop with ominous strings, electro beats and backing vocals from Amos’s teenage daughter, Tash, to create a multifaceted soundscape. ... However, much of this album is forgettable.

It’s an album that won’t frighten the horses, but provides enough fresh interest to keep the band ticking over: for the Foo Fighters, you suspect, that means mission accomplished.

There are some excellent--even tender--moments here but, as per, only true fans will be able to overlook Pink’s exasperating lack of focus.

Clementine clearly has things to say about some important topics, and it’s hard not to think they might reach a wider audience if they were a little less obliquely presented. Equally, there’s something laudable about an artist using their initial success not as a foundation for steady commercial growth but as leverage to get something like I Tell a Fly released and promoted by a major label.

Tunefulness permeates the intensity like rays of sunshine.

Even if the building dynamics are the stuff of post-rock cliche, the multi-part suites Bosses Hang and Anthem for No State are saved from vague posturing by urgent rhythm sections powering them over the barricades.

The album is patchily impressive, from the driving, funky opening of Diarra, to the bluesy start of Massah Allah, but both ease off into more predictable, bland territory.

While still unpredictable, this is Shikari’s most mainstream, self-contained record to date. Some will appreciate its ambition, others will balk at its commercial feel, but it marks a real and definite evolution nonetheless.

Sshe has taken control of the songwriting and production and emerges as a conservative, big-lunged, country-tinged pop star with songs about breaking free. ... It’s all really rather lovely, although too soon to know whether this, finally, is the “real” Miley standing up.

Now is a strong comeback that plays to Twain’s strengths, but it could have done with some more of her feisty, Brad Pitt-skewering self, and fewer inspirational metaphors.

If As You Were is not an unalloyed triumph, then nor is it the stuff of career-ending disaster. Its failings are the failings you could level at pretty much every Oasis album, its sprinkling of highlights an improvement on most of their output since the mid-90s.

Colors is extreme, featuring some of the best and worst songs that Beck has ever written.

The end result is by turns gripping, idiosyncratic, baffling and frustrating: not so much an ooze as a splurge of ideas--that’s nevertheless worth picking through.

With little to no actual wordplay to his boasts, the materialism gets a little wearing, and he embarrasses himself with Tone It Down, a cheap knock-off of Drake’s Portland. Nicki Minaj is the best of the A-list guests, delivering imperial subliminal disses on Make Love.

On Glasshouse, she manages to harness her rarely seen diva mode in among the pared-back hallmarks, but the result is a mixed one.

Her guitar and piano now come with string arrangements and a big, satin-finish production, which takes baby steps towards a mainstream audience, although perhaps some of her magical fragility is being lost.

You can’t deny Afterglow’s big dreams, but it often feels somnolent, not superlative.

There’s lots of filler, too, such as Go High--based around a Michelle Obama speech--and the body-positive pop of Whole Lotta Woman, which sticks a little too closely to the Meghan Trainor mould. Despite this, the strong, 90s diva-ish mood suits Clarkson’s belting vocal style, as she ushers in a more soulful phase with class.

These soundscapes require a Pharoah Sanders-style voyager who can fly us into stratospheric realms, but unfortunately, Etienne Jaumet’s solos just splutter along the runway without ever achieving lift-off.

There’s a certain power to The Thrill of It All, but it could have been a much more potent album if they’d laid off the polish just a little.

Singer Adam Levine has said this is the group’s R&B album, and so it is, though not in any remotely experimental way: superstar rap guest spots can’t disrupt the torpor that too often becomes a default setting.

What it all amounts to is your standard Morrissey solo album: great songs cheek-by-jowl with songs that would once never have got past reception; brilliance alongside stuff that boggles the mind; not bad, but not built to reach far beyond his standard fanbase.

Jupiter Calling occasionally borrows from the pleasant sophisti-pop popular in the Corrs’ prime, but the record largely consists of a solidly orthodox melange of fingerpicked guitars, mournful piano and Andrea Corr’s still exquisite vocals. The band play it safe lyrically too.

It’s a strange thing: in a genre where the vocals tend to be the focus, here’s an album where you’d be better off ignoring the star performance and concentrating on the scenery.

It doesn’t sound like anything else, it’s audibly the work of an artist mapping out their own fresh musical territory. But occasionally, it also feels like the work of an artist with their eyes so firmly fixed forward they’ve blocked out their audience: an emotional journey you watch, intrigued, from a distance, rather than feel or participate in.

The John Legend duet I’ll Be Gentle is trademark classy schmaltz and the Sia-penned Warrior addresses refugees on the vaguest terms. Nobody will storm parliament after hearing this, but Faith’s heart’s in the right place.

The grandest of the offcuts, Wallowa Lake Monster, suffers in comparison with the far superior Should Have Known Better, whose melody it briefly shares, but The Hidden River of My Life is a gem

The scattergun approach can lack focus, but Young sounds energised by the need to confront hatred and division with humanity and hope.

This has the feel of a document rather than a record.

The results are decidedly retro-modern--that bit too well produced to have been authentically blaring out of a roadside bar in the 1960s--but are steeped in blues and soul and a lot of fun.

Thile can be a little too harmonically complex and over-wordy, while his whimsy can irritate (check the jaunty Elephant in the Room, about being trapped with relatives for Thanksgiving). But sometimes--as with Douglas Fir, a heavenly Yuletide duet with Aoife O’Donovan--it hits the spot.

if you’re averse to mawkish sentimentality you might be best advised to give the entire genre of country music a wide berth. Besides, there is a genuine emotion amid the corn.

At times, there’s just too much going on--voices, gunshots, revving cars, orchestrations--although D Rich and co’s big, crunchy grooves and one or two fine tunes (notably Snow Season and Cold Summer, featuring Tee Grizzley) cut through, ensuring that Jeezy won’t be returning to the old job.

It doesn’t sound like Def Leppard, but it is reminiscent of that band’s willingness to smooth off metal’s rough edges and boost the melodies.

Ttheir often magnetic signature styles veer close to gimmickry here. ... But the production props them up strongly.

Coupled with an industrial-sized bag of “whoa whoa”s, it’s actually possible that Vale may broaden their appeal towards otherwise well-adjusted adult members of society. However, there’s still plenty to satisfy the hardcore audience of socially disenfranchised, sullen, kohl-eyed teens.

An album whose messages can be watery, but Porches’ tendency to swim upstream is satisfying nonetheless.