The irresistible funk of lead single Like Sugar cleverly creates pockets of space for Khan’s rip-roaring vocal interjections to fade in and out, as if she’s having so much fun dancing she forgot to step up to the mic. The album sags, however, when the production starts to encroach on the star.

If they could bring a little more of their noise-based disruption into the mix, their prophetic horns would be worth heeding.

There are lots of intriguing ideas here, and it might be better thought of as one long fragmentary track than a collection of songs. But it’s an album that feels like it’s hovering rather than actually heading anywhere, diverting rather than impactful.

[Business Dinners is] a moment of offbeat delight on an album otherwise characterised by earworm-centric efficiency--and the kind of gratifyingly idiosyncratic move a supposed pop renegade would benefit from making more often.

It’s slim on features (only Young Thug, Clever and Brent Faiyaz) but big on misanthropic head-nodders that put Juice’s Fall Out Boy-style whine or raspy flow to the fore: he is more versatile than his peers and also more gifted. ... But ultimately, the suicide references of songs such as Empty and casual misogyny in the tauntingly violent Syphilis leave an uncomfortable taste.

Lounge-pop numbers reminiscent of Air or early Goldfrapp aren’t quite as arresting, but the whole album casts a lingering spell.

This is an album that feels accomplished but unremarkable, neither possessing the kind of experimentalism that might push things forward nor idiosyncratic enough to stand out in a newly crowded marketplace.

A fascinating jumble of ideas, some of them fantastic. Too confused to be a great lost album, or indeed a coherent collection, as a snapshot of both its creator and soul music in turmoil, it’s perfect.

You couldn’t call Badbea wildly original; it’s filled with references to Collins’s musical touchstones (northern soul; the Velvet Underground) and an explicit melodic link to Big Star’s Feel in I’m OK Jack. But Collins is in fine voice, and it’s always a pleasure to have him back.

For such an intellectually fearless band, the production is sometimes frustratingly reserved: you can never seem to turn the volume loud enough to give the more biting songs the impact they deserve.

It’s all extremely radio-ready and sung with a breathy, close-miked intensity that gives the curious illusion of intimacy even when BTS are belting it out – a smart trick to pull off. Those charged with rapping, meanwhile, are more convincing than your average boyband denizen chancing his arm at the old lyrical flow. Nevertheless, anyone outside of the BTS Army might struggle to grasp what differentiates them from the rest of 2019’s pop landscape.

Whether they lean closer towards her old traditionalist ways or evince greater ambition, each of these seven songs betrays that sense of ease: the recording close, the playing soft, her voice’s chalky edge and warm-blooded intimacy drawing you in.

Lizzo has something to say, and a smart way of saying it ... but the potency of what’s here would seem more potent still if it had been allowed a little room to breathe ... Instead, Cuz I Love You keeps its foot pressed down hard on the accelerator for half an hour in an attempt to ram-raid the charts.

A collection of smooth, soft-centred rap that verges on the sickly, with Carner’s genial charisma floating adrift in a sea of sentimentality and nostalgia.

The album’s polished like a glass table, which sometimes works – when the keyboards come in on Ruins, it’s glorious – but the sparkle gets a bit wearing after a while.

Hurts 2B Human treads familiar ground. With the brass-assisted, stomping opening track Hustle, and the EDM juggernaut Can We Pretend, the listener is provided with the underdog me-against-the-world anthems that Pink does so well. But the album’s most affecting points are its most tender.

Here Comes the Cowboy may retain some of the disarming simplicity and emotional universality that has become DeMarco’s trademark, but it is ultimately an album that fails to welcome the listener warmly into its world.

There’s a hushed stillness to the way Lowe’s words glide over the stripped-down, becalmed grooves, before gentle soul gives way to more uptempo beats and sentiments. With that template, it’s a varied mix.

It’s is no bad thing that Igor downplays Tyler’s indomitable personality – but the writing and execution do not quite replace what has been lost. What’s left is a fine showcase of ingenuity that too rarely burrows very far into your consciousness.

Despite its charismatic Tierra Whack verse, Yellow Belly plays more like a gag than an epiphany, and the clanks and warbles of Fire Is Coming fill Lynch’s eerie tale with dread but little replay value. Still, the quagmire draws you in.

It’s not Amyl and the Sniffers’ fault they get treated like a second coming--more a reflection on how little great rock’n’roll there is right now--but it’s done them no favours. With no fanfare, this would have been a really decent record. With the praise they’ve had, they’d have had to make a new Powerage not to disappoint.

The result of this recipe is a series of songs that feel instantly gratifying but only vaguely relevant--the voguish features tend to be drowned out by predictable guitar-hero bombast, while

Help Me Stranger swirls with so many ideas that it’s impossible to physically hear everything that’s going on. The energy and exhilaration of the collaborative process might be palpable, but in its weaker moments Help Us Stranger sounds like the worst kind of compromise--cluttered, ill-defined and lacking the clarity of vision that once charged its driving forces.

Ronson’s Achilles heel is, as ever, making everything feel as if it’s been endlessly worked on: his obsessional qualities can cloud the magic of the best pop. But equally, that craft is what songs blaring from iPhones sometimes lack.

As a whole, Schlagenheim is an imperfect, intriguing debut: behind the overheated prose lurks a young, self-conscious band who clearly aren’t as fully formed as the hype suggests, who are still capable of misdirecting their undoubted talent and haven’t quite clicked that intelligence is best worn lightly in the balance between art and heart. But it’s still early days.

There’s something to be said for such auteur bullishness in a world of eager-to-please, but the results are a little frustrating: the stuff of which cult figures are made, and the skip button was designed for.

The guest spots occasionally overshadow the star. The Beyoncé-led tracks are of distinctly variable quality. For every song as good as the brilliant Black Skin Girl or Mood 4 Eva, there is something underwhelming. ... It’s an album, then, that ably displays her excellent taste, rather than a great Beyoncé album per se.

The melodies are good, though Emotional Education lacks the single indelible song that takes a group from admired cult to huge crowds. Imperfect, then, but so many seeds have been planted. Don’t be surprised if Ider’s second album turns out a masterpiece.

Sabaton’s choruses are certainly catchy, although the barrage of gutturally sung lyrics (“Fire and brimstone, heading your way!”), proggy keyboards and twiddly solos can sound overwrought.

Clocking in at little over half an hour, the record is pleasingly deft – because, let’s face it, even from a songwriter as sharp as Brewis, the phrase “Donald Trump funk musical” doesn’t promise the most thrilling of listens.

Wilson sounds adrift. He won’t find an identity in the painfully strained Golden Oldies, a shouty song in sharp contrast to its broody sentiment. Nor in Don’t Just Stand There, Do Something, an unnervingly edgy vaudevillian number. ... But they still have enough hooks and appealingly weird quirks to keep getting away with it.

The sometimes quite retro Afro-pop production can get generic though, when repeated across 19 tracks – the bright, throbbing electronic backing for Destiny makes you long for a bit more breadth – and the English language lyrics can lapse into rap cliche.

As it is, you’re left with a solid, well-made pop album that occasionally hints its maker might be more interesting and individual: time will show if that’s the case, but the immediate future seems secure.

Out of the harsh glare of the hype machine, Lung has the potential and the melodies, but would do well to rediscover some of that youthful bluster.

The songs aren’t all as strong, but they have the hallmark of a highly promising, individual group.

Compellingly unpredictable, ! is doubtless part of the genre’s forward march – but it’s hard to get past the sense that White has sacrificed a coherent artistic identity in the name of progress.

The big problem with Lover is that it’s too long, the suspicion being that Swift is trying to reassert her commercial dominance by spread-betting.

Listening to Norman Fucking Rockwell! is an alternately beguiling and frustrating experience. There are moments when you willingly succumb to its sound and its songwriting, counteracted by moments when you just think: oh God, here we go again.

Threads is an ambitious, gloriously overstuffed reminder of Crow’s talents.

He is yet, however, to enjoy a mainstream moment like those had recently by Stormzy and Skepta. The reflective, ambitious Hoodies All Summer isn’t likely to change that, but it will cement his reputation as one of grime’s wisest truth-tellers.

Four voices aren’t always stronger than one, and the collegiate nature of the record leaves one yearning for a little more single-mindedness. But anyone who enjoyed, say, Margo Price’s All American Made will find much to enjoy here.

As so often in this late period, Davis’s playing is beguiling in bursts.

The songs, it’s worth noting, are uniformly well-written, at least within their self-imposed parameters: they’re certainly melodically stronger than his brother’s recent experiments. ... It does what it sets out to do: provide Gallagher with material hooky enough that the arena crowds don’t storm the bars and lavatories when he stops playing Oasis songs. As Liam Gallagher knows, for his audience at least, that’s enough.

Generally, the songwriting is solid rather than spectacular, although Catfish Kate, a tuneful tall story about a woman who battles with a catfish so she can cook him, is a real zinger.

Tembo is undoubtedly an intriguing addition to rap’s increasingly rich tapestry – albeit one yet to land on a sonic palette as fresh and compelling as her perspective.

It may not make for the most comfortable listen, but Cause and Effect at least proves Keane are able to channel emotional states that are knottier and more compelling than that of their insipid early successes.

Lo‘s 2014 song Habits popularised luxuriant pop nihilism, a sound that dominated the latter half of the decade and no longer sounds as fresh as it did. Lo‘s 2014 song Habits popularised luxuriant pop nihilism, a sound that dominated the latter half of the decade and no longer sounds as fresh as it did.

Certainly, Hey, I’m Just Like You has a cracking backstory, but the album’s workaday synthpop means it struggles to make much of an impact based purely on its sonic appeal.

Chromatics’ influence means there’s a sense in which its haunted suburban chilliness sounds old hat. But the production is smarter than that sound’s schlockier Stranger Things reincarnation.

Given the accomplished nature of the instrumentation, it is a shame that, unlike the classic records it ostensibly draws influence from, the production of 85 to Africa is clean to the point of sterility.

Even given its many highlights, sitting through its 14 songs in a single sitting can be a slog. The intensity of Metal Galaxy makes it a hard sell, but, at their best, Babymetal make clashing elements surprisingly cogent, not to mention fun.

What the combination of grinding riffs, commercial choruses and arena-sized ambition recalls is a cross between the Arctic Monkeys circa AM and the 1975. There’s obviously absolutely nothing wrong with sounding like that, but the sense that it isn’t quite what it thinks it is hangs heavy over Everything Not Saved Will Be Lost Part 2.

The end result is another Neil Young album to add to the pile of the not-bad and the OK he’s amassed over the last decade, while a steady stream of archive releases highlight how great Neil Young can be at his best: as good as any artist in rock history, and certainly better than this.

The youthful tendency to overthink things spills into the music, which is sometimes a little fussy.

Sometimes the results are stunning, as on the beautiful microcosmos of tiny, constantly shifting sounds that fade in and out of Mary Magdalene. ... Sometimes, however, the songs are weirdly stifling.

Girl feels more exploratory than certain, never quite as assertive of its identity as one might hope. Still, their willingness to shift identity without compromising their core suggests Girl Ray could have a lustrous future.

These [Natural Hair, Between Me and My Maker & Ceiling Games] are the snatched glimpses of humanity that pierce through a noisy record with love and light.

It’s a hard place to go with him; confrontationally stark, it may be the rare album that works better on paper.

Updating Dion’s sound without frightening the horses – is a tough one. At its worst, Courage ends up peddling the kind of dreary, blanched take on contemporary pop that packs Radio 2’s playlist. ... The best tracks on Courage stick close to the music that made Dion famous.

It’s a mixed bag, as posthumous collections often are, but there is enough to suggest that much wider stardom was well within his grasp.

It’s just about enough to keep you browsing, but never enough to inspire.

The straightforwardly Coldplay-esque moments sound more straightforward and Coldplay-esque than ever. ... But the dabblings in gospel (Broken) and bluesy doo-wop (Cry Cry Cry) seem like the result of a long and fruitful search to pinpoint the genres in which Coldplay are least suited to dabbling.

Kanda’s aptitude for melody is mixed and sometimes abandons him altogether, making the likes of Enigma and Garnet rudderless, but when he locks into one, his work becomes really compelling.

After You is a tasteful record – at times it’s exactly the soft, melancholy, adult house pop they play in the chic bar at 7pm in every Netflix drama you’ve ever watched – but it’s also got tunes, and Peñate has also finally lost all his vocal mannerisms, so you’re not distracted from those tunes.

A pretty well-executed genre album. Just don’t compare it to the rest of his mighty oeuvre. Should Kanye’s interest in gospel music prove temporary, this is likely to be remembered as an oddity rather than a baptism.

Passing St Vincent’s songs through the hands of such a diverse cast of producers makes for a disjointed listening experience and broken narrative; but along the way, there are moments of raw, magnetic beauty.

Of course, this is Poppy, and so repetitive, Twitter bot-like lyrics remain the norm (“Chewy chewy / Yummy yummy yummy”, goes one refrain). But there are moments of musical complexity and bracing sincerity that her previous albums have lacked.

The album is solid and dependable, rather than a source of head-spinning shocks and thrills: it knows its audience, and it knows better than to confound them if you want to keep bucking trends and filling arenas.

If Music to Be Murdered By covers a lot of old ground, it does so in considerable style. It’s a stronger album musically than its predecessor.

While Shake occasionally excels at crafting musical gems out of dark paranoia, her themes are stretched somewhat thin over the course of the whole record and on some tracks she ends up sounding listless.

Power, for all its lovable energy and admirable experimentation, occasionally suffers from an excess of both.

There’s not enormous substance here, but it’s a fine amuse bouche.

Ultimately Be Up a Hello is a fun albeit bumpy ride through future-retroism, best felt in the moment itself.

Stretches of forgettable melody writing kill the mood somewhat, particularly towards the end, but the best songs – Insert Generic Name, Guttural Sounds – truly put the dream in dream-pop: rapturous, vivid compositions that drift down Wilkins’ very particular neurological pathways.

Kesha is reconnecting with her former self. High Road is unmistakably the work of the same glitter-pop artist who tore up the charts in 2009, but with a new sense of underlying self-awareness.

There are other times when the songs feel half-finished: Expecting to Lose lopes along pleasantly enough but its wordless chorus sounds like a placeholder that was never removed, and You Need Me has the same issue.

The album features samples of earthquakes, shovels, shredders and screaming peacocks – an industrial-era Bosch painting turned into music. This nightmare is expertly arranged throughout, though in the second half the maximalism starts to feel like a means of papering over weak songwriting.

It just feels subdued and unassuming, which are curious things for mainstream pop to be. It’s a tentative, rather than all-guns-blazing, return, with a by-any-means-necessary bubblegum single dutifully tacked on to throw his record label a bone.

Ordinary Man was made in a few days with a core band of Duff McKagan, Chad Smith and Andrew Watt, who also produces. It sounds like it, in good and bad ways: there’s real urgency to Straight to Hell, but there are perhaps too few genuinely memorable songs.

The density of the production occasionally subsumes their appealing vocal melodies and fails to mask a lack of emotional punch that lyrical anxieties about the planet’s future can’t provide.

Hayter brilliantly conjures atmosphere, but could perhaps hone some more arresting melodic progressions like her lament on Kingscorpse. It is Walker’s voice, blasted beyond melody into pure ranting expression, that seals the record’s strongest moments.

There are some moments of relatively steady rhythm on Rampa and Raataja, but it is techno of the most bludgeoning kind and, given the surrounding chaos, you can never settle into it. Just as the climate crisis can feel alienating in its scale and gravity, it is easy to recoil from this fire alarm of a record.

A certain cosiness produces fillers So Happy and New York Ivy, but abandoning the comfort zone delivers some of the best things here.

It has nostalgic nods to their first musical loves, bits that nod back to the first records they made, plenty of vim and spark but without the fuel that was first ignited by that spark. And, of course, it has toe-curling attempts to be current, just in case there really are disenfranchised kids listening.

There’s something understandably confident about Colores, from its grand concept album status (every song is named after a colour, although the lyrics seem conceptual only in so far as they largely revolve around how sexually irresistible Balvin is) to its brevity.

Sometimes, the effects are like Clannad on speed. Nervous souls should persevere with opening tracks Ella and Fager Som en Ros. But throughout, Myrkur’s vocals are beautiful and bright, especially on Harpens Kraft, a Norse supernatural ballad, and House Carpenter, once sung by the Watersons and Joan Baez. Elsewhere, deeply eerie, pagan atmospheres rule.

After 10 albums it’s hard to surprise, and Ward isn’t the first artist with a distinct style to encounter that issue.

Despite the stumbles, it’s this willingness to switch things up and the ambition of scale in The Don of Diamond Dreams that prove Shabazz Palaces to be such a fascinating and exciting project in the age of algorithms and formulae.

Alternating on lead, the pair’s vocals remain a model of sibling harmony, while the interplay between Sean’s intricate guitar picking and Sara’s elegant fiddle is similarly impressive – the breakneck bluegrass instrumental Bella and Ivan is a case in point. Mostly, however, the mood is reflective.

Neither balls-out, show-me-the-money capitulation to market forces, nor boldly experimental enough to count as a disruption to a mainstream form; neither disaster nor triumph. There’s something scattered and awkward about its grafting together of ideas that don’t gel; the sound of a band who have outgrown their initial incarnation but aren’t quite sure what they want now.

It makes Notes on a Conditional Form a curious thing, an album whose flaws are inherent in what it sets out to do: music for the no-filter generation, with all the good and bad that entails.

While KiCk i is not as subversive as the work of Arca’s black contemporaries such as Zebra Katz, who don’t benefit from her level of exposure, it nonetheless offers a red pill to a more hopeful future.

The set feels like the band’s more than the veteran master’s, and the magnificent Taye’s singing balances better with the music than Mr Monk’s delivery, but To Know Without Knowing nonetheless confirms how brightly Mulatu Astatke’s Ethio-jazz vision burns on.

There are moments where None of Us Are Getting Out of This Life Alive feels more like a showcase for younger talent than a Streets comeback.

Barely 21, Juice WRLD was only just coming into his own as a man and artist, his talent still taking shape as he matured. Legends Never Die reveals a glum ringleader still finding himself.

A pleasing, if unremarkable, listen.

It retains their hallucinogenic sound but injects it with more glimmers of autobiography than they’ve ever previously shared.

More often than not, this everything-goes approach cancels itself out, becoming a pleasant if unremarkable backdrop to frontman Henry Camamile’s easy charm and the band’s gratifyingly buoyant and soothingly predictable melodies.