The orchestra certainly elevates some aspects of her songs, but cannot replace the powerful solitude of Torrini’s solo recordings.

These songs, in which the rough-edged art-punk core of the Manics’ earliest days needles through mature, accomplished lushness, are heavy with a sense of the passing of all things and an uncertainty about their place in the world.

They have a default setting, which is a kind of arena goth (Death Drive is Suicide at stadium scale). But at its best, West of Eden is thrilling and unsettling.

It is truly cosmic music, one that defies categorisation.

The music is inventive and odd.

The band are operating in an ever more overcrowded field, but their songwriting has never been sharper.

Basia Bulat relocates from Montreal to Louisville for her fourth album, enlisting My Morning Jacket’s Jim James for production and toning down her trademark autoharp in favour of dazzling, technicolour pop.

Heartworms is an album of tinkering and pootling, the sound of a man reminiscing on life, referencing his favourite records--less rock star, more bloke living out his hobby from the comfort of a suburban garage.

It's all a welcome change from dance-scene earnestness, and worth 48 minutes of anyone's time.

Patrick Stump is an impassioned frontman, and shows what he can do on the ambitious, multi-segment WAMS, but there's only so much creativity he can wring out of this conventional rock.

It’s certainly an adult-oriented, mainstream affair, pairing her with producers who have also worked with Adele and Florence and the Machine.

They sound like an unlikely, brilliantly wrong fusion of Tom Tom Club, dance culture and the Fall.

Finds the Coral attempting to fuse both sides of their personality.

Their second album remains indebted to 60s girl groups and bubblegum pop, but joyous songs are delivered through gritted teeth.

However annoying it sounds, give The Information a chance. By the time Horrible Fanfare rolls around, 15 numbers in, you'll be too dazed to resist.

Gentlewoman, Ruby Man is an album of an unerringly high standard.

This meeting of joy and aggression is what defines Oxnard, and the effect is not always pleasant--it makes .Paak’s trademark grooves difficult to luxuriate in--but it is still a compelling mode, and one that rehomes his old-school tastes firmly in the present.

There's nothing posed or concealed about June Gloom; instead, you have warm, homespun wisdom that could be love or friendship, and who cares?

More fury and less moderation and this would have been outstanding; as it is, it's just very good.

The listener emerges unsettled and intrigued.

A few ponderous moments aside, this is a sturdy return to great form.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with The Prophet Speaks, but Morrison has not made an album destined to be pored over for clues. If he is offering any enlightenment, the message is simply: don’t forget the old masters.

If only Leaneagh's vocals weren't so mutated with effects that render some of her more poignant lyrics indistinguishable, Shulamith's impact might be all the greater. Nevertheless, it's a beautifully melancholic record.

The hazy, semi-hallucinogenic beauty is boosted by the lo-fi, not-quite-focused home recording.

US indie rock at its best.

She transforms The Word, from Rubber Soul, into a strutting funk-gospel exhortation, and Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here into a conversation with ghosts from her past, but the passion she evinces grows wearying when it is for singing rather than the songs.

The result is a collection you might actually play at other times of the year, too.

It thrives on cosy familiarity, on records that remind listeners of other records: Sing to the Moon feels more ambitious than that.

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.

There are certainly enough good things about the album to let its more infuriating conceits pass.

Jones's cashmere voice sounds more polite than ever, creating an overriding impression of a nice girl keeping dirty company.

It sounds like comfort, sometimes fun, even as you miss the dark fire they once summoned.

The tracks are arranged chronologically, and the flirtations with funk and garage rock at the start are the most fun, but even some of later R&B pastiches from Tunisia and Egypt are pleasingly odd.

Haunting and carefully crafted as it is, the disc cries out for a few more variations of tone and pace.

Opening track Girls and Boys and the furious Turnaround are enough to make anyone over the age of 24 shake their head at the unnecessary racket. There are more muted moments, too, most of them musing upon the other recent event in Lunn's life.

[Dear's] followup offers more of the same, but with studio polish.

Gloriously silly it may be, but this album is as bright as that favourite copper kettle.

It's an album that combines the 70-year-old's experience with the glee of a small child.

Every song pulses with passion, drama and energy. The trouble is, not every song proves as intoxicating as that first one.

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's plenty of spirit here but, sadly, the songwriting runs out of puff long before the performances do, lending a hammy tone to the album's weaker moments.

The music is similarly unbothered by what anyone who isn’t already onboard thinks, resting almost entirely on a push-and-pull between the sound of Gallagher and Squire’s former bands.

By comparison, Noir's closest current peers, Super Furry Animals, seem like fusty older brothers.

It's the unrelenting power of the two-chord drones, though, that is the real draw here, bass and drums throbbing hard enough to add a real heartbeat to songs that might otherwise seem insubstantial enough to melt away. It's enervating, sunbaked and, for all that, rather thrilling.

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.

It doesn't seem to have taken much of a creative shift for them to sound ridiculously Christmassy, because the Spree do that naturally anyway.

Dear's prostrate baritone works well when combined with his spare synthetic production.

If this proves to be the country legend's final album, it's a mighty and very fine way to bow out.

There is much to admire in Tillman's fifth album.

It's emotional music, full of subtle ­tension and lurking drama.

Mixed feelings are very much par for the course listening to Fearless, a record that does something bland and uninventive but does it incredibly well.

There's tenderness, too, but Gahan's brooding power is central to possibly his best work since Depeche's 1990 Violator.

Honestly, Nevermind therefore offers a weird combination of the unexpected and business as usual. ... There is something really admirable about Drake’s desire to reach beyond the music his audience expects, and to do it well. You just wish he would apply the same restlessness to his persona.

Pemberton doesn't strain to impress. He doesn't need to: his darting intelligence and racing imagination are evident in every line.

The finest moment may be when Laundry Room unexpectedly abandons the blueprint after three and half minutes and explodes into a thrilling bluegrass coda. At that moment, I and Love and You sounds like a band suddenly doing what they want to, rather than what they think they should.

Despite the added value of the remixes and the quality of the original tracks, The Apple and the Tooth remains a complementary piece - albeit one that's a compliment to Bibio's craft, too.

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.

From the sassy squeal of Here Comes the Serious Bit to the tension-cranking film noir of Round the Hairpin, Jackson's vocals are nuanced, and the band's punk past goes hand-in-hand with their pop future.

With too many dirge-like instrumentals, the album is overlong, under-focused and, like the Brexit process, hard work.

They don't half make liberation and self-dependency sound miserable.

On its own terms, Sky Blue Sky succeeds: it's tender, poignant and sumptuously textured, occasionally jolted into fiery life by flaring guitar passages redolent of Neil Young or Television.

The Londoner has constructed something lovable in Shine.

Each retro touch is accompanied by the big choruses and key changes of a man who knows his way around a pop song, even if he's not out to break new ground just yet.

Foreboding as his lyrics often are, there is enormous hope at the heart of this music, and its gentle, almost Elbow-like melodies transform his worries into a warm, soft sanctuary.

To conjure this otherworldly sound is impressive, but the lack of variation in tempo and atmosphere makes sustaining interest for a full 45 minutes difficult.

From the brooding dynamics of Overlord and Embers to the more expected savagery of Erase This and Delusion Pandemic, Lamb of God sound more focused than ever here, and thoroughly deserving of their status as one of metal’s biggest bands.

It’s an album that is simultaneously shocking, laudable and a little underwhelming.

You're left with an album that's as chaotic and uneven as the circumstances surrounding its release, It's alternately great, unsatisfying and marked by the sense that not everyone in the Wu Tang Clan is pulling in the same direction.

Not an easy listen then, but a deeply rewarding one.

Titling this album Volume 1 suggests Greenfields represents more than a one-off experiment: for all its strengths, there’s scope for Barry Gibb to develop this unlikely late-period diversion further.

Familiar, yet impossibly charming.

Mixing maturity with a fixation with metal, there's an anthemic chorus to match every squiggly, air-guitar solo, and gentle harmonies play off grinding rhythms. It's the perfect combination for the ultimate pop-rock break-up album.

English Graffiti may win some new fans and lose some old ones, but it shows that the Vaccines are certainly no one-trick ponies.

The moodier, electronic tracks work better than the angrier, rap ones, but while Post Traumatic understandably has flaws, its raw emotion is unusually touching and many will find it a source of tears, strength and comfort.

He and Dessner have alighted on a magnificently big-hearted and original seam of songcraft.

While this first solo album in six years is elevating, and intricate in its elegance and rhythmic propulsions, it remains uncluttered by the chaos of true, visceral emotion.

She's restrained to a fault, where a bit of oomph would do more good.

[An] assured, wildly varied, endlessly enjoyable album that finds Coldcut in a position even more unlikely than the podium at the Brits: dance producers at the top of their game, 19 years into their career.

The tender vocals contributed to Wildfire by surprise guest Frank Ocean are easily the most striking 85 seconds on the record. But the biggest talking point here will be Paper Doll. Apparently aimed at another ex, Taylor Swift, it's a washed-out ballad that takes the concept of "too much information" to a new level

They may never make a perfect album--a certain unevenness seems inbuilt in their approach, where not every experiment turns out quite the way you might have hoped--but they’re capable of making music that sounds close to perfection.

It's a brave, unexpected set that veers between the brilliant and the occasionally dreadful.

A mature album, rather than the work of people hemmed in by their past, cowed by the sense that they can never hope to be as exciting as they were on arrival. That’s something that most of their noughties NYC peers have thus far failed to achieve. It’s the sound of a band who have done the last thing you might expect them to do at this stage of their career: start moving on.

Something of a cross between Biffy Clyro and Bon Jovi, the Twins are not concerned by a barrow-load of cliches as they aim for the man in the back row.

There are unusual sonic touches--the way the deep harmonies in Pour It Out recall church singing; the combination of early 60s balladry and bleached psychedelia in ESTWD--that continually pique the interest.

It does exemplifies the enjoyable glossiness that experienced backroom types can bring to the over-subscribed electropop genre.

While rightfully allowing the brilliantly executed collection of archival footage of human voices to flourish, its subtlety makes it more conceptual art piece than experimental rocket ride.

Emily Haines' breathy voice lacks range and sometimes character.

If they're going to ascend to big-name status, this third release, their most punkily accessible yet, will be the one that does it.

Spx could do with some melodies as memorable as the music-making behind them.

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.

It might not be the kind of explosive statement that people once expected Cornershop to make, but Judy Sucks a Lemon for Breakfast is clever and engaging, happily detached from the mainstream--an admirable way to continue down an improbable career path.

Those with a low tolerance for navel-gazing are advised to steer clear, but there's plenty to cherish here.

There's more than enough subtlety here to mean it isn't just a collection of club cuts.

An off-duty experiment, a pressure-free hobby, more Broken Bells than McCartney and MJ. Berninger in particular sounds liberated from the weight of his day job.

What’s most interesting is how Wimberly’s clickety but viscous production combines with Polachek’s diamond-sharp falsetto. At times the former can get confused and the latter a little indulgent, but when they nail it--see also No Such Thing, Crying in Public and Polymorphing--they don’t just fly close to pop’s flame, they ignite it.

Everything about Ventriloquizzing feels thrillingly tense, with layers of creeping analogue synths and taut, suave pop building up the pressure.

Against the odds, the party metal kings are back and blazing.

A classy, varied and upbeat set.