Expertly played and recorded (the whole album has a brilliant earthy richness to it), but Nightingale could do with some more frayed edges to make it truly shine.

Oberst's contributions are superior, though only the stark, haunting 'White Shoes' and darkly beautiful 'I Got the Reason #2' are from anywhere near his top drawer.

Everything from Pulpish glam to pastoral psychedelia is given the multicoloured makeover, and yet for all its grandiosity, there's something slightly unsatisfying about Rewild.

Despite its shortcomings, The First Days of Spring marks a welcome escape from such labels as "quirky" and "twee", with a musical maturity that requires only an equivalent lyrical magic to amount to something truly special.

All the ingredients are thus there for long-term success, and this record is best seen as a stepping stone by which she shouldn't be judged too exactingly.

It's an uneven, rather unfinished-sounding album, but there are two gorgeous minimal-improv ballads.

Committed Adams-heads will love it; others will wonder why he commands such loyalty.

R.E.D. won't reassure those who accuse him of drifting away from R&B to make a quick pop buck.

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

In isolation, almost everything here would be a solid example of the songwriter-for-hire’s art: if nothing bowls you over with its originality, it’s hard not to be impressed by the pitilessness with which the songs sink their hooks into you. But taken collectively, you notice the big flaw in Furler’s approach.

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.

What Could Possibly Go Wrong whiplashes between genres in a way that is sometimes messy and mismatched. Yet Fike’s versatility deserves credit – it’s hard not to enjoy the grungy, knotted production of Come Here, as well as the California pop rock of Double Negative (Skeleton Milkshake).

The noise onslaught can grow a bit wearying, and it’s something of a relief when Lou Barlow takes the reins for two tracks: mournful closer Left/Right and album standout Love Is, which brings to mind the Folk Implosion at their most soulful.

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.

Something of a gentler, more Americana-style Snow Patrol, Tired Pony's songs provide space for Lightbody's lyrics and imagery to breathe.

Propaganda sounds like Muse are trying to be Prince, which isn’t entirely convincing, while Get Up and Fight bolts on a power ballad chorus to an elegantly restrained verse. But it’s still the less poppy moments that are most exciting.

It's modish to disparage the Peas, but consistently coming up with stuff that's this infectious is harder than it looks.

There may not quite be the soaring quality of songs here that Hollywood Town Hall or Rainy Day Music offered, but its pleasures are manifold.

Quicken the Heart sticks rigidly to their formula of nervy rhythms and angular guitars.

The ecological concept behind the album doesn’t really assert itself among the dreamy backdrops. But it also means we get some superbly written pop/indie hybrids, of which the pick are Way to Go and First Crush, both of which evoke coastal drives, each sumptuous chorus sliding into place like the shifting of gears in a luxury car.

This should all be heavier going than it is: that it isn’t is at least partly down to the arrangements, which are largely based around acoustic guitar and subtly effective throughout. Moreover, they fit Collins’ voice, which has weathered considerably in the years she kept silent. But the new patina suits her, and the material.

There’s enough about Virtue to keep it interesting. There’s not enough to make it genuinely good.

What makes this more than merely a trip down memory lane is the always-inventive production and Aalegra’s elegant, preternaturally smooth voice, which she uses to chronicle the neglected fringes of minor romantic disappointment. Although catchy choruses haven’t historically been a prerequisite of her chosen style, the widespread absence of memorable melodic hooks does feel notable.

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.

Despite this being a record that speaks pretty explicitly to 40-odd years ago (the most obvious comparison would be to a loafing Rolling Stones, although at times the band sound slightly like a het-up Lemonheads), the clattering exuberance of both the sentiment and the sound means it feels far from stale.

Trust's songs are often strong, though, and work best when Alfons manipulates his vocals towards higher pitches, allowing his melodies to shine and the music to stand out from the synth-pop crowd.

A collection of classy, retro pop that showcases her chameleonic voice. It’s not a style that holds a huge amount of excitement any more, as indicated by the album’s more banal junctures, such as the rather stale Elizabeth Taylor and various cod-Adele moments. But Maguire proves it can still be startlingly fruitful.

Less immediate than 2014’s Chambers and 2016’s Balance, not least because whereas previous sets featured some English lyrics, here Quintanilla sings solely in Spanish, partly as a result of US-Mexico border tensions. ... While most of these songs weigh in at around the three-minute mark, the two highlights come when they stretch out and lock into lengthier grooves.