Amid ballads such as Whiskey Bottle, there’s Graveyard Shift, which shifts between Pixiesesque loud and quiet parts; here it’s only Tweedy’s Illinois twang that marks them out from their grunge peers. The demos are, as you might expect, sketchy stuff, but therein lies the appeal of digging into the early work of any rock pioneer.

Unfortunately, four of the 10 tracks are deeply pedestrian, heartland rock.... Worse, presumably - like Charlotte Church - tired of having the voice of an angel, several songs find Jim James singing with the voice of a brickie.

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.

To Be Kind is uncompromising to the point of overindulgence.

You couldn’t blame Adele for declining to even tinker with a formula that clearly ain’t broke. But she does, and it makes for 30’s highlights.

Oh No is more dance than nu-metal, replete with trance breakdown. If BMTH really do want to bring nu-metal back to life, this approach could be just the defibrillator they need.

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.

From its title down, it’s clearly intended as a message to longstanding Springsteen fans, the sound of an artist hunkering down in troubled times. That also represents a scaling down of ambition, but judged by its own criteria, Letter to You is a success.

What it isn't--quite--is the magnum opus it could be. The second half loses impetus.

You occasionally wonder if an understandable desire to cross over commercially might not be at the root of the album’s less inspired moments: there’s something commonplace and risk-averse about the pop-R&B backing of Crazy, Classic, Life and I Got the Juice.

They’re best known, though, for the swamp-rock they adopted from 1982--distorted, grimy, seedy and just a little psychotic; Swampland was as memorable a manifesto as you could hope for. But there is an awful lot of it here, and you might well find that a little of their midnight-flavoured Birthday Party-meets-Suicide-meets-Iggy stew goes quite a long way.

By streamlining their sound, Deftones have made an album that proves that ferocity is not a diminishing resource.

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.

Subtle exercises in pushing genre boundaries, these (mostly self-penned) songs deal in profundity without resort to cliche, and they deserve better than to have the life polished out of them.

If the album has a rough-around-the-edges, askew quality, that just makes it more fascinating: this isn't music that settles in the background.

Van Etten's melodies often feel as if they're not quite taking flight, and rarely cause you to catch your breath the way her lyrics do.

Throughout, bursts of radio interference, gentle guitars and even classical music make effective and sometimes welcome moments of calm before the storm.

While it lasts, Hercules and Love Affair sound as original and exotic as their backgrounds.

It's not without a few syrupy moments, and it would be a push to recommend it over the old records, but there are some fine songs here.

Murphy lets the pace slacken - and as soon as it does, interest fades.

Anyone who doesn't actually live for updates from Iowan caucuses can safely skip the whole ragtime politicking middle section and, instead, enjoy the work of a true master of popular song.

In the absence of specific moments of revelation, the general melancholy becomes wearing.

Shaking the Habitual's problem is that the Knife seem to have dismissed the idea of making your point concisely as merely another affectation of a decadent and corrupt society.

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.

Hail to the Thief's big drawback has less to do with its similarity to its predecessor than the sense that Radiohead's famed gloominess is becoming self-parodic.

Pompeii is noticeably more subdued than much of her earlier work. Where once there was a playfulness in the arrangements, the slow and austere songs here sound as if they’re carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.

If you’re willing to meet Bob Vylan on their rough-and-ready terms, The Price of Life offers a decent return on investment.

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.

Grimes collaboration Nihilist Blues convincingly addresses fears of ageing, while the (gulp) classically orchestrated I Don’t Know What to Say – about a friend’s cancer death – is undeniably touching. However, elsewhere, the likes of Medicine, Mother Tongue and In the Dark are anodyne pop that is liable to alienate the band’s fanbase and makes an uneasy fit with their desire to experiment.

It’s less experimental but still impressive, for Lynn, who is 83, is in remarkably powerful voice, mixing nostalgia with new songs.

The album has an energy both attractive and intimidating.

Quiet Signs has a slightly jazzier, more soulful feel than her last, folkier outing, with a faint nod to Joni Mitchell on Poly Blue and perhaps even a hint of the Drifters’ On Broadway to the beguiling, sumptuous Here My Love.

For all the dark wordplay, the album is an aural equivalent of that old American favourite, the schmaltzy biopic.

It's a pleasant, if limited set, and though there are echoes of the mesmeric style of Tinariwen, he sounds more like the attacking Vieux Farka Touré with less ambitious guitar work.

Too much of this album is the sort of thing people stick on to make their drug comedowns feel meaningful.

Ultimately, that’s the main problem here; just when you settle into Negro Swan’s groove, it changes tack, leaving you feeling weirdly unmoored from it and, worse, emotionally disconnected.

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.

Sadly, [Ounsworth's] lyrics are a letdown.... When the tunes are this good, it certainly feels like a wasted opportunity.

With his first solo album in four years, he concentrates on narrative folk ballads that are transformed by bold string and brass arrangements, with Moray adding everything from guitars to vibraphone. It works remarkable well, for the most part.

It's a strange state of affairs, a band that really come into their own when they background their greatest asset. But there's a lesson in there: sometimes, less is more.

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.

Nevertheless, the album is really a reprofiled Streisand set for her fans, rather than an unexpected ­diversion for jazz ones.

FlyLo's albums tend to be slight, and this is no exception: these tracks feel less like fully fleshed-out compositions than lightly drawn sketches started, but not always finished, from a spontaneous jam session.

Not that they didn't crank out a generous dollop of highlights - I Zimbra, Life During Wartime, Heaven, And She Was et al - but stuff from the debut album now sounds irritatingly thin and scratchy, while material from their last couple of albums, True Stories and Naked, is the sound of a band reaching the end of its tether.

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's impeccably well done: riffs and basslines lock together as tightly as a highway-bound engine, but, like an American vehicle, the problem is excess.

At its most enjoyable, Surrounded By Time imagines a kind of alternative history for Jones. ... The other experiments are a mixed bag. ... That said, even the album’s missteps come with something oddly pleasing attached.

That she has called this album Identity Crisis shows a grasp of insight sadly lacking on any of its self-penned songs.

Whether shouting, wisecracking or guffawing, [Argos] spends their entire debut album veering between irony and geekery.

Few Good Things sees Saba resurface, moving beyond the acceptance stage on an album that sounds and feels like one long exhale.

The muddy, unfocused production adds to a sense of missed opportunity. However, 23 has more than most seventh albums' share of otherworldly pop delights.

This slower second half of Hive Mind can fade into the background, as tracks such as Next Time Humble Pie and It Gets Better bleed into one another without the distinctive melodies of the opening numbers. Despite this sloppy editing, the Internet seem unlikely to disband permanently into their solo projects. Playing as a group can bring out the best of their individual talents, even if the connection doesn’t always hold.

It's carefully, even beautifully arranged--all burnished shimmers and echo-drenched harmonies--but oddly icy and melodically a little ineffectual.

The result is a bravely thoughtful mood piece, dominated by the half-spoken March 11, 1962, which chronicles her agonising phone call with her birth mother, who refused to meet her.

An ungainly compromise blessed with a handful of skyscraping sonic highlights.

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.

This beautifully packaged anthology traces the former Screaming Trees frontman's journey toward becoming gothic Americana's own Man in Black.... Of the 32 tracks--12 unreleased--not one ups the pace beyond the funereal.

It’s often passionate, illuminating and fascinating, it frequently bears the hallmarks of self-indulgence, and some of it, you get the feeling, might only make sense to its author.

This debut is one of moments and mystery.

It’s a zany but melodically substantial record, in which the best songs (Thank You Mr K, Freedom) sit somewhere between the oeuvres of the Lemonheads and the Ramones.

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.

Now Only is an album it’s hard to imagine anyone listening to for pleasure: it’s incredibly brave and hugely--understandably--self-indulgent. What it does, unequivocally, is tell the truth, albeit a profoundly uncomfortable one.

The mixtape itself isn’t a huge change in direction.

Everything sounds precise and almost wilfully sterile, as if the whole thing were played by someone wearing rubber gloves.

Genial Texan magic.

She is capable of writing strong melodies, but the mood here rarely strays far from the pleasantly soporific.

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.

Gibbs' rough edges scrap up against Madlib's strings, and sometimes Piñata sounds like a low-key affair. It also feels a little dated, because Madlib has been practicing this kind of project for a decade.

Without the luxury of diegetic songs, the Radiohead frontman’s music for Luca Guadagnino’s forthcoming Suspiria remake is instead much more traditional, belonging in the background to ramp up the emotional cues, and as such is not as satisfying a home listening experience.

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.

What Comes Will Come, a skronking synth-pop-rap song, finds Owusu-Ansah sinking himself into production that strikes an interesting midpoint between goth-rock and shimmering synth-funk, one of the rare moments on the album that feels musically akin to the disorienting genre mashup of Smiling With No Teeth. These passages offer welcome electricity on an album that too often plays it safe and plays it vague – capitalising on an algorithm-breaking debut with more of the same.

The delicate lyrical barbs make Honest Life one to hear. It could have done with an upbeat song or two to puncture the introspection, but that’s just being picky.

Drunk Tank Pink is best when it shifts towards something more soft-focused.

There's none of Franz Ferdinand's sexiness, funk or swagger here, nor an undeniable hit along the lines of Take Me Out.

The textural pleasures of tracks such as I Am Learning and A Kid – full of wonky tiki kitsch – are muted by the vocal lines which, given starker backing, would be embarrassingly underwritten. Things improve in the later, more reflective tracks.

Furnaces is quite clearly not the record Harcourt thinks it is, but it’s an interesting enough one nevertheless.

The Magic Position sounds laboured by the end. However, it's difficult not to respond to such delirious joie de vivre.

By the end it's impossible to ignore the fact that this is a long record with flagging momentum. But it's also impossible to ignore this intriguing debut's promise. Preacher's Daughter has lyrical richness and atmospheric potency to spare.

Toure sings well, but intricate solos are his forte.

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.

The result of his collaboration with his fellow Texans is an album that stands up in a way his last effort, 1995's All That May Do My Rhyme, really didn't....But there are problems, too. The songs here were selected by Okkervil's Will Sheff, and the arrangements are clearly his band's rather than Erickson's.

Yep, there's plenty of life here, but interest wavers when howling barroom guitar-note after howling barroom guitar-note wafts to the back of your brain.

There are times when Sign truly soars, though it never manages to eclipse what’s now a crowded sonic milieu.

For all its aggression and pop-culture pilfering, Sempiternal frequently feels like the work of a band satisfied to slide down the surface of heavy music rather than engage with its true heart.

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.

This is the new Nashville at its best: a no-nonsense, gently gutsy and agreeably freewheeling set, recorded in their home studio with no slick production work to take the rough edges off their songs.

Speak Now (Taylor’s Version) dilutes some of the original’s acid. One issue with Swift revisiting her older work is that her voice has changed with age. Now 33, she’s a much richer and more skilled singer than she was then, but their piercing, youthful twang was what made these songs kick harder in all their dressing-downs and rabid desires, emphasising the sense of a girl wading into adult waters.

What Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out! sounds most like is the 60s waning before your very ears. There are flashes of greatness, but the white-knuckle innovation of 1965-67 has audibly gone, replaced by complacent jamming.

It’s not a life-changing body of work, but the biggest achievement of all is that, all these years later, Mergia is still a true original.

The material sounds frustratingly underdone - seeds of good ideas that might have flourished into something remarkable with more time and TLC.

While this buoyant link-up is no disgrace, its main ingredients - copshow brass, cartoon flutes, professor voices - are fairly familiar rap tropes.

Their songs are best when they stop being so satirically cutesy and zip somewhere else.

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.

A succession of producers--including Ariel Rechtshaid, Patrick Carney of the Black Keys and Jesso’s chief collaborator, former Girls bassist Chet “JR” White--have smoothed the fragility and murk of Jesso’s demos into a 70s-inspired production that accentuates the similarities between his songs and those of various vintage songwriters.

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.

It’s an album of discreet charm, but one that will reward those who give it time.

Producer Rob Ellis, who played on some of PJ Harvey’s early albums, helps hone Sprinter’s 90s alt-rock sound, but it’s a rather familiar one, and there’s not always enough melody to help these intimate stories take flight.

It's hard not to yearn for the melodies to be served by a little more clarity.