After an average third LP and a four-year hiatus, the art-rockers are once again all kinds of excellent.

It may not be as mind blowing as FutureSex. But, frankly, what is?

If the band can let go of their younger selves completely, that masterpiece will be theirs.

This rocks harder and faster than those fellow Tuareg bluesmen, partly due to the noticeable pop influence of another Malian act, Amadou & Mariam.

For the most part it works well, provided you can live with Dawn's butter-wouldn't-melt ingenue phrasing and tone.

Nonchalant no more, here they spike their sparse blues-print with humour and humanity, dub grooves and Southern gothic flavours.

This is light and breezy pop that marries summery synths with dreamy female vocals.

They don't significantly compromise the essential charm and glitchy poetry of the songcraft.

The upbeat tracks are as catchy as conjunctivitis.

They have now cracked out the synths, ramped up the drum machines, and found their calling in giddy, lovelorn electro-pop.

Nobody does this kind of thing quite like the Swedes, and NATD are a welcome addition to that nation's synthpop hall of fame.

The Manics’ band identity proves robust enough to withstand the tweaking.

Neville almost levitates through doo-wop, soul and R&B standards.

Krall's smoky contralto lacks the pungency of Wilson's, but compensates with greater mobility.

Right at the end of what is officially the most depressing month of the year comes a shaft of unadulterated sunshine.

Watson packaged up the month that he spent riding the train, using his original recordings, adding his own narration, throwing in some interviews, and creating something magical.

The second studio album from the experimental New York trio oozes colour.

Boy manage to tease something close to pop perfection.

Another sweet viper's bite of post-Freudian dyspepsia from the singersongwriter who loves to mistrust.

Believers is made of a darker, spookier Americana than its predecessor: full of small-g gothic, anti-Chris Isaak-ish songs that submerge you deeper and deeper in their dark charms.

Mostly, though, this lingered-over comeback offers sumptuous returns for those prepared to linger over it.

This is smooth jazz raised to a high art.

The second Nixey solo album is a thing of subtle gorgeousness, with Nixey's none-more-English, sexy school-mistress diction dealing with topics as bleakly improbable as the Bridgend teenage suicides.

Drake is revealed as a serious artist whose gossamer-light songs can sound painfully vulnerable, and there's more than a bit of black dog in the poems.

Even looking backwards, Springsteen finds ways to light the road ahead.

There are collaborations with Bobby Womack, Sheila E and George Clinton. All driven by the heavy funk bass of Collins. Which is never a bad thing.

In short, if Land of CanAan were a Stevie Wonder album, it would be Hotter than July rather than Innervisions.

The band return to the slow-and-low, sinister alt-boogie that made their name, with Homme's satisfying dirty badass guitar sound in full effect.