A viscerally entertaining album that never lingers for more than four minutes per song. Rock’n’roll isn’t dead: it’s just been sleeping.

Ellipsis finds Biffy Clyro reverting for the most part to the core blend of melody and heaviness that draws comparisons with Muse.

The calm, methodical “Gravity Wake” blends stately Moondog-like drums with undulating synths and relaxed solo horn lines that inescapably bring to mind Terry Riley. Elsewhere, the use of rhythmic, murmured vocables in “Glossolalia” recalls Steve Reich’s Music For 18 Musicians.

Dirty Jeans And Mudslide Hymns is full of typical John Hiatt tropes: old-timers and hard times, devotion and desperation, in roughly equal measure.

It's Tunng's most direct effort yet, eschewing the “folktronic” bricolage of albums like Good Arrows; but there's plenty happening beneath the surface.

Rebooting the euphoria of their 2004 debut, Funeral, WE is a big old blast of an album. One destined to lift the spirit, inflate the soul and get fans dancing giddily through the carnage of 2022.

Erykah Badu lends a childlike charm to the sunburnt fizz of Glasper’s bossa nova version of “Maiysha (So Long)”, with Miles’s trumpet shining through towards the end.

For all his production skills, he remains first and foremost a vocal stylist of considerable ability.

It’s a burly collection, with the band’s flanged guitars and proggy synths asserting their refusal to follow any set style, and Hayden Thorpe’s bristling vocals similarly stretching indie constraints; but when the only “new” track is jerry-rigged together from two old tracks, it all seems a bit unnecessary.

Producer Royal Trux's Neil Hagerty doesn't try to rein in Blumberg's more abstruse inclinations, but finds ways of unveiling their strange beauty.

Here, the abrupt shifts between ballad placidity and animated angst underscore the theme of changing course.

Cooder requires considerable forces to realise his amalgams of blues, rock, folk, reggae and Mexican music, and here his band is expanded by the extraordinary, shrill horns of the 10-piece La Banda Juvenil.

Set to scratchy, fractured beats and sound-montages, it’s a welcome dose of no-age hip-hop in direct line of descent from De La Soul.

Hawthorne's muse is steeped in '70s influences--notably falsetto and symphonic-soul giants like Curtis Mayfield and Barry White, while trailing threads of piercing lead guitar through songs like “Wine Glass Woman” and “Corsican Rose” bring to mind Ernie Isley's work on “Summer Breeze”.

Olafur Arnalds' third album, For Now I Am Winter, is an exemplary suite of Icelandic music, blending American minimalist techniques with European sensibilities.

It's a lovely, warm-hearted gem.

For Life Love Flesh Blood, Imelda May has hooked up with T-Bone Burnett and his failsafe session crew of tasteful interpretive talent to effect a shift away from boisterous rockabilly towards more sensual torch songs like “Call Me” and “Black Tears.”

An album of fresh pleasures is the pay-off, but don’t come looking to it for substance.

Unfortunately, outside of those songs [Humility, Hollywood, Tranz, Sorcererz, and Lake Zurich] (which would have made for an excellent EP) The Now Now falls short, the grit and grandiosity of other Gorillaz records is absent.

It's a surprisingly enjoyable transformation for some of the tunes.

The album features slow-burning grooves that build steadily from modestly minimal to euphorically exultant.

A varied arsenal of approaches, but barely a mis-step.

Judging by The Light Of The Sun, she's expending precious little energy on songwriting and recording, allowing her natural inclination to extemporise far too free a rein.

The depth of The Colorist’s percussive range is transformative, bringing explicit form to the simple expression of romantic excitement in “Jungle Drum”, and rendering the enchantment of the new song “When We Dance.”

No song sounds over-rehearsed, and plenty sound like they were laid down on the first take.

Tricky plumbs the deepest fathoms of despair. But from that he’s created something beautiful. This is one of his best, and truest, albums.

Urgent, upbeat, demanding and funky, Lipa is a finger-snap personified throughout Radical Optimism.

Though that melancholy seeps deeper into songs like “So Now What” and “The Fear”, it’s never allowed to dominate, with the latter’s rolling drone groove quixotically tempered by the addition of mariachi horns, a typically off-centre touch.

His light, understated tenor blends well with her piquant tone on the blithe, buttoned-down yacht-rock grooves he creates for Little Wings’ “Look At What The Light Did Now” and Frank Ocean’s “Thinking Bout You”; but an affectless version of Barry Gibb’s “Grease” is less successful.

Oxnard isn’t quite the epic final chapter .Paak clearly craved for his trilogy--it certainly fails to compare to his 2016 breakthrough masterpiece Malibu--but you have to wonder if he really cares that much. On so many of these tracks he sounds restless, like he’s already thinking about moving on to bigger and better things.

An intriguing mix overall and further proof that Pearl Jam play by their own rules--a fact that real fans would never want to change.

Satisfying and wholly enjoyable album.

Technically unimpeachable, the layered harmonies of songs such as "Angels From The Realms Of Glory" and "The Holly And The Ivy" are rendered with razor-sharp precision, though there's a stridency to her delivery on some pieces.

In places, it's a disastrously over-egged pudding.

Meg Baird, formerly the frontperson of Philadelphia-based psychedelic folk-rockers Espers, is left a little exposed on her own solo album.

It’s a wonderful collection, with even Richard Thompson’s cold-comfort message in “End Of The Rainbow” imbued with a warm glow.

Habibi Funk deals not in the indigenous strains that occupy the main focus of world music reissues, but rather local crossovers that slipped between the cracks, reflecting outside influences from the Caribbean, Cape Verde, and overwhelmingly, Western funk, soul and disco. ... The more recent examples are somewhat diluted by developments in technology.

His songs may reference antiquities like Ernest Hemingway, but the drum programmes, autotuned vocals and synth sequences are more modern than the usual country-rock favoured by septuagenarian troubadours.

It’s the album equivalent of someone who can finally handle their liquor. Someone fresh out of their 20s and contemplating life via moments of late-night melancholy, as opposed to worrying implosion.

You’ll hear the recycled riff from the Beatles’ Paperback Writer (“Rain”’s original A side) on their new song “I’m So Bored”; the hook of Jimi Hendrix’s “Purple Haze” smoking its way through “Love You Forever”; and the brooding melody from the Stones’ “Paint it Black” on “One Day at A Time”. The pair poke fun at their own slapdash songwriting process on “Make it Up as You Go Along”. But still, there’s fun to be had with the way Gallagher tows teenage ‘tude into middle age.

The Shjips' mesmeric approach reaches its apogee on "Flight", whose rolling groove is streaked with cascading contrails of echoey, double-tracked space-guitar.

Waterhouse’s own vocals could be stronger, but his throwaway manner has a languid charm.

Wake Up! may tackle weighty themes of capitalism and power struggles in relationships, but the woozy ambience of its shoegaze and Sixties-inspired pop is not exactly going to propel you into an invigorating new way of life.

This collection of re-recorded hits and newer material lacks both that album's imaginative approach and its understated nobility.

Brian Jonestown Massacre’s 18th album might not be breaking any ground, or sitars, but 15 years after Newcombe nearly destroyed himself, it’s good to hear him sound so self-assured.

It's still suffused with a retro 1960s vibe, but this time the garage-pop influences prevail, with a sizeable side-order of psychedelia courtesy of the edgy West Coast lead guitar that streaks tracks.

The best of confessional pop – think Beyoncé’s Lemonade – finds an original sound for an original experience and demands the listener’s attention.

It’s a remarkable departure for Amidon, who also eschews his usual traditional repertoire in favour of original material, albeit haunted by similar hints of fate, animism and violence; though the overriding impression is best summed up in a phrase about “haphazard words found in drifting conversation”.

Each artist is joined at some point by Gibb’s distinctive high, breathy voice. It’s wobblier now, but sounds a little more searching and humble.

Whenever thoughts here turn to love, the results are not pretty.... But when antipathy rules, things go with a fizzy enthusiasm that’s quite infectious.

By the end of Post Traumatic, you realise Shinoda is right: this record is as much about Bennington as it is about him, but that’s what makes it so vulnerable and such a triumphant debut.

Their sixth album, Marauder, is their most experimental to date, blending everything from rough garage rock to Motown rhythms. They’re reinvigorated, brimming with energy and self-assurance.

Race is richly entertaining, immersive and evocative, orchestrated with fastidious care and feeling.

Everyday Life is a fascinating, occasionally brilliant curio, reflective of a band still very much figuring out how to respond to a world that has become meaner, dirtier and crueller since they were singing about clocks and colours. They’re not quite there, but you can admire the effort all the same.

Tight and heartfelt if ploddingly unoriginal.

It's still northern Europe that dominates their music.

It's all very laidback and earnest, but the endless lo-cal homilies ultimately grate.

The vibe on this debut for Jack White's Third Man label is pre-rock'n'roll.

The sonic thinness which seems inherent to Mount remains his limiting weakness, and modest strength.

Friendly Fires' follow-up to their Mercury-nominated debut is a huge disappointment.

His impressive collective of collaborators--John Mayer, Ed Sheeran, Ryan Tedder, Julia Michaels and Khalid--all help foster Mendes’ music into a more mature space.

Overall, the weaknesses far outnumber the strengths. Not, of course, that that will prevent huge sales figures for 4: because those numbers, ultimately, are what it's all about.

The combination works best on the single Attracting Flies; less engaging is the descent to playground chanting on Best Be Believing.

The more languid, erotic performances are balanced by ones on which Deantoni Parks' drums dictate the mood through their rattling, martial bustle.

Love Is Dead continues to ask questions of the world, but realises they’re not always black and white, or in CHVRCHES case, light or dark.

The record itself functions like an escape pod. When confined within Bastille’s catchy hooks and imaginative, era-spanning production, what lies ahead suddenly isn’t so terrible. The future is bright – for 30 minutes’ worth of bops, at least.

Combined with the faux-naive, fairytale tone of the narratives, it makes for an irritatingly condescending experience. The lofty aimlessness is matched by musical settings.

Musically, she strays a little too far from her folkie comfort-zone, with varied results

What a couple of charmers.

With her delivery tacking impressively between sweet and smoky, "On the Road" recalls what happened when the Kind of Blue influence hit the likes of Tim Buckley and Tim Hardin.

In places, Portico Quartet's third album recalls old-school jazz-funk, from the chamber-jazz end of the spectrum rather than the party end.

With his new Brotherhood, he's finally found the ideal vehicle to indulge his taste for "Cosmic California Music".

Sometimes, bigger is not better: Giant Sand's Howe Gelb has often been most potent with minimal resources, which may explain why I'm slightly underwhelmed by this major project.

Few musicians ever achieve such complete dominance and superiority on their instrument as Jerry Douglas: not a single voice is raised in challenge to Douglas's mastery of the dobro. This latest, guest-laden album shows why.

The result is an engaging, softly sensuous air of desolation, emotion recollected in tranquility.

It shifts desultorily from style to style, with songs barely hanging around long enough to state their case.

It's an album as hard to pin down as fog, but redeemed by moments of transcendent beauty.

The Birmingham quartet's debut album bears out the promise of their early singles and Delicious EP.

All in all, a difficult task accomplished with no shortfall of style and invention.

He’s helped by the sleek production of Ry and Joachim Cooder, the former lacing delicious guitar lines through Outlaw’s songs while his son adds subtly illustrative percussive flourishes.

The album arguably gets worse as he gets better, particularly in “Quicksand”, with its Coldplay-esque promise to “patch you up, we’ll work it out”.

It’s not always pretty--his blast of antipathy “Can’t Stand You” is just relentless disparagement, with none of the subtlety of “Positively 4th Street”; ultimately, it’s small wonder to find him, in “Poor Traits Of The Artist”, caught between loving and hating his need to create.

In places, Vanderslice’s more abstruse, jazzier ideas grate with the material--notably the clarinet discords closing the old departing-soldier-boy tale “When The Roses Bloom Again”--but he’s usually on the money with things like the elegiac strings accompanying “Betty’s Eulogy” and the lachrymose pedal steel, vibes and shaker underscoring “Wreck”, a heartfelt plea for a lover who’s “a worker, not a volunteer”.

This album, drawing together their three recent EPs, also displays the diversity of Best’s lyrical interests, ranging from brain chemistry (“Serotonin Rushes”) to psychoanalysis (“Freudian Slips”) and, in “Impossible Objects Of Desire”, the enigmatic allure of records which defined so many lives.

Guilt, sickness, depression and death have their haunting power acknowledged. The optimism of a songwriter who sees the world’s love and beauty through his own sometimes deep pain rarely falters.

For the most part, All Ashore feels like a breath of fresh Appalachian air. Both forward-thinking and imbued with an appreciation of the traditional sounds of America, it might not harbour a universal sense of appeal, but that makes it all the more beguiling for those who that fall for it.

Glimmers with fantastic, layered production. Instead of merging sounds so they become indistinguishable, each chime, each clatter of percussion, is given its space – as a result the whole album feels remarkably fresh.

There's nothing wildly inventive about her modern take on the vintage vibe. But it’s nonstop fun.

The album feels baggy in places, leaving you wondering if they’re trying too hard to tick every box. But most of the risks the band take pay off. A very promising debut.

Ezra’s third album delivers precisely the kind of easygoing, family-friendly happiness we’ve come to expect.

Variously embracing fado, jazzy whiskey-bar blues and tensile, grandiose strings, ... Eastern Esplanade is easily The Libertines’ most expansive and ambitious record.

Laidback and tidy, but fun.

There’s an ever-expanding diversity of appeal to Turn Blue that should win new fans and please the faithful.

Both musically and lyrically, the project cleaves to that kind of silly-spooky, funfair innocence, in a way that lends the album a freakish, cartoon unity denied to some of Tare’s previous projects.

The result is a work with greater resonance and presence, which might secure her mainstream success.

This album feels like the most cohesive and considered statement of who he is, both as an individual and as a solo artist. Stylistically, it has everything: chamber pop, grunge, classical, Latin, rock.

When they stray from their core heavy rock duties, there’s an Oasis-like magpie quality to the songs, be it the way that the acoustic harmony-pop of “Happy Ever After (Zero Hour)” recalls ‘60s pop trifle “Sitting On A Fence”, or the way Dave Grolsch’s Lennon-esque inflection on “Sunday Rain” is winkingly set within guitar and dynamics echoing Abbey Road’s “I Want You”.

It has a winning blend of respect, technique and humour.