30 overreaches for the rafters a little too often. But the sophisticated interplay of Adele’s nuanced vocal and the Garner piano sample here lingers long in the mind.

Refreshingly unpredictable, this is a blueprint for what remix albums should aspire to.

While many of these 21 tracks (interludes abound) sound familiar--tunes like Pass the Knife share considerable bongwater with Cypress Hill’s 90s heyday--innovations do liven up the Hill’s central theme.

[The Ballad Of Darren] finds late-life Blur on eloquent, emotional form. It’s an album that often looks back, while summoning textures and nuances that only add to their toolkit.

As several of her songs attest, music can be consolation in the most troubled times, and Big Time is a silky balm.

The change has done them good.

Ignorance Is Bliss handles the MC’s next steps with authority and, crucially, popping production.

There are occasional flat spots (Paolo Nutini, the Secret Sisters) but ease, exuberance and quality easily outweigh any faux moments.

The mood of gathering gloom occasionally drifts rather close to torpor, but Feel It Coming Near and the sublime Awake usher the darkness in beautifully.

Normally you’d change carriages to avoid someone sounding this unhinged, but the 15 dosages Brown dispenses here are worryingly addictive.

Hield's command of her material is unerring and the outcome compelling.

Tracey Thorn's fourth solo set, though, is the best of the bunch [of Christmas albums], its sparse songs home to a seasonal standard, choice covers of Dolly Parton, White Stripes and Randy Newman songs and, in Joy and the title track, two fabulous self-penned tunes.

Every Head album is a gem, but Dear Scott – named after a note-to-self by F Scott Fitzgerald, down on his luck – has a particularly deep internal lustre.

It's bonkers and frequently brilliant.

LaVette, an intense, mesmerising presence throughout.

This is an album that (once again) quietly demands to be heard, and enjoyed, as an inseparable whole.

It’s About Time is a masterly collection of relentlessly upbeat floor-fillers, even if the song titles--Boogie All Night, Dance With Me, Do You Wanna Party?--occasionally verge on self-parody.

Andrew Fearn’s deathlessly inventive compositions stare you down, defying you to find them simplistic – the title track’s turbo-charged electro, and the pointillist electronics of Top Room, are just two cases in point.

Throughout, there are echoes of the rootsier moments from Give Out But Don’t Give Up, but with the earlier swagger replaced by vulnerability. It’s as pleasing as it is unexpected.

It’s no surprise that Barbie World, the song she shares with her protege Ice Spice, is 109 seconds of pure plastic bliss. Like much of the soundtrack, it fizzes with moreish, sugary filth, simultaneously R-rated and child-friendly.

This is a record chockful of beauty and thoughtful autobiography that only a more experienced, more assured songwriter could have made.

The chill, sparse productions foreground Clavish’s economical delivery beautifully, as he flirts with imploring vulnerability and vicious querulousness without ever committing to either.

What worked a treat then continues to work now.

His 11th solo album doesn’t deviate wildly in tone from 2014’s Lullaby and ... the Ceaseless Roar. He’s backed once again by the Sensational Space Shifters, who artfully flesh out the rock and folk elements with splashes of bendir, oud and djembe.

Streisand’s powerful delivery of simple, pointed lyrics (“Facts are fake and friends are foes / And how the story ends nobody knows”) convinces, even on the gamiest heart-tuggers.

There is a feeling of generous unspooling here, with hip-hop breakbeats (on one standout, Dream Another) and nods to machine-made music in among the sumptuous orchestral and genre-agnostic instrumentation.

Remarkably, this 15th album might be their best.

Traditionalists might still wonder where all the nice steady beats have gone, why so little music here is anchored. The dominant message, though, is of limitlessness, of hope and, on Future Forever, of “a matriarchal dome” with “musical scaffolding”.

Her collaboration here with production wunderkind (and fellow Los Angeleno) Ariel Rechtshaid has brought her angry, grungy side to the fore. It was worth the wait.

Like its predecessors, Big Fish Theory is an album that grabs you by the lapels with its urgency while slapping you round the ears with its sound design.

By turns gritty and poetic, its words “scattered like teeth”, it’s also a real original.

Few of Songs’ 11 tracks disappoint, their stop-start synths and impossibly fragile vocals hinting at new avenues for introverted soul.

For the most part it’s a rich and deftly arranged work, and though there’s a warmth that can sometimes border on cloying, he cuts through with chaos and levity.

Sonically, however, Blood Moon stands alone as a perfectly judged synthesis of conventional songwriting skills and detailed, cinematic music that revels in the silence between the notes. Superb.

Beneath the swearing there’s a sharp sense of humour and even sharper powers of observation, Williamson’s freeform wordplay painting vivid pictures of an at times uncomfortably recognisable contemporary Britain.

The Algorithm’s concept is too boring to explain, but thankfully the music isn’t.

Musically, Dawn FM mirrors Tesfaye’s disquiet, its buffed electronic sheen ruptured by moments of discord, as when ballad Starry Eyes teeters on the brink of implosion. It’s a state that Tesfaye seems to relish, with often stunning results.

The result is a minor country-soul gem, full of lovely and deeply atmospheric instrumentation gilding Ford’s alluring vocals.

An ambitious, accomplished piece of work.

Corin Tucker’s yelp remains a thing of wonder, Brownstein’s lead guitar never takes the easy option and Janet Weiss’s drums anchor all the thrilling unease.

An odd attempt at dancehall on Ratchet Behaviour aside, Red Flag feels expertly judged.

This is 2017’s zeitgeist Notting Hill carnival soundtrack.

Sick! emerges with musicality enhanced, full of strings, soul samples, arpeggiating pianos and vinyl crackle – sometimes, as on the immersive Vision and Tabula Rasa, all at once.

This is hardcore music for a generation weaned on rave and grime, jazz’s cutting edge. The comet isn’t coming, it’s arrived.

The word “immersive” is bandied about a lot, but Hecker’s work really is.

Dust is a record that is powerful, consuming, yet also strangely comforting.

It is a thoroughly unironic, seriously fun, rock record, in which seizing the day (well, the night), settling scores and the importance of making one's own money are explored in detail, with leering electric guitar and crashing kit.

The resultant soundscapes stretch invitingly on tracks such as the lilting Hondo, while Kalahari summons up an appropriately threatening desert atmosphere.

At just 35 minutes, Phasor might not be as all-enveloping as his previous efforts, yet it offers enough scraps of melody and moments of wonder that you won’t feel cheated.

Tied to the Moon is a captivating follow-up to her 2012 debut, Under Mountains, offering a richer, darker take on the soft folk of that record.

I Don’t Want To, Growing Pains, Comfortable and, particularly, 7 Days are all excellent examples of sensible-sweater, big-sister pop.

There are blooping keys and retro drum machines on River Rival; Thinking of Nina feels like a long-lost hit from the 80s. Even better is Soft Boys Make the Grade, a tune that relocates Williams’s gothic bent into a killer soft-rock tune in which he sidles into someone’s direct messages.

For those expecting Malone’s all-enveloping instrumental embrace, the churchiness of the voices can startle. But the younger artist came to music through choirs, and the sorrowful grace of the words makes plain emotions she previously only implied.

An innovative homage to tradition.

Weller sounds at ease with this more introspective material, the lush orchestration acting as a perfect foil to his voice.

Delicately sung and immaculately played in semi-acoustic fashion, it’s a high point in an impressive career.

Staying true to idiosyncratic instinct has made Expectations feel more universal than a generic, play-it-safe debut. It might not be what you were expecting, but it’s just what your pop playlist needs.

This whirlwind album is full of feeling and fervour, and its liveliness affirms just why she is a singular talent.

The richness of Crain’s voice and the elegant simplicity of the musical arrangements bring drama to these stories. And the striking imagery of her lyrics finds beauty and pathos in the details of downtrodden lives.

It’s an album that draws you into Diamond’s world, full of real, 3D emotions.

Thirty years into his career, Warm shows that Tweedy is as absorbing as ever.

Tough and uncompromising.

Halsey is less a pop chameleon than a musical magpie and Manic is a pristinely produced album that sounds a bit like everything you know, but better (Still Learning is a banger, like Evanescence with steelpan).

Every listen throws up some new, previously unnoticed innovation.

At 15 tracks, Club Romantech can feel relentless in its rhythmic energy. Yet if you surrender to the sound, it’s hard not to find the album infectiously danceable. It is a brave new world for Icona Pop, one that finds them closer to Ibiza than Katy Perry.

There’s no song here that would make an encore, but Hello Happiness is a vital calling card to remind everyone to come hear this unearthly voice, still sizzling with spice.

While retaining the warmth and intelligence that has served them so well thus far, What a Terrible World… finds the five-piece at their most wide-ranging.... A fine return.

Jazz tempos have always posed an implicit challenge to the 4/4 order, but this is an album that really wants its transmissions to be received.

These songs about maturity and internal toughness often move in mysterious ways, leaving plenty of space for Feist’s probing guitar work and an atmosphere that really breathes.

Her second album, written in Nashville, continues to make up for lost time, moving on in both craft and playfulness.

This first album in 20 years proves an inspired tribute to the master.

Overall, it’s not as gleeful as their last one, but melodic light relief abounds, as on the Belinda Carlisle outtake that is It’s Not Living (If It’s Not With You). Those conclusions feel earned, not merely hashtagged.

Loose, heady and sensual by turns, Garden of Ashes surveys both the parlous state of the world and blasted inner landscapes with resonant instrumentation, rattlesnake percussion and a thousand-yard stare. And yet, on songs such as Sleep, the overriding impression is one of succour.

Having explored the darker side of the dancefloor, Nymph finds Muise experimenting with its more irreverent aspects.

Moments such as the opening melody of This Belongs to You or the gradual unfolding of Born are just plain elegant. There’s a similar quality about saxophonist Chris Potter’s playing, and all four are so relaxed in each other’s company that everything flows beautifully.

Joyous, maudlin or gritty, it’s marriage country-style. Delightful.

Revisiting her childhood terror of nuclear war (“Protect and Survive” et al) is perhaps fighting yesterday’s battles; otherwise, a flawless outing.

Blige’s co-writers, including UK-to-US success stories Disclosure, Emeli Sandé and Sam Smith, find striking ways to frame Blige’s voice without distracting from its richness and emotional range.

Tinariwen’s call-and-response vocals roll inexorably, entrancingly along. They are still the champions of the genre they created.

Only the syrupy "I Was Here" disappoints, its corny bluster at odds with the laid-back feel of her most accomplished album yet.

Press-release comparisons to Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin are misplaced-Lenny Kravitz, maybe--but this is still a good album.

The best that can be said is that Trotter’s singing is warm and assured. Elsewhere, though, this veteran polemicist is on fire, his learned invective weaponised to meet the present moment. ... The rest of the track-listing has both power and nuance, taking in personal relationships (We Should Be Good), autobiographical pain (Fuelt) and references to TS Eliot (Ghetto Boyz N Girls), with Trotter barely pausing for breath before landing the next masterful rhyme.

While this seventh album continues the band’s slow move away from the anthemic drama of The Seldom Seen Kid, there’s a richness of ideas here that rewards repeated listening.

The rapport among the five of them, especially between Miles and Shorter, is beyond belief. The sound quality is excellent throughout.

Their erudition, musical and lyrical, remains a pleasure, but what convinces on Modern Vampires are their beating hearts.

Owens’s is not the only voice elevating this album: Welsh legend John Cale contributes to the brooding Corner of My Sky. Alongside relationship breakdown and the death of her grandmother (the coolly arpeggiating Jeanette), climate apocalypse gets a workout too.

There are points where you sorely wish Morrissey had a few more apercus to impart.... But for every step back, Morrissey's paso doble takes two steps forwards. His years of refusal seem to be turning into years of renewal.

There’s much to discover here, making it an immersive and rewarding album to go back to again and again.

If these songs occasionally feel underwritten – many are brief, jazzy sketches that seem to wander in and meander back out again – they contrast pointedly with the overwritten, attention-deficit music crafted to punch out on today’s Spotify playlists. Sometimes all you need is a little tenderness.

His singing is better than ever, whether reminiscent of Billie Eilish’s lean-in intimacies (Facts_Situations) or Kele Okereke’s husky confessionals (I’m Done). Yet mostly Halo feels like an inch rather than a leap forward.

Echoes of Fairport, Span, Thompson et al abound, but Offa Rex has its own compelling identity, and should win Chaney an international name.

This, their [Carroll and producer James McMillan] fourth album together, displays a characteristic mixture of deceptive simplicity and emotional depth.

A fierce polemic that impresses and frustrates in equal measure.

DIY at its wilful, weird finest.

There are fewer surprises but no shortage of quality.

A wonderfully inventive creation.

Bracing, brilliant.

Arcade Fire producer Markus Dravs brings depth and heft, whether spotlighting each player or drowning everything in a deluge of guitars. Singer Ellie Rowsell steps up with some wonderfully shapeshifting vocals.