Their second still bears that warmth and immediacy ... but the decision to supercharge so many tracks with clubbier beats – in other words, to make them sound a lot more like the rest of the charts – is disappointing.

While every single track on their debut album is beautifully constructed and impossible to dislike, it lacks the imperfections that excite.

More often than not, [the tracks] are the kind to dutifully admire and find interesting, rather than lose yourself to on a dancefloor--much of this record sags with chill-out longueur

In choosing lower-key collaborators, however, Rowlands and Simons seem to want these more-banging-than-average tunes to speak for themselves.

The anthemic Formaldehyde and Sugar both have the potential to be big radio hits, while Two Hearted Spider is more down-tempo, but no less powerful for it. It's not without its longueurs, however.

This is Wagner's second album, and that was the backstory of her 2012 self-titled debut. This follow-up is no less enigmatic.

Automaton seems an audacious comeback, to say the least, but also strangely listenable.

McMahon follows up Love with Freedom, tackling troubled masculinity through a series of character studies and a mesmerising, still psych-indebted sound that has fleshed out even further.

Having lost the shock of the new, this more tuneful follow-up privileges Krauss's pop instincts over Miller's mayhem.

Subtlety is, of course, the first casualty in the stampede for the folk mosh pit, and singer Jon Boden sometimes strains too hard for drama, lapsing into hamminess on murder ballad Greenwood Side.

The only downside is that Kiwanuka could have been even braver.

Two Saviors has a wonderfully loose feel. Meek’s gently enunciated vocals, delivered with all the urgency of Kurt Vile awaking from a nap, are backed by a band that knows how to keep it simple, Mat Davidson’s pedal steel and organ from Meek’s brother Dylan giving proceedings a timeless country feel. This lack of immediacy is a double-edged sword, however: too often the songs are so laid-back that they slide out of focus.

Two 10-minute pieces relegate song and vocals to second place behind ambitious but lumbering orchestration--producer Adrian McNally is, alas, no Gil Evans.

This 73rd studio album stands out from the somewhat erratic output, a winning mixture of confessionals, nostalgia and humour, co-written with producer Buddy Cannon.

Stand for Myself remains attuned to these country-soul stylings, but the full ingredients list is long: old-timey doo-wop on Great Divide, Brandi Carlile backing vocals, plus subtle British inflections.

Not everything here is riveting: Gurnsey’s narrative arc is a little underdeveloped.

It's even prettier and easier on the synapses than D--also released this year--without sacrificing any of the complexities for which the Texans are renowned.

If there are no huge surprises here, Further offers a punchy synthesis of country croon, psych-rock riffs and snappy songwriting that proves South Yorkshire’s stoic son has plenty of miles left to run.

Liquid Cool might lack the muscular tunes needed for a crossover, but period-perfect tracks such as Kiss the Screen or Over the Weekend nag persuasively.

It's all a bit silly but fond and well intentioned.

Nobody Is Listening doubles down on this expertly cultivated, look-but-don’t-touch, this-far-and-no-further brand. The good news is that, as an artist, Zayn keeps refining. The songwriters may be many here, but the songs suit him more and more.

There’s some of The Upsetter’s fever dreams in African Starship, and Kill Them Dreams Money Worshippers has a fiery strut, but sometimes Rainford sounds like a posthumous tribute, with Perry a wraithlike absence haunting the spaces of his exhumed past.

Several songs see Greene stranded near crisis, not quite broken up nor ready to make a romantic move, and the music is similarly timorous. You’re left willing him to change gears, to abandon these elegant sighs for something more full-throated.

Inji feels disjointed at moments but Eastgate’s stoned insouciance papers most of the cracks.

Most tracks float by in a pleasant if unremarkable funk-lite haze, but there’s an overall sense of Miller being older, wiser and more at peace than before.

Oblique lyrics provide few hand-holds; while his distress is palpable, it remains frustratingly nondescript.

For all their melodic nous, though, White Lies often sounded like the barely-not-teenagers they were; fixating on the downside, inflating everything out of all proportion.

The catch is that some passages here feel featherlight and unmemorable; a record about such transformational jubilation deserves to sound more characterful. A surprise sitar solo on Keep On isn’t quite enough.