At first it seems she’s bounced back undaunted: galvanising opener Never Really Over thrums with fizzing electro synths; Daisies pushes back against detractors with brio. Yet there’s a creeping lethargy, a sense that, at 35 and about to become a mother, Perry’s kitschy shtick of old doesn’t quite fit any more, but that she hasn’t found a way forward she can connect with.

With the exception of Little Me, a refettling of Destiny's Child's Survivor, what falls in between is polished enough 21st-century R&B by the numbers, but rather less entertaining.

Cut the World reprises 10 of his old songs, adds one new one (the title track) and Future Feminism, which is the kind of thing that will either get you punching the air as you did at Danny Boyle's Olympics opening ceremony, or crossing your legs and muttering about distrusting gender absolutes.

The [emotional] connection is missing because of The Messenger's overarching weaknesses: the voice and the lyrics.

Often, The Monsanto Years hits home squarely.

The good news is that Caleb Followill retains one of the great rock voices, a yearning, brittle, whiskey-brined caw that’s richer than ever. Kid Harpoon’s production is invariably excellent. .... Sadly, nearly every lyric dissolves into garbled nonsense.

With no vocals to dictate affective themes, you are left to the painterly openness of Pearce’s work, which affords space to both mounting tension and meditative resolution.

Perhaps the slightly stentorian tone of Cosentino’s vocals is at odds with the fragility of some lyrics – she sounds pretty much invulnerable whether celebrating love, or admitting she never thought she’d be worthy of it. Still, when she stretches herself, as on piano ballad Easy or the moody alt-country of Real Life, it feels as if she has a real future on her own.

The mordant songwriting redeems The Civil Wars.

Foals remain the antithesis of a foursquare indie rock band. And yet nothing here is quite holy enough, or quite fiery enough, to live up to the album's billing.

As Storytone goes on, a pink-umbrella cocktail of vulnerability, bravery and Disney, it becomes engrossing--car-crash listening, even.

This is an album that perfectly reflects Burgess’s guileless, up-for-anything, good-egg nature.

No chance of paunchy homage here; lyrics cluttered with Munch, war and the Chartists and the tightly coiled energy of its best moments, such as Misguided Missile and instrumental closer Mayakovsky, suggest they are fronting up to middle age rather well.

On the unreleased tracks, genuine surprises are few. But the campy prowl of My Oh My and the high-stakes breathiness of Bad Kind of Butterflies keep the balance tilted away from syrupy dross, in favour of fun.

Their fourth is a satisfying blend of youth and experience, at its best when raw feelings and twenty20-something anxieties chafe against its smooth, midtempo rock.

These slow-building, shivery washes of sound are what the band do best, proving worthy of far more listening time than those incidental moments soundtracking nature programmes.

Derivative Gorman may be, but he’s also confident and distinctive with it.

It packs a selection of nagging tunes that could easily light up the mainstream as, say, the Pet Shop Boys once did, if rave-ified R&B didn’t exert such a stranglehold on the charts.

Currents details a painful rebirth, but you’d never guess as much.

The best of these blues and folk-indebted songs carry the faint warmth and reassuring whiff of an old pub as frontman John Bramwell reflects wittily on life's disappointments. But there's a pervading drabness that they struggle to shake.

It’s not groundbreaking, but Blige’s vocals alone are a reminder of why she remains so important to the genre.

Sting’s still a fearless, fascinating lyricist, and Shaggy’s attractive persona remains one wink short of a leer. 44/876 may be no more exciting than a well-made sofa, but only psychopaths don’t like sofas.

Here, he remains in fine, yet undeniably altered, voice; the power of his interpretations is undimmed even as intimacy overtakes their former lushness.

The success of Lips Are Movin’ confirms that she’s no Eamon-style one-hit wonder; but Trainor might do well to study Duffy’s fate.

There’s still a degree of inconsistency: I Was Just Here is unpleasantly jarring, the wilfully flat vocal delivery not adding to its charm. But there are enough highs to make this worthy of a listen.

Thematic monomania is one thing, but musically, In the Lonely Hour could have done with more variety.

As the tempo drops, though, so does the quality: It’s a Beautiful World remains lumpenly uninspired, despite producer David Holmes’s best attempts at window dressing, while Be Careful What You Wish For slumps when it tries to slink.

14 tracks stretches the hooks a little thin, but My Mind Makes Noises boasts pop craft to rival big-money production teams, and much better eyeliner to boot.