On record that passion turns out to be a double-edged sword: his emotive delivery gives spirit to his quieter material, but when he’s at his most strident, on his more anthemic numbers, it can start to feel as if he’s using his voice to beat the listener into submission, as with Get Better here.

It’s not that C5 is too little, too late; more that the baton between the generations passed some time ago.

It’s an intriguing record, unpredictable and weird even in its simplicity.

Flawed, but enjoyable.

Bright Magic feels like a logical next step, with fewer samples, and the likes of Blixa Bargeld, Nina Hoss and Eera much more foregrounded. The downside is that, for all the invention on display here, J Willgoose Esq and Wrigglesworth have lost some of their USP with this shift in focus.

There are inevitable longueurs as well, mind: Pure Poor gives dirges a bad name, and closer Hey Lou Reid fancies itself as an epic but instead just feels like an extraordinarily slow six minutes. Still, the fact that Glasgow Eyes is three-quarters of a good record is reason for celebration.

A certain wooziness has always been the point of the Baltimore duo’s music but at times its gauzy aimlessness drifts dangerously close to torpor. More often, though, it is subtly tethered to some elegant, insidious hooks.

It can be heavy going, most notably on the headache-inducing demented circus polka of Sugar Boats (imagine Tom Waits covering Fucik’s Entry of the Gladiators), and a gateway song such as 2004’s Float On wouldn’t have gone amiss, but this is a solid enough return.

It’s all pleasant enough, but falls some way short of being compelling.

Without the tension created by the jerky guitar riffs of Smith’s day job, too much of the material here, particularly towards the album’s end, drifts by forgettably.

Subtract is palpably a grownup record on which he swings from coping to not coping. ... Artistically, things are less clear cut. If this is not a time for frisky, funky percussion, the watery tropes on these songs are matched by the album’s misty sound.

Inveterate collaborators Dr John and Kairos 4tet also add variety to a somewhat one-paced set.

Those happy to go with Van Etten will be rewarded by swooping pop noir, groaning organs and a sax solo, plus considerable hard-won wisdom.

There are appealing acoustic and woodwind moments--Yellow Lights, Aubade--but the thumping orchestral pieces verge on overkill and the dystopic descriptions of burning barrels seem hysterical at a time of rocketing renewables. Compared to Bellowhead, it’s a damp squib.

There are precious few real surprises, then, but that's not a problem.

He doesn’t sustain the magic, however, with the result that Cautionary Tale is very much a front-loaded affair, the likes of Lightning and Thunder failing to spark.

Knopfler’s music remains a reliable source of warm bluesy guitarwork; the Dire Straits-aping riff of Beryl is a familiar pleasure.

For all the Tarantino growl and spaghetti western shlock of opener Til the Moment of Death, this second album carries itself with more assurance than last year’s eponymous debut, with songcraft and witty wordplay coming to the forefront.

Nearly half its tracks have seen the light of day already, not least the standout Waiting Game. The remainder offer up a more conventional take on the sound than Banks's British counterpart, FKA Twigs.

Pity there's still too much syrup to wade through on other tracks.

A record that settles into a nicely crafted, twinkly retro rut without really grabbing you by anything more vital than your lapels; tweedy, bespoke, second-hand.

A skilfully aerated record in which loneliness, the far east and naff cologne all play a part.

The mood is mostly contemplative, with Khan embellishing songs like the wistful title track with sinuous cello-like parts, while he gets his own devotional outings (Knochentanz, Sufi Song), where Yorkston “just did my best to keep up”.

Though the self-consciousness and perky melodies start to wear thin, there’s depth here too. The best tracks strip away the hipster reference points to examine sadness and low self-esteem with wit and sincerity.

Little sparks surprise and delight, such as producer FaltyDL’s creative use of unpredictable backing vocals, and Anohni’s gossamer hook on French Lessons. On the other hand, Ketamine proffers a disorientating rhythm and queasy vibe – presumably designed to recreate a K trip – that is oddly not that enjoyable to listen to. However, the main problem is a constellation of guests.

Not flawless but always affecting.

While by no means a bad album, this fails to stand out in the way its predecessor did.

Their debut album certainly has its moments... But too many of their songs float prettily by without making an impact, gossamer-light and gossamer-memorable.