Most of the sounds here are mellifluous, with ample space given to heavenly backing vocalists on the more heartfelt songs, like the standout Hudson Mohawke co-production Free Ride.

On one level, it’s just like old times, with the Lennon and McCartney of the guitar underground strutting their off-kilter stuff. ... But ironically for an album made in 2020, the record stumbles most when it tries to deal head-on with the times of its making.

Atmospheres, healing and processing society’s messages are the point here, rather than hits. But Wells doesn’t lack for tunes, which ebb in and out.

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.

Musically, this is unforgivably mediocre. A memorable chorus will occasionally appear from nowhere, as on Hey Lou (and Soul Sucker wins points for its unexpected nod to Blue Boy’s Remember Me), but for the most part the coffee-table pop on offer here is remarkable only for being so forgettable.

Mustafa’s delivery hits a bruised place somewhere between 21st-century folk and bereft R&B.

When Kele does sing, his magnificently anguished yelp is mostly stilled. There is far too much spoken word. This scattershot approach just about worked on his previous album, 2042, but this has neither its visceral immediacy nor the wild, unhinged invention of what he does best.

It all adds up to a highly pleasing change of direction.

An album whose title suggests razzmatazz but delivers Wagner’s customary laid-back profundity with well placed digital embellishments.

It’s made all the more thrilling by the fact that while Moctar is busy conjuring extraordinary sounds from his guitar, the rest of his band keep upping the song’s tempo. Pleasingly, he is no less affecting on his more gentle, acoustic material, as on stripped-back recent single Tala Tannam.

Half wallow, half messy I-don’t-need-you self-care, Sour is the perfect first breakup soundtrack from a hugely promising new talent.

Apart from the more contemporary dystopian digitals of Golden, the feel throughout is ancient and enigmatic. But these lute tones and classical Arabic music figures are rendered digitally; the cloister garden is an interior dream-space.

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.

Admittedly, these are songs that didn’t make the cut for Smith’s next full-length album, due out in 2022. Still, Digging’s angsty 80s pop rock energy and Bussdown’s (featuring rapper Shaybo) subtle dancehall beat are nice enough to rewind, proving that this is more than just an ephemeral work.

Weller seems incapable of releasing a downright bad album at the moment, but this isn’t one of his best.

It does nothing but enhance her reputation.

Standout tracks such as Special Girl, with its intricate percussion, offer an insight into the intriguing, playful sonic flavours Clark could be exploring more thoroughly.

At 14 songs, however, the album soon starts to sag, with Graham’s approach to emoting – ie sing louder – eventually overwhelming the weaker songs. ... It’s in the smaller moments that Graham seems most comfortable.

Bright Green Field has a hurtling energy, each song shifting restlessly, repeatedly in style and pace. It’s a shame, then, that the vocals of drummer and lyricist Ollie Judge so often pull it back to earth.

There is much to distinguish Moriondo, whose sense of mischief is as strong as her pop-punk desire to tell it like it is.

Endless Arcade dwells on the end of love, as hymned on multiple TFC albums; on stoicism in the face of this emotional catastrophe, or – on Raymond McGinley’s songs – our tiny place in the cosmos and the importance of eking joy out of everything.

The results are frequently beautiful, the new settings making even the most familiar texts (Ode to a Nightingale or The Lady of Shallot, say) sound fresh.

Rare, Forever rewards engaged listening, though, and intriguingly it’s the classical and jazz influences that are most persuasive, particularly on album bookends Ecce! Ego! and All I See Is You, Velvet Brown, and Mothra’s majestic orchestral techno crescendo.

Where before there was a too-raw frailty to some of Ulven’s music, now she has hit a bold, gleeful stride in which diaristic splurge has become writing; and music, not merely a vector for venting, but a place in which to tame noise into sounds that benefit her.

A special evening, but one containing both chasms and confluences.

Throughout, there’s a feeling of being in safe hands, in sync with the Brewises rather than merely being impressed by them.

Yes, some people will say they rarely change, that there isn’t enough variety across this or any Dinosaur album. Only Take It Back’s funky mellotron truly surprises. Elsewhere I Ain’t, To Be Waiting and I Ran Away stick fruitfully to the script. Yet that’s what good work is. Showing up, hitting your marks, doing what you do best. Some people are staring at the bricks, not noticing the palace they built.

Flu Game’s bouncy productions tread a nimble line between trap beats, international party music and London forms. If these 16 tracks sound like end-to-end bangers (three have been hits already), the slight downsides are also familiar.