Some of the sparkle fades as the album goes on, with Run the Races and Outside the War especially ponderous, but this is another sure-footed set aimed as much at the head as at the hips.

Flawed, but enjoyable.

At times the music feels less like a tribute to her remarkable legacy than an exercise in smooth, award-ceremony funk.

Phase isn’t that bad at all; it certainly isn’t bland. The production, in particular, is dynamic and pin-sharp, in debt to a broad swath of UK night sounds (dubstep, garage) and digital R&B, the early 21st century’s hegemonic sound.

The default groove might be early 70s motorik--Tardis Cymbals is a typically beatific workout--but tracks Blowing My Nose Under Close Observation and Hi-Hats Bring the Hiss are proper dance music, while the Sonic Boom-enhanced Planetary Folklore is both spacey and creepy.

Antique pieces such as Cuco Sánchez’s Que manera de perder are wrung for their stately melodrama, while originals like La última vez and I Dreamed I Was Lola Beltrán take Tex-Mex into classy, modern terrain, steel guitars ringing alongside cantina strumming.

Disarmingly great guitar solos complete a picture of a band who aren’t as appreciated as they deserve to be.

Traoré’s vocals remain smooth, agile and sometimes challenging.

My Wild West isn’t without its longueurs, however, the introspection of Together or Apart and Go For a Walk failing to make much impact, but overall this is a fine set of grownup pop songs.

While Bulat’s previous sound was lovely, always tasteful, mostly mournful, here she comes arrestingly alive, invigorated firstly by the roiling emotions and rich material of a raw breakup and secondly by warm, glowing production from My Morning Jacket’s Jim James, who brings out previously lurking pop and soul tendencies.

Some tracks, though, aren’t actually as immediate as you would want them to be.

While he doesn’t know quite where his strengths lie yet, tracks such as Strange Things and Lonely Side of Her boast a ghostly, weathered quality that compensates for the odd hillbilly dud.

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.

Every track on We Are King putters and glides by quite smoothly. It’s only gradually you notice how complex this dream state actually is.

Overall there’s an abundance of grade-A pop on offer--just keep a tissue handy.

What’s new, though, are the traces of Talking Heads-style funk and a wistfulness prompted by parenthood’s demands. “I’m sorry if I’m ever short with you,” sings David to his wife on the closer, Stay Awake, while the touching The Morning Is Waiting possesses a depth hitherto absent from their work.

Even Elton-sceptics can take solace in how producer T-Bone Burnett continues to improve the veteran piano man by filling the interstices of his work with detail, rendering songs such as the rather good Claw Hammer at least 43% more nuanced.

Acoustic or not, the killer grooves remain (try Lover or the title track), though downbeat pieces like Hear the Rain Come may need warmer weather to appreciate.

There are longueurs--even Shawn Colvin can’t retrieve the Stones’ turgid Wild Horses--but it’s an enjoyable showcase of vocal talent.

Menace and rapture are beautifully balanced in Cross’s minimalist alt rock.

Very little of her pop is dull, even when she is trying to write for lowest common denominator mass appeal. The best tune here by some distance is the maddest.

It’s a brave and successful reinvention.

There are flashes of something special on Suffer, and the surprisingly sultry Selena Gomez collaboration We Don’t Talk Anymore, but in general, Puth’s anonymity is infuriating.

Although songs such as Things Don’t Change That Fast favourably recall many doleful US barroom bards, voice and words don’t actually improve Nugent, who packs more lyricism in his fingers than most.

There is nothing wrong with Rihanna’s default dead-eyed vixen delivery--it’s one of the seven wonders of the pop world. But ironically, she actually sings the hell out of this record. If only more of these songs could actually carry the weight of Rihanna’s bid for freedom--a bid that is, ultimately, half-baked.

Friedberger picks over love and relationships in ways that keep you guessing: strange flights of fancy are balanced by offbeat humour and there are startling moments of emotional directness that bring you up short.

What they’re trying to say isn’t always clear--are they sixth-form shock merchants or more profound?--but the five-piece most impress at their least confrontational.

The questioning Adore is a slow Left Bank skulk, the Savages equivalent to a torch song, but Savages work best at speed.