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

At first, newcomers to Yo La Tengo’s work might find the results irredeemably--even unconscionably--pleasant. Yet over this album’s full running time, there is something magnetically insidious about the way James McNew’s standup bass and Georgia Hubley’s percussion knit together material from sources as diverse as George Clinton and Hank Williams.

The Weeknd’s most conventional songs thus far are Sheeran’s boringly retro Dark Times, and Shameless, a guitar ballad unredeemable even by its deranged guitar solo. Elsewhere, the step up is more convincing, if not always easy to listen to.

Their fourth effort strives to retain the band’s considerable rhythmic nous while further amplifying the bombast. What results is partially successful.

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.

Overall, the swagger and sonic brawn get a bit wearying and it’s a shame they don’t show more of the pop nous that glimmers intermittently here.

If you are not in the mood, it can all turn into non-specific pastels. If you’re in need of succour, Beach House do a convincing line in sunshine during rain.

If his fourth album doesn’t quite live up to that pedigree, its rootsy take on soul--swigging deep from the spirit of Van Morrison and the E Street Band and ending up in a warm O-Dexys-Where-Art-Thou fug--is rambunctiously satisfying.

Fun to make, clearly; less so to listen to.

Summer is traditionally the season for unearthing treasures from the jazz archives, and this is a real prize.

Sky City is slightly too eclectic to be a truly cohesive work, but it almost gets there.

Despite the shadow of tragedy hanging over the project, there’s an irrepressible euphoria to the music throughout.

Although still a little too in thrall to his influences, there’s enough personality here to set him apart.

Compton has replaced the abandoned Detox project with a surprisingly vivid soundtrack of frustration inspired by the forthcoming NWA biopic.

This diverse, engaging and immensely likable collection plays at least as well on headphones as on the dancefloor.

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.

Though nothing on this record gives the impression of being overthought, there’s a familiar strangeness to his songwriting too.

Georgia turns everyday emotions into exotic and enticing vignettes.

When they let some light in they’re almost interesting, but for the most part Health are eternal sixth-formers--disgruntled and as if unsure what it is they want to say.

At times it’s reminiscent of Zach Condon’s band Beirut, but Haiku Salut never stay still for too long, nuzzling up to folk one minute and slow drum’n’bass the next.

Side Boob and Razor’s Edge don’t even bother with the middle men, heading straight for the infectious propulsion of Is This It. Elsewhere, however, Hammond makes a creditable stab at the sunny nonchalance of Mac DeMarco, while a crunching Arctic Monkeys riff underpins Caught By My Shadow.

It contains flashes of her former glories--This Ain’t Love’s soft R&B lilt; The Answer’s joyful chorus--but the rest is proficient, if hackneyed.

The feather-light touch of La Havas’s voice can be deceptive; for all her apparent ease, there are sufficient quirks and depths to her writing, not least the scientific analogies on Wonderful (electricity) and Unstoppable (astrophysics).

Where TMLT fails, it’s because of Stickles’ long-windedness and the self-obsession at the heart of this work; almost certainly a by-product of his diagnosis. Mostly, though, this lament is no tragedy, but a spirited two-fingers; a celebration of the artistic payload of atypical brain chemistry.

Can’t Wait and Say Thank You are both dazzling, but too many tracks are unworthy of a woman who once appeared to represent R&B’s future.

The results might sound something like north California-based DJ/songwriter/producer/singer Seven Davis Jr’s diverse yet cohesive debut.

Into this fray step the Chemical Brothers, 90s dance music titans, with their eighth studio album, their most enjoyable in years.

The breezy Surreal Exposure is an unhurried delight, as is instrumental opener The Disney Afternoon. Throw in a couple of collaborations with Julia Holter, and you have an album that’s ideal for lazy summer afternoons.