It makes for their most cohesive album yet.

This encounter with three outstanding Malian musicians dazzles, however, partly because the quartet hush their chamber strings and let the African trio strut their formidable stuff.

A potent brew.

Throughout, there’s a disarming warmth and thoughtfulness, making for a pleasantly surprising late-career highlight.

Push past the weaponised irony and you’ll find Another Weekend and Feels Like Heaven are his most seductive melodies since breakthrough album Before Today.

An album to light the way through the darkest hours.

Nothing on Sleep Well Beast is headline-new. But you are either in singer Matt Berninger’s corner, clinging on as he drills down into his anxieties, or you are wondering why even validated white guys in first-world countries can still eat themselves up inside so insatiably.

His tremulous voice and weed-fuelled guitar still resonating 41 years on.

Quite how Murphy manages to turn all this sombreness into a great LCD album defies logic, but he has landed on his feet, yet again.

A master musician on top of his game.

Occasionally there are hints of Television, Pixies, the Replacements, Pavement or similar acts, but Invitation has a righteous swagger all of its own.

A raft of obscure synths has given A Deeper Understanding a glitzy, gilded aura that makes Granduciel’s trademark lyrical tussle between comfort and the possibility of change more pronounced. They contrast beautifully with his weathered voice.

Ejimiwe forgoes the disjointed electronic sounds of his first two records in favour of a hazy alt-rock backing, but he’s now at home in this style and his languid, sung-spoken monologues sound their most assured.

Where they used to overlap neat pastoral melodies until the ground felt like it was churning beneath you, the landscape here is smouldering, godforsaken and explosive, their awkwardness untamed.

Musically, there’s a playful restlessness throughout, with rock and electronica constantly being twisted into imaginative shapes.

Their voices interweave majestically on cover versions that stretch with surprising ease from bluegrass to grunge.

This, their [Carroll and producer James McMillan] fourth album together, displays a characteristic mixture of deceptive simplicity and emotional depth.

It is, ultimately, unfair to parse a Rawlings album looking for traces of Welch. It’s wisest to thrill to an Americana record you can howl along to in the car until your heart feels replenished, to guitar work that stands among the finest.

The influence of shambly 1990s indie such as Pavement and, most obviously, Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci is clear on their winningly gauche debut, but it stands in a longer line of British faux-naifs stretching back through Postcard Records and the Raincoats.

A few songs here--best of all, Shady Lady--are full of the kind of 60s harmonic whimsy associated with the Beatles, locating the album in the 20th century, but The Scarecrow remains timeless and terrifying.

It’s typical Monk--angular, mercurial, introspective--played by his regular quartet of the time, plus French saxophonist Barney Wilen.

Nothing builds to a blank, frazzled catharsis, while Sell It Back is an eerie, epic closer: these are torch songs written with petrol and a flamethrower.

It’s only when Arcade Fire nail down specifics that they stop just adding to the digital churn and give you actual shivers.

Previous songs have hopped around topics and genres(dance music, bombastic Kanye collaborations; here are arresting departures like the slow, hyper-modern torch song Coffee & Cigarettes or the closing electronic rock ballad Rage.

Snaith’s joy at intermingling delicate melodies with steroidal rhythms and scything hi-hats persists, and he delivers several moments of handbag-dropping euphoria that will thrill whether you’re listening on a laptop or in Fabric’s room one.

The ageless 32-year-old arrived at a languid sound, a detached authorial voice and a set of obsessions on her 2012 debut Born to Die, and her fourth album remains true to them all.

There’s no filler among these 10 songs, from the summer-breezily defiant Silver, via the grungy swing and swagger of Brass Beam, to the rueful Belly-ish balladry of A Little More.

This is not a dark record, but one whose interstitial found sounds and international guest list celebrate Crossan’s adopted London.

Handily, 70s soft rock is a well-worn vector for such feelings. And if there is a nit to pick with Something to Tell You, it is that Haim’s balance of R&B and soft rock has leaned too far in favour of blowsy wallowing, and away from R&B’s clever sonic feints and tough-girl postures.

A fascinating album that only slowly gives up its secrets.

Echoes of Fairport, Span, Thompson et al abound, but Offa Rex has its own compelling identity, and should win Chaney an international name.

The songs come with sharp parables about the corrupt state of Congo, or, like Le temps passé, with low-key charm. A winner.

These tunes, particularly the winsome Burn Out Blues, are spry and familiar yet steeped in mystery, as befits an album that steals from everywhere.

It’s less jazz and neoclassical than its predecessor, and more space rock--tracks such as Kelso Dunes introduce motorik beats into Shepherd’s modus operandi to no ill effect.

It is a short, sharp album, produced entirely by Kanye West’s former mentor No ID.

Her authority is unquestionable: songs such as the Leonard Cohen-influenced Solitary Daughter give Laura Marling a serious run for her money.

This reissue (effectively 2008’s Collector’s Edition plus three excellent unreleased songs) proves that Radiohead’s reputation derives from their music’s depthless humanity, not its instrumentation.

Dust is a record that is powerful, consuming, yet also strangely comforting.

Like its predecessors, Big Fish Theory is an album that grabs you by the lapels with its urgency while slapping you round the ears with its sound design.

It’s not an easy listen, but it is a rewarding one.

Earle pays homage to the outlaws with a dozen fine originals.

These 11 tracks are immersive, shifting creations, retaining the heavenly signature harmonies of FF’s previous work, while further expanding the band’s sound.

A couple of songs hang too much on their belting choruses, but moments such as the disco-Stones shuffle of Oo La La and the unabashed, dreamy balladry of Love in Real Life more than compensate.

Boomiverse’s self-conscious stylistic plurality is the new old-school. All Night, simultaneously too wacky and too obvious, is a moment to cringe at, but for the most part this is dad rap that can hold its head high.

This resulting work is hefty enough to tick industry boxes, and just weird enough to intrigue; a qualified success.

They hit a James Brown groove on Bamako, use fiddle on the Ali Farka-style Hometown, and let loose a children’s choir on One Colour, a delightful closer to a joyous, eclectic album.

The more you listen, the more Planetarium recalls Stevens’s glitchy, Auto-Tuned The Age of Adz album. Myth and science, astrology and astronomy, the personal and the political, religion and the profane commingle.

They’ve reunited in the studio for this succinct collection of gentle pop-rockers, familiar yet far more strange and beautiful than 2013’s brittle Fleetwood Mac EP.

A refreshingly short, focused piece of work.

If the concept might seem a bit Brexit, the execution is flawless and winningly witty.

There’s a lovely lightness of touch to each of these 10 songs and a real lushness to Auerbach’s production. Malibu Man and Stand By My Girl are the standouts, but really you’d be hard pressed to find a weak link here.

Jamming is one thing; finding oneself in the midst of one of Europe’s top jazz orchestras is something else, and Charlie Watts handles it with aplomb.

Over 12 tracks there are break-up cliches Parker can’t help but stumble into--“I’ve been blue over you” is the revolutionary gist of a song called Blue--but there is enough viscera on show here to make up for these well-worn sentiments.

His voice, like the music, has a dream-like quality. ... Superb.

Harding is her own woman, an arresting vocalist whose mannered deliveries--from chanteuse to jazzy--and intense themes defy obvious influence.

This is 2017’s zeitgeist Notting Hill carnival soundtrack.

DeMarco has always worn his talent lightly, but finally he sounds focused, reflecting on relationships like a millennial Cat Stevens, particularly those with his absent father and his long-term girlfriend.

Their 2014 comeback Do to the Beast--featuring just Dulli and bassist John Curley from the original line-up--was a little underwhelming, but its follow-up finds them rewinding the years more successfully.

Excluding the syrupy 26 and seething No Friend, After Laughter could be one of the year’s best pop albums.

Sugar for the Pill is desolate in its gorgeousness, and Star Roving sounds anthemic, victorious, as it should.

Here, we have Hadreas’s desire to transcend his body and self--the no shape of the title--and glorious, inventive, shape-shifting music to match.

There are sturdy melodies on the quietly charming Cosoco or Cálculos Y Oráculos, but even an apparently conventional song is soon transformed by her edgy and intriguing off-kilter soundscapes.

There are plenty of less banging, but still lovely, treats elsewhere on this sweet-but-sharp set, too.

These songs about maturity and internal toughness often move in mysterious ways, leaving plenty of space for Feist’s probing guitar work and an atmosphere that really breathes.

A bravura statement from an artist still sounding fresh three decades into his career.

Country-rocking backing band the Jayhawks are on top form, and the duet with Karen Grotberg, A Place in Your Heart, is affecting. The cod-Native American field holler of Change for Change and the shuffling, jazzy I’ve Heard That Beat Before are highlights.

Jeremy Earl’s songwriting is as strong as on last year’s City Sun Eater in the River of Light, and his psychedelic folk-pop band manage to sound forward-looking.

It can sound like being plunged into a dark, Dante-esque forest, with only a muted aortic throb to guide you home. Immersive, to say the least.

Yet another dial-shifting record.

Pleasingly, following a hit-and-miss attempt to incorporate more whimsical strains of psychedelia into their sound on 2013’s Indigo Meadow, their fifth album marks a return to the threatening drones that made their first two so powerful.

A voice for the times.

Too many songs begin with the hook, to get you through the revenue-generating 30-second mark without any of that scary rapping. When the hook is strong, that’s just about acceptable. Too often, it makes Tinie sound like his own guest rapper.

Pastoral moods pervade ballads such as False True Piya, the 15-minute devotional Halleluwah rocks furiously and Yorkston’s The Blues You Sang pays sweet tribute to a fallen friend. Top drawer.

There’s only one misstep: the slower Candles turns into a dispiriting trudge. Otherwise, The Far Field is another accomplished, engaging set.

The atmosphere is one of glacial sultriness laced with small surprises (Creep’s horns; childhood self-recordings), but Tei Shi’s lyrics interrogate love and its permutations with elegance, and her South American heritage emerges on the Spanish-language Como Si.

Delicately sung and immaculately played in semi-acoustic fashion, it’s a high point in an impressive career.

It’s a wisely curated selection--despite these not being Dylan’s lyrics, it’s impossible to listen to the likes of September of My Years and not hear the resonance of autobiography.

It’s unflinching stuff, though Taylor rings the changes musically.

Old-school Africa at its finest.

A welcome return to form.

The more modish tracks are somehow less inventive than their titles, but there’s much southern-stewed, offbeat beauty elsewhere to compensate.

A captivating, low-key set from a singular talent.

Overall, Salutations might be slightly sprawling and lack a little of the focus of Ruminations, but it makes for a highly enjoyable companion piece.

Cocker and Gonzales aren’t so mesmerised by Chateau lore (John Belushi overdosing, etc) as they are by the semi-famous marinating in glamorous desperation, the old-school Hollywood lifers ordering “ice cream as main course”.

There are glimmers of musical progression on Sleaford Mods’ ninth album: Jason Williamson sings the odd line, and there are even occasional choruses. But, pleasingly, for the most part it’s business as usual.

Musical quirks do pile up, but the joys here are many, from Merritt’s deadpan views on ethics, discos, Levi’s 501s, tears and his local (Be True To Your Bar), to his magnificent way with a tune, in which complexity lurks within simplicity.

There’s a new slinkiness to some of these songs.

The Navigator might be full of site-specific anger and yearning, but like its predecessors, it is incredibly easy on the ear. The songs just flow--slinky, sad or elegant in their own ways.

There are anguished pyrotechnics from young Malian singers like Rokia Koné and Mamani Keita, sweet love calls and a restless, infectious energy to the album. A triumph.

An exciting listen, but the group’s uplifting energy and brilliant instrumentalists (including renowned Ghanaian guitarist Alfred Bannerman) are probably best experienced live.

Though it’s all new, the weirdness of ancient folk is ever present; he’s a true original.

Why Love Now, PJ’s fifth, is a surprisingly tuneful deconstruction of themes as varied as cancer (Waiting on My Horrible Warning), the modern workplace (“singer” Matt Korvette is an insurance adjuster) and male assholery that swings between scary and hilarious.

Outrage is very much grime’s default mode, but Stormzy is particularly good at it.

The tracklist could stand a little pruning, but Thundercat’s virtuoso bass playing and impressive cast of collaborators make it an early standout of 2017.

It’s scene-stealing stuff.

A timely, arresting album.

Here he turns in a set of fine, affecting songs, from the 80s soft rock of Anything I Say to You Now and Do You Still Love Me?, to the more introspective We Disappear, which recalls Paul Westerberg at his most intimate.

This fourth album by Gothenburg’s master of the indie story song song finds him reinvigorated after 2012’s heartbroken I Know What Love Isn’t, kicked up the arse by drum machines.