The resulting narratives are engaging enough, but Lakeman's trademark racing rhythms render several songs indistinguishable.

At its least appealing, the music follows suit, dealing in boilerplate pop of varying hues: ponderous-verse-into-epic-chorus balladry; sugary indie guitars on 305 and Teach Me How to Love, dance pop so unmemorable it’s a wonder Mendes didn’t forget he was singing it and wander off midway through. But, just occasionally, something from outside the standard palette of current pop grabs your attention.

Four ups the chords a smidgen further.

So you might come to Teatime Dub Encounters--a most English half-smile of titles, one that echoes the rueful cosiness of another Underworld opus, Second Toughest in the Infants--for the antic misdemeanours, or for the latterday Dylanish radio drawl, but you will stay for the way Iggy confesses that he has always struggled to make friends and keep the ones he’s got--the gist of I’ll See Big.

Roosevelt’s is an airbrushed, off-kilter kind of pop, and while he still isn’t pushing the envelope, Young Romance is a pleasant enough listen.

You don’t have to strain too much, either, to hear a plausible feminist reworking of songs such as (I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction, when Parton joins larynxes with Pink and Brandi Carlile. But overall, Rockstar is both a savvy commercial package and a fudged artistic opportunity.

Producer Ed Harcourt has met her mannered delivery and plummy English vowels with string-soaked arrangements but they're more saccharine than stirring.

Fans may balk at the curveballs--Hit Me Like That Snare is a louche garage-rock foray--but they telegraph the self-assurance that doesn’t rely on overcomplication.

A set of retro-inspired songs that don’t, frankly, refashion the wheel, but boast a certain tremulous, lived-and-loved appeal.

If this is her last album (as she has intimated), a true original bows out on a more equable note.

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 results are intriguing, occasionally frustrating, rarely boring.

While the results are unfailingly envelope-pushing, coherent songs are few; Zipperface comes closest, but too often tracks go off on tangents just as momentum is building.

Their fourth is a satisfying blend of youth and experience, at its best when raw feelings and twenty20-something anxieties chafe against its smooth, midtempo rock.

Sadly, much of the material is generic.

Co-writer Björn Yttling brings some extra zip to the mid-tempo power pop, but you're still left wishing for something a little more revealing and bold.

The marginally more upbeat and engaging Feel Good aside, it’s all very tasteful but ultimately a little unexciting. As returns go, it’s an underwhelming one.

While Songs of Innocence is more succinct, glossy and nimble than recent U2 outings, there is very little of the rawness, directness or spontaneity of youth to it--and precious little innocence.

[With] excesses as egregious as the half-spoken echoes of Battle Born, the cheese is amped so far that what this really sounds like is the soundtrack to some lost 90s Disney film.

The biggest draw comes in the folk-leaning songs. Beginning with "Apple Carts" and concluding with "The Dancing King" there is an Albarn solo album of sorts here, hidden among the stern runes.

Overall, a mixed bag.

It’s a good job that Rag’n’Bone Man has the kind of righteous roar that could breathe life into the phone book, because this album spools together a set of reliable tropes with little in the way of topspin.

It’s nice to hear them taking a few small risks. Next, it’d be great to see Smith get really wild.

It [the song "I'm a Sinner"] makes you crave her next album, not this one.

Song after song goes by far too slickly, showcasing Grande's good girl technical ability and her songwriters' hit-making formulae at the expense of lasting memories.

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.

Never overstaying its welcome despite its 16-track length, there are little pockets of unadulterated joy peppered throughout, specifically the buzz guitar-laced opener Headspace, and She Loves Anime’s electro-tinged tale of a boy who draws himself the perfect girlfriend.

The Chris Isaak romance of Dark Horse and the dusty space rock of Black Winds are lush enough, but there’s not enough deviation from shtick, enough convincing deviance in this “ode to the dark heart” of the US.

This isn’t a terrible record by any means--and at just 20 minutes it’s admirably succinct--but it leaves the listener with a definite sense that Ty Segall might be overstretching himself.

They are at their best on their more epic material, particularly Broken Bells and eight-minute closer The Weight of Dreams, which moves up through the gears from an acoustic intro to a brilliantly overblown Jake Kiszka guitar solo. Elsewhere, however, the material is more pedestrian, and the quieter moments don’t always sit well with Josh’s vocals (default, indeed, only setting: a histrionic screech).

They've retained the late-80s-Mancunian-indie-plus-surf-pop formula, and though that produced some sparkling tunes first time round, now things sound somewhat thin: each lovelorn and drear ditty seems to blend into the next.

An album more likely to inspire admiration than love, then, but still smart enough to deserve plenty of it.

The urgent-sounding "This Day Is Mine" is the pick of their largely impressive full-length debut, the melodic choruses offset by barked vocals and shred guitar. The more restrained "Roads" merely sounds earnestly plodding.

The songwriting is cookie-cutter, resorting too often to hammering, basic riffs and crashing cymbals; the lyrics are banal, frequently descending into woah-ohh-ohh.

The mood darkens further here--Lynch's croon is mired deeper in dirgey, junkyard blues--and it's harder work too, which rather militates against the carefully crafted unease.

If Insano is to be Mescudi’s musical curtain call, it showcases his capacity to attract big names, without delivering on distinctive songs.

It’s impossible to latch on to any of these songs as evidence of any late-period reflowering.

It packs a selection of nagging tunes that could easily light up the mainstream as, say, the Pet Shop Boys once did, if rave-ified R&B didn’t exert such a stranglehold on the charts.

The quality control flags badly later on; the wearyingly anodyne La Mancha Screwjob and Get Right, in particular, are buffed to the brink of featurelessness.

The emphasis on loud, clubby production means it lacks the progression of Rated R or the bombast of Loud.

For all their melodic nous, though, White Lies often sounded like the barely-not-teenagers they were; fixating on the downside, inflating everything out of all proportion.

Entirely instrumental, all woodwinds and strings, it is a sumptuous, often soothing set but too one-paced to be transportive.

Aloe Blacc's major-label debut does what it promises: it lifts your spirit.

Over a brief seven tracks, the 40-year-old superstar confirms his production prowess, veering between sparse, hyper-modern styles and compositions which hark back to the soulful bent of the producer-turned-rapper’s early career; a volatile mix of the sweet and the acrid, the sentimental and the tendentious.

No track here breaks the five-minute mark; only Something Human lets the side down with an acoustic guitar.

The elements are there but never really draw you in. Overall, CCCLX doesn’t quite add up.

Many fans will enjoy this album’s radio-friendliness, and its warm hugs. But these Songs of Experience lack William Blake’s moral fervour or rage.

Ultimately, too many promising tracks fall flat, and Kiesza’s strong, emotive voice is forced to do all the heavy lifting.

A cast list as long as Honey’s inevitably produces a patchwork. Some tunes are so uneventful you wonder why they bothered.

Her second album tries to don the weeds of gothic Americana for a darker tone than the pale folk of her eponymous debut, yet remains washed out, like an overexposed negative: oddly beautiful but wilfully wan.

The lead-up to Purpose produced three unexpectedly great beats, for Where Are Ü Now, Sorry and What Do You Mean? respectively. Just as unexpectedly, there are even more where these came from.

It’s a graphic exemplar of the contemporary Atlanta sound: stark backing, nagging hook and staccato wordplay, as distinct from the lyricism that traditionalists hold dear.

With every crescendo of catgut and steel, their lack of nuance becomes wearing.

There's less of the pop-ska pabulum and more Will Young-style balladeering, mixed in with up-tempo, perky numbers.

Though Sivu’s own developments are not drastic, they’re certainly beguiling.

It’s a lovely sound, but the songwriting veers more towards the serviceable than the inspired.

His follow-up project, All Over the Place, is aptly titled. It fidgets from genre to genre, UK garage to drill, pop to Afro swing, but never quite finds its resting place.

Several songs see Greene stranded near crisis, not quite broken up nor ready to make a romantic move, and the music is similarly timorous. You’re left willing him to change gears, to abandon these elegant sighs for something more full-throated.

What should be dull is transformed into something irresistible, thanks to her simply faultless voice.

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.

It's the band's refusal to sound older, or wiser, that's integral to their charm.

Overall, a solid album, just not quite up to the legacy.

As befits its messy gestation, it’s a patchy affair.

Nobody Is Listening doubles down on this expertly cultivated, look-but-don’t-touch, this-far-and-no-further brand. The good news is that, as an artist, Zayn keeps refining. The songwriters may be many here, but the songs suit him more and more.

There are hints of experimentation, such as Nice to Meet Ya’s swaggering hybrid of Arctic Monkeys and Kasabian, but it’s the excellent title track’s flirtation with glossy, synth-tinged MOR that suggests where Horan might be headed next. Proof that it’s often the quiet ones you need to keep an eye on.

Happily, their music is less predictable than that geographical inevitability.

It's all slick and tuneful but, bar the shoegaze-indebted Felt, feels like business as usual.

His voice may be sounding a teeny bit thin these days (although he still has all the high notes) but if you like Rod Stewart, you will love this album; if not, there are high points which may win you over.

Davis completists will grab this, but others may find there’s just not enough meat in the sandwich.

While patchy, the good news is that Phase Two is much better than its predecessor.

When it’s good, it’s usually something that sounds like the luscious, clinical opener 4ware, or cow-brained stomper Three Pound Chicken Wing. Otherwise there are too many generic pompous 70s-prog synths grafted on to basic beats.

Bellamy’s lyrics can be trite (“Yeah I’m free/From society,” declares The Defector) and the longer the album goes on, the more confusing the plotline becomes.

Best avoided if you're not a Guns N' Roses completist.

Their fifth album is a disappointment, however, with the 12 tracks here smoothed of any interesting rough edges and aimed squarely at stadium crowds.

Sun aside, Beacon is prosaic and frenetic, its tireless synths and fidgety guitars unable to camouflage the group's dearth of ideas.

These standards have a lot still to say--if only they sang a little more potently here.

Kamikaze finds Marshall Mathers revelling in his Slim Shady rabid underdog role, fulminating at critics, boggling at Lil Yachty, and sneering at the Migos flow on Not Alike. How riveting all this finger-wagging is probably depends upon your birth date.

They may have plenty of heart but their heads are lost in the clouds.

All the elements of solid indie pop are here, but too often it amounts to a familiar and underwhelming sound.

This, then, is a big, expansive, commercial album, its hair shorn and occasionally gelled into directional styles, but one keen to bare its soul.

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.

It's distressing, elementary and samey yet utterly unignorable.

The skies overhead on his debut album are dark and menacing for the most part: this is music to depopulate dancefloors, not fill them.

Lana Del Rey's partying is fuelled by a knowing sadness, and sung in that laconic, hypnotic voice, which ultimately saves this thoroughly dissolute, feminist nightmare of a record for the romantics among us.

Quietly dramatic and, at best, lyrical.

The anti-gun Run Through the Jungle gets a shimmering treatment from Spain’s Bunbury, Texas’s Los Lonely Boys raise dust on Born on the Bayou, and Oakland’s Bang Data give the anti-war Fortunate Son a bilingual hip-hop makeover.

Although they mix styles enough to semi‑redeem themselves, they're still some way short of living up to their influences.

A victory for self-indulgence over quality control.

It would all be so much anodyne chart mulch, but Anne-Marie has something of a plain-speaking everywoman image too. Some tracks here connect a little deeper, offering common-sense snapshots of unglamorous lives.

The moves here run the gamut from belligerently derivative to deft confidence.

Overall, it does the job, but no more than that.

If Derek Zoolander made a record it would sound like Thirty Seconds to Mars: stadium rock so vapid and bombastic that if frontman Jared Leto were pulling off some kind of long-duration joke it would be genius.

A little more courage would not have gone amiss.

It starts very promisingly: the self-doubt expressed on the stripped-back opener My Own Worst Enemy is genuinely affecting, while Love Is Your Name boasts an irrepressibly upbeat chorus. I Make My Own Sunshine, meanwhile, might resemble a backwoods take on Catatonia’s Road Rage, yet it still possesses a certain charm. But the quality control suffers elsewhere.

Yes, the chords [on First World Problems] recall the Rolling Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil, but fans looking for a Roses-adjacent tune packed with slouch and King Monkey life advice are well served here. Not everything else lives up to it--Barrington Levy’s Black Roses is a dull, rockist trudge of a cover--but overall, Ripples is studded with little surprises.

An Abba fan will hear that Fältskog is in strong voice; the uninitiated will wonder what 90s obscurity is being played for bar trivia night.

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.

Wayne’s unheralded 13th studio album proves that the 37-year-old’s flow can still be fearsome, even if his edit function remains iffy.