It’s always difficult to ape the heroic naivety of our least-loved decade without seeming insincere, but that’s no excuse for Familiar Touch’s toxic banality.

There are occasional missteps – the closing two minutes of Dvergmál veer worryingly close to windswept arena rock, and elsewhere there’s a ponderousness in places – but this is a good document of a bold artistic move.

Even on the album’s softer moments – delicate strummer All I Wanted, the lovely mid-tempo Yellow – the mood is still resolute in its heaviness. There’s relatable catharsis here, but it can be a lot to carry all at once.

Too much of this music is just hip, well-connected (you can Google their amorous partners, current and former) aural wallpaper, gossamer and murky by turns, undoubtedly very pleasant in an altered state but frustratingly unmemorable.

French pop in its purest form hasn't really got its groove back since the 60s, but, wisely, it's this very era that this Perpignan duo mine, marrying fuzzed-out psychedelia and agreeably rambling rock with the pop sweetness of that decade's chansons.

Once you’ve laboured through the fug of distortion on Boys in Heat, there’s nothing much contained within. But there are terrific moments elsewhere.

A seamless fusion that casts a low-key but binding spell.

The 90s electronic titans use vintage analogue synths, subtly retro-fitting their sound in a way that, ironically, brings it bang up to date.

Ultimately it just makes for frustrating listening.

Its sound design may be impeccable, but World… sorely lacks grit.

Still, while their lyrics could be fine-tuned, it’s hard not to warm to a quartet whose obvious pleasure at being in a group pervades every adrenaline-charged note.

Though No Shame ultimately feels more like a transition than a reinvention, it’s good to see Allen coming back for seconds.

Certain sections of Bridges’s audience are likely to define themselves against modern forms, so there is a risk here. But Bridges handles the transition deftly.

The music gets better and better, with the out-and-out xx-y Age of Miracles breaking sonically satisfying new ground.

It is tempered and classic-sounding. But the sounds are as itchy and oppressive as they are tasteful.

A little string-plucking, some groaning cello and the odd beat adorn Obel's tightly focused set of songs, which approximate the sound of snow falling on a disused chapel while a solitary candle burns inside.

The eerie indelibility of Days are Forgotten, or Fire’s lumpen power, are missing, leaving the strings of lyrical cliches that Pizzorno ladles up horribly exposed. Alygatyr, Rocket Fuel and Chemicals are all right, but this feels like a coda, not a new movement.

The most surprising thing about Revival is its understatement, despite the hit-making co-writers, from the softly bubbling beats of the title track and the lust-dream R&B of Good for You to the spooky Ashes to Ashes synths of winning Charli XCX collaboration Same Old Love.

Nearly half its tracks have seen the light of day already, not least the standout Waiting Game. The remainder offer up a more conventional take on the sound than Banks's British counterpart, FKA Twigs.

Variety comes in the form of a gently funky soul interlude midway through that highlights the versatility of James Petralli’s voice. But rather than complementing the rest of the album it betrays Stiff’s lack of cohesion.

These slow-building, shivery washes of sound are what the band do best, proving worthy of far more listening time than those incidental moments soundtracking nature programmes.

Perhaps the slightly stentorian tone of Cosentino’s vocals is at odds with the fragility of some lyrics – she sounds pretty much invulnerable whether celebrating love, or admitting she never thought she’d be worthy of it. Still, when she stretches herself, as on piano ballad Easy or the moody alt-country of Real Life, it feels as if she has a real future on her own.

Springsteen is looking back on looking back; nostalgia, squared. If there is a criticism to be made of this big-hearted wallow, it’s not only that the mood here is galvanising, rather than anything more subtle or bruised.

While this album’s rotating mic-spot keeps things moving like a playlist, the memorability of these tracks bobs up and down like the waves off the coast of Free Nationals’ native California.

These highs could have been more musically vertiginous and the lows more chasmic. It is a privilege to have them back, but you wish their music had the courage of Gossip’s convictions. Don’t Be Afraid is an epic intentionally trapped in a cheap Casio keyboard: underpowered.

having traded in all their early attitude for non-stop blissed-out jamming, the Horrors' default mode--equable lassitude--is beginning to pall a touch.

He doesn’t sustain the magic, however, with the result that Cautionary Tale is very much a front-loaded affair, the likes of Lightning and Thunder failing to spark.

It’s a compilation that doesn’t merely compile; these tunes were laid down specifically for the project, taking cues from US trap sounds as well as London’s Caribbean forms.

Silver Eye sags badly in the middle. Faux Suede Drifter and Zodiac Black , in particular, are all texture and no song, ambient washes of sound topped with uncharacteristically disengaging vocals. It all makes for a slightly underwhelming whole.

While Hippo Lite does have its moments, well before the end you find yourself reflecting that Young Marble Giants, Rosa Yemen and the Raincoats did this far better almost 40 years ago.

Rich with on-point retro-futurist sounds, such as the gem-like, sultry neo-soul of Green Aphrodisiac. ... But there’s some unwelcome pandering to all markets in ghastly guitar ballad Stop Where You Are, a misstep looking for a Coldplay album, and a couple of tracks where smoothness wins out over personality.

The album is more interesting sonically in the tension between questing guitars and straightforward song structures than it is in terms of lyrics, which aim to be down to earth but end up middle of the road.

No question his lyrics are smart but they can sound studied, valuing intricacy over flow.

As always, Liam’s greatest asset is his astonishing voice, all yearning and defiance. Still, his songwriting has improved. ... Sadly, most of the new songs peddle tame, low-stakes nostalgia, swimming in cliches and drowning in sentimentality, as satisfying as trying to get relationship advice out of a cashpoint.

At least there is a handful of genuinely winning tunes--See Through, in particular, is sunny indie that recalls Pavement at their least obtuse--amid the more formulaic fare.

The main drawback is that hip producer James Ford isn’t allowed to conjure up as much newfangled ju-ju as Spirit could stand. Songs like So Much Love could come from any era.

Despite only lasting 22 minutes, towards its end Peanut Butter feels more gruelling than gruesome.

Every so often, Gibson's evil Elvis bent can become a little comedic but the pitch-black pitch suits his material down to the ground.

Folila, packed with western friends, mixes the inspired and mundane.

Colin Elliot, who has worked with Richard Hawley, is a good match for the material, and his production skills make a cohesive whole of the diverse strands.

A second album that could’ve hit a home run if it hadn’t worked so hard to cover all the bases.

Lindstrøm’s output can include 10-minute workouts of an avant-garde Boredoms track or the sort of polite female vocals people expect to hear on unthreatening dance tunes--Grace Hall’s pleasantries on Shinin’ fit that bill on his fourth solo album while the infinitely more interesting Jenny Hval crops up on a superior Bungl (Like a Ghost).

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.

His debut album has too much going on.

Tracks such as Deu invoke a little Boards of Canada and Colleran likes to call Dubliner Kevin Shields an influence, making for a beatific album that’s more satisfying than just modish background texture.

Lady Wood is, if anything, classier than Queen of the Clouds. But it might not sell so well, in that it lacks the sleazy catnip--the sex clubs, the self-abasement--displayed in the latter’s defining singles.

Sadly, his second album is blander than supermarket jerk chicken, and its wistful, ruminative opener, Watch Who You Tell, promises depths that never surface.

It is hard not to hear Bougatsos refracted through the lens of Grimes, an artist who radically expanded on GGD’s commercial potential. In comparison, Bougatsos now comes up a little ephemeral.

Gallagher still has a voice that can imbue even the most meaningless lyric with more feeling than it deserves. But the old adage about cooks and broth holds true, because for all the efforts of the crack team surrounding him, the results are largely unremarkable and at times, as in the case of Oh Sweet Children, downright cloying.

There are flashes of the full-throated musicality that made her an exciting prospect, but the album falls short. Perhaps hampered by a pressure to take her sound in a fresh direction, Balbuena loses the vitality that distinguished her in the first place.

True, her say-what-you-see lyrics are still too pedestrian; seas remain dark and stormy, lines between opposing things are thin. Yet the music often soars. Goulding should trust herself more: she might need more ego, but she doesn’t need EG.0.

It's the marginal elements--the filtered fade-outs, the incongruous sci-fi bleeping between tracks--that suggest a more interesting band struggling to emerge.

The production aims for James Blake levels of subtlety but frequently falls short (though songs such as Better Man Than He are undeniably catchy). Page’s lyrics, too, could use some refinement.

Assembled from rehearsals rather than the actual concert, it’s something of a field recording but one with arresting power. A noble oddity.

Out of Heart may not be a home run, but Flohio still scores with her acrobatic rhyme patterns and experimental sonics.

Occasionally, mostly when Carter sings, Voices falls flat, but Phantogram's audacity is commendable.

His guitar and voice are at their best on the likes of opening Stax stomper Ain't Messin' 'Round and the heavy soul of When My Train Pulls In, Numb, and the funky Bright Lights--his guitar crunchy and full in a way you only get with good amps and pedals.

Toots may sing in a more confined register, but the exuberance and moaning soulfulness from his youth in the Baptist church remain splendidly intact on this vigorous final outing.

The real trouble is, the latter half of Little Red trickles away without catching at your heels overmuch, as though Katy B's fretting about feelings outweighs the joy of keeping moving with the lights on.

Too often equating emotion with shouting (see the final third of Father), Confident doesn’t quite elevate Lovato to where she needs to be.

The end result is stylish and cogent but, as a consequence, perhaps a teensy bit samey.

Just enough titbits of melody... to sustain interest.

Dulli's throat is not quite what it was when he sang "I'm not the man my actions would suggest" on 1993's Debonair (but the jury is out on whether he's affecting strain or really straining). The outro, These Sticks, is a ballad whose chord progressions and textures wander far too close to Radiohead. Stick around, though, and the Whigs' stately menace wins out over the peculiar parallels.

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

I Long To See You finds him still busting genres.

This 13th album may be too subdued or restrained for some, lacking the combustible power of their live work, but over the years the Charlatans have dug a groove they sound incredibly comfortable inhabiting.

What starts off as a gang-signing, car-stealing, signing-on 21st-century Clash ends up as Jamie T robbing Jesus Jones, far more Westfield than Westway.

There’s an easy-going beauty to this music that is more redolent of succour than anger. Some might find this record a little too pretty.

They peak with the surf-influenced Warts, which sounds like nothing so much as a riot grrrl take on Bossanova-era Pixies. Elsewhere, the meandering lack of focus can grate, as on forgettable instrumental Solar Gap.

Solid if formulaic, Blue Lips peaks with unfaltering vocals and the kind of humid, polished production that would make Jack Antonoff jealous.

The uncharitable take would be that a 37-year-old still writing lyrics in txt spk is quite cringe, but the truth is that Love Sux – three-minute banger after three-minute banger, complete with classic Lavigne “woah-oh-ohs” – is exuberant enough to have you slipping on a pair of Vans and partying like it’s 2002.

The mood, set by affectless guitars and minor-key piano, varies little over 10 tracks, but even when contemplating homelessness (on the title track) or foundering relationships (Yes, I Helped You Pack), Ejimiwe feels more at ease in his own melancholy.

While there are several moments to savour (particularly Pretty and the shoegaze-influenced Minute in Your Mind), the more muscular approach ultimately does them few favours: one is left with the sense that they have traded in what made them different for a stab at fairly unadventurous alt-rock by numbers.

Camille remains a restless, inventive voice, as enchanting as she is silly.

It's all stylishly conceived, but--in part because Lindén's deadpan vocals are buried so deep in the mix--too often it fails to engage.

It’s not groundbreaking, but Blige’s vocals alone are a reminder of why she remains so important to the genre.

Certainly, there’s an appealing directness to the maximalist likes of Wake Me Up, with its bellowed chorus seemingly precision-tooled for festival crowds. ... Unfortunately, the quality flags as the album goes on, and the undistinguished likes of Crest of the Wave only succeed in coming across like an ersatz Everything Everything.

Thankfully the big-name guests step up to the plate, specifically Miguel on the hazy Good Intentions; the Weeknd, who continues his pop trajectory on Nocturnal; and Lorde, who slinks playfully around Magnets’ subtle electro shuffle. Overall, however, Caracal is an early sign a shake-up may be needed.

Wild World is too wholesome to generate real thrills.

The debut album by indie's latest great white hopes, however, is notable mainly for its crushing ordinariness.

There's no fresh spin on the hoary old Led Zep-isms of Sweat Shock and recent single Heavy Bells, while more ponderous material fails to distinguish them from a competent bar band.

Here are 12 songs about emotional hurt and partial recovery; some cliche-ridden (yes, one song here is really called Love Is Blind), others classy and nagging.

Bear can’t rely on the strength of Drizzy’s personality to lift the weaker songs and when he reaches for the Auto-Tune, it becomes difficult to engage with his distant vocals. It’s Bear’s most consistent work to date, though, and the best songs have a haunted wistfulness that is impossible to forget.

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.

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.

While the elastic basslines of the Talking Heads-indebted Only in a Man’s World and Money Is a Memory stand out, Making a New World works best as a single piece of music, not least because some of its interstices are too fragile to stand unaided.

It all adds up to an album that’s solid rather than spectacular.

While producers including Karriem Riggins and Madlib serve him well here, it’s clear that Dilla expressed himself best through his beats.

You might argue that McCombs’s albums are idiosyncratic and varied affairs, and so it is here. But not so you’d complain.

More often than not, [the tracks] are the kind to dutifully admire and find interesting, rather than lose yourself to on a dancefloor--much of this record sags with chill-out longueur

Weather Diaries brings electronic touches into play, but the production is too chaste and respectful throughout.

It’s unfortunate that Last Night draws rather so heavily on material from 2016’s Boy King, the first Wild Beasts album on which memorable moments were in short supply. It all adds up to a slightly anticlimactic exit for a great band.

She's still a pop maverick worth cherishing, but you wish she'd tone down the quirkiness just a little.

It’s immersive, but bar a couple of songs and features (Southern rap don Project Pat and enigmatic MC BennY RevivaL are both standouts) it lacks the urgency or vitality of its two predecessors. Instead, this is a lounge-y mixtape that drifts comfortably within Hynes’s beautiful sonic realm.

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

The best bits of The Tarnished Gold hark further back to the Byrds for their sense of breezy acceptance.

The exclusion of US hit Classic Man (which soundtracks a key scene in the Oscar-nominated Moonlight) leaves the album lacking a truly memorable moment, but the Afrobeat-inspired A Little Bit More and the carefree, soca-style Some Kind of Way showcase a versatile, genre-bending talent.

The more you play it, though, the more this deranged ensemble piece holds together. And the more you respect Ronson--no individual genius, perhaps, but a tunesmith/conductor of breadth and depth.