Only Rowland's female foil, Madeleine Hyland, overacts.

Reflective and exuberant by turns, it’s an outstanding album.

Recorded at the same time as Oxnard, Ventura distinguishes itself from its predecessor by being looser and warmer.

The London producer with the voice like a bruise remains perennially inconsolable here.

Silence Yourself reveals Savages to be a cross between the Horrors (fondness for black, allegiance to art-rock, time spent in Dalston) and Sleater-Kinney (devotion to Wire, lack of male members, stentorian vibrato) with a soupcon of the Knife (fondness for manifestos, tribal beats, forbidding glee).

His ninth album as Thee Oh Sees has its fair share of songs that resemble long-lost Nuggets-era gems (Withered Hand and Rogue Planet are particularly bracing). But there is light and shade amid the trademark distortion.

Cut the World reprises 10 of his old songs, adds one new one (the title track) and Future Feminism, which is the kind of thing that will either get you punching the air as you did at Danny Boyle's Olympics opening ceremony, or crossing your legs and muttering about distrusting gender absolutes.

Hinson has largely succeeded in creating a bewitching Americana record that is quite his own and his most accomplished work to date.

A generous 21-track double mixtape, divided between grime (Days) and R&B raps (Nights). Both playlists have plenty of the wit, grit and authenticity that made them famous, but 7 Days is the runaway winner.

The melodies are simple but lovely, often spelled out on tumbling acoustic guitar, as on Like Water, before being taken up by the group. It’s wonderful to have them back.

The duo’s first full-length project stays close to the club, proving Dickson’s canny ear for foot-twitching rhythms accompanied by exuberant Bollywood strings. However, on songs such as Hurricanes the spiky drums and candied orchestration submerge McAlmont, leaving him politely fighting for attention down in the mix. It’s mostly fine – Happy Ending, Otherwise and The Fever are fun – but that succulent voice, lighter than a fly on a feather, needs more space, more time.

His most assured record to date, this is also the Philadelphia rocker's most purely pleasurable.

Her third album stays close to the formula, though with a slightly darker, starker turn.

The continuity stressed between body and tool, folk history and future, like the work of Meredith Monk or Björk, lures the listener away from the twin traps of techno-evangelist complacency and technophobic retreat with sweet inspiration.

These songs move from the personal pain of a breakup--Seven Words, with its sentimental organ, heartbeat pulse and clouds of choral glory--to the planetary pain of environmental disaster and our Snapchatting detachment from it.

There's a good deal to enjoy here.

Pearson wears her talents lightly on an album that allows space for them to breathe. Sound of the Morning is a remarkably mature record; hopefully, future releases will be just as absorbing.

Heavy Light confirms a major talent.

Lu seems intent to immerse us fully, deeply, intimately into her gossamer creative vision--and she succeeds. An astonishing first album.

Itchy, blistering boogies such as She’s Gone and Let’s Get Funky epitomise their visceral approach, amid a smattering of slower outings. Antique maybe, but a reminder that the blues retain their odd, primal power.

As elegantly crafted as it all is, it does become a little homogeneous, and well before Other You’s 50 minutes are up, you do find yourself craving a gear change somewhere.

A surprising trip to an altogether other time and place.

When unaccompanied, it’s clear that her 12 years in the industry have given the singer ample voice and a formidable ear. On IRL, there was little need for big names, since Mahalia is star enough to hold her own.

Her fourthcorrect, country-tinged album is no mere musical mope, but features writerly vignettes and restrained introspection.

On this sprawling, often horizontal record, Lacy’s default setting is a blissful Los Angeles funk that bleeds easily into punchier hip-hop passages. Occasionally, he’ll show off his Prince 2.0 soloing skills on songs like Love 2 Fast.

Living My Life and the seductive Duplex Planet hark back to the dream-like delicacy of Halcyon Digest, but Leather and Wood is an amorphous mess. Thankfully, the best songs are saved until last.

A dense, angry, complex rock album.

Banga is the 65-year-old's 11th album, one of the most satisfying of her latterday career.