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.

Confetti is more potent than 2018’s spread-betting LM5.

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.

KiCk I offers up an even broader palette than previously, while keeping up a steady diet of trademark dissonance alongside those slightly more overground ambitions.

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.

Ferg’s pungent wordplay powers this splendidly diverse and dynamic second album.

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.

McCartney III Imagined is a classy set of remixes from assorted studio alchemists that allows Macca to experiment further by proxy.

Singles are by nature the juiciest bait, but what's cheering is that so many of these tracks match Lariat for sheer breeziness.

As familiar as many of these tunes now are, Product still sounds disruptive, a sound pushing the limits of what constitutes pop and what is just an annoying noise you are inexplicably paying money for.

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.

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.

As usual, the words he drawls are blankly impenetrable – the gorgeous I Can’t Find You could be about friendships, a relationship or his car keys. Still, this is a wonderfully agreeable album and, if you miss the roar, there should be more Dinosaur Jr in a year or two.

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.

Even when the tempo – and urgency – of these songs occasionally drops, they are rescued from mediocrity by Herring’s affecting lyrics: several songs contemplate the wreckages of toxic relationships with unflinching honesty.

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.

Blige’s co-writers, including UK-to-US success stories Disclosure, Emeli Sandé and Sam Smith, find striking ways to frame Blige’s voice without distracting from its richness and emotional range.