Every song possesses passion and gravitas, making Hallelujah Anyhow a spiritual descendant of Van Morrison’s Veedon Fleece.

Happy Day (Sister My Sister) has the languid swing of the Band, Like a Mirror Loves a Hammer feels like a classic cut of southern funk. But this is much more than an exercise in loving hommage, not least because his lyrics brim with personality and feeling.

The rediscovered intimacy suits him--there’s a bracing directness to these songs that’s been lacking over the last decade.

The palette of sounds she draws from on the long-awaited, and largely self-incubated, follow-up is familiar. ... She saves the most affecting song for last, Speaking of the End making its mark with just understated piano and her unadorned voice.

Given that these songs are really, really good, you pity the competition when Griff: The Opus finally lands.

Fresh Blood refines the Spacebomb MO, darkening themes and expanding their range.

This Canadian trio dispense a slow, seductive blend of blues and country that skulks in the shadows, whispering sweet nothings before baring its fangs.

Black Girl Magic finds Dijon expanding her sound to incorporate a wider range of queer Black contributions to dancefloor culture, producing a 15-track masterclass in disco, new jack swing and soulful house.

Landlord is fantastic, crafted, big-stage trap with the lissom, conversational feel of a mixtape.

[A] short but highly intriguing record from Norwegian pop experimentalist Jenny Hval.

The genre-hopping leads to the odd stumble here and there, but overall the never boring, often excellent High Road finds Kesha returning to the party on her own terms.

Even the mildly satirical skits, which don’t quite work, prove her desire to create a proper album, rewarding repeated listening.

Almond is at his best on the compelling torch songs that have long been his stock in trade. Winter Sun reflects on dwindling romance; The Pain of Never is swooningly melancholic. More, please.

As if to underline his status as one of indie rock’s great eccentrics, Malkmus makes a decent fist of orchestral pop on the frisky, staccato-like Brethren, and severs all ties with conventional songwriting, revealing an aptitude for space rock (Difficulties/Let Them Eat Vowels).

A strangely cogent album for wildly unstable times.

The result is a clear-headed amalgamation of their two eras, veering from stomping emo (opener Hold My Breath Until I Die; I’ll Be Back Someday’s Avril-isms) to sleek, synth-led pop (the pogoing You Go Away and I Don’t Mind).

Those allergic to smooth pop-rock may find Days Are Gone hard going. Paradoxically, given this is an album of clever mash-ups, Haim's one straight-up R&B tune might actually be their best.

There is only one misstep--the clumsy, Whitesnake-worthy lyrics to Dirty to the Bone are rooted a little too firmly in the 70s--but otherwise this is an excellent return.

Once again the songs are all traditional, while Lee has skilfully intercut some and “rewilded” them with the odd flourish – the “Old Wow” of the title is his name for an awestruck sense of nature.

Only at two or three points in the album does it feel like Ocean is actively courting heavy radio play.... The rest of the album, however, feels too offbeat and diffuse to trouble the top end of the charts. Is this a bad thing? Not at all.

Bad As Me's 13 tracks fairly rip along, alerting a new generation that there are few as fine as Waits.

It’s not always the easiest of listens, but the boldness of her vision is compelling, especially on Discovery and the title track, where beauty and raw power interact.

Electronics are very much to the fore. This feels like an analogue record, each note having a furry aura.

This third solo album--“nine feminist bangers”, Thorn has quipped, with an immaculately raised eyebrow--finds the singer up against electronic backings, drilling down into complex emotions. And some simpler ones.

With charged production that flits between old-school hip-hop, futuristic pop and even Latin, at 15 tracks it can feel diluted, but there’s no doubt cupcakKe is a potent MC on the rise.

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

Tugging profoundly on bittersweet 60s soul and Motown, Heaven is a fine album.

It’s a sprightly, restless set, with Segal’s plucked cello providing a thrumming heartbeat to what is a communal, improvisational approach. ... This is truly fusion music.

If Disc 1 has more room for unreleased fun – a terrifically roiling live take on the sprawling Last Trip to Tulsa, a standout from Young’s self-titled debut album - Disc 6 doubles down on introspection.

It’s the warmth and personality of her voice that rings particularly true.

Serfs Up! feels like a giant leap forward.

Though these tracks are largely elegiac in tone, they still seek out the consolations of the dancefloor, delivering pulsing beats and warm surges of melody.

Business as usual, in this case, is no bad thing.

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.

As a whole, it’s a confident imagining of her infectious future funk sound.

The 50-something from Brooklyn is her own diva and sounds at once wounded, defiant and exuberant. Producer-bassist Bosco Mann runs a tight band with its own tricks and which purrs along so joyously the influences fade to leave a core of unadulterated soul.

Policy is twitchy and endearingly ramshackle, channelling the can-do spirit of early-80s indie and the affability of Jonathan Richman.

The textures change constantly without sounding cluttered, the rhythms are compelling but unfailingly light and airy, and the tunes are, well, tuneful.

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

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.

Once the lyrical sorrow and apocalyptic visions hit home, Hyperspace is revealed as a bleak, spacey R&B tour de force.

The result is a seductive layering of glittering, MOR surfaces, ambient textures and a deep, aching undertow.

Four years on and they have made a witty, hooky dance record in thrall to the rock operatics of Led Zeppelin and Queen.

Antique pieces such as Cuco Sánchez’s Que manera de perder are wrung for their stately melodrama, while originals like La última vez and I Dreamed I Was Lola Beltrán take Tex-Mex into classy, modern terrain, steel guitars ringing alongside cantina strumming.

Black Flowers, one of several tracks rooted in nature, typifies his songwriting prowess, its cryptic lyrics twinned with a gorgeous melody that is both pristine and familiar.

Lost maintains a kind of motorik languor throughout, turning 80s arena rock into something much more intriguing.

Listen in and the lyrics soundtrack a mid-youth crisis ("I've been starting over for a long time," Cronin croons as the album opens), but not so as to dent the overall impression of an ozone high.

There’s not much space to catch a breath over its 15 tracks, but for a pure adrenaline rush it works perfectly.

Struggler continues to convey his strife with a remarkable singularity.

Taylor's vocal presence is gruff and minimal to a fault, but musical textures that entwine banjo, mandolin and cornet are often arresting.

It's Rhys's empathy with Evans and the humour and pathos with which he conveys his young protagonist's emotions that makes this such a vivid and exhilarating journey.

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.

There’s nothing here that’s particularly immediate, the likes of Cemetery of Splendour only gradually yielding their delights. Instead, Classic Objects is unceasingly intriguing.

This is a far better album than you’d dare hope from the latterday Prince; Breakdown is a heavy, plangent ballad, while The Gold Standard just sounds like he’s partying like it’s 1999 all over again.

Strengths lie in Eat Your Young’s supple funk, a light-footed take on Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal, and the itchy urgency of De Selby (Part 2). There’s a chilling, unforgettable beauty to closing pair Unknown/Nth and First Light.

The default groove might be early 70s motorik--Tardis Cymbals is a typically beatific workout--but tracks Blowing My Nose Under Close Observation and Hi-Hats Bring the Hiss are proper dance music, while the Sonic Boom-enhanced Planetary Folklore is both spacey and creepy.

Unsurprisingly, not every song’s that good--To Be Remembered is particularly forgettable--but, at its best, Eska is a mind-bending gem.

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

Throughout, Tricky creates a claustrophobic world full of stark bass lines, pop digressions and slinky Bristol moments; his duet with Francesca Belmonte, New Stole, is particularly moreish.

The playing is, predictably, classy, but mostly it’s an album of surprises; it’s Dave’s porch and he’ll play what he chooses.

But where its predecessor was louche and hook-driven, this fourth studio album skulks deeper into her psyche, its occasional moments of catharsis upended by sombre piano interludes and bleak lyricism.

On first listen it’s a disparate amalgam of sounds, but a couple of plays in, what becomes more apparent is the mellow singing, the catchy melodies and a sense of playfulness.

The production sounded great to start with, and the new material is unexceptional, but if you didn't pick up the mixtapes when they were going free, and can handle 160 minutes of beautifully crafted nihilism, this is an essential buy.

A deft, warming album that grounds the listener while coaxing them to think bigger.

Despite a promisingly funky EP last autumn, it's still a welcome surprise to hear them sounding fresh and invigorated on their seventh album.

This sixth album is well judged, treating eight old songs to varied arrangements and adding a brace of originals.

She is no innovator, but her vocals burn, her band is honky-tonk tough, and songs such as Hurtin’ on the Bottle (co-written with Caitlin Rose) tap straight into country tradition. A winner.

A triumph.

Producer Aaron Dessner, of the National, takes few risks and overplays the solemn piano chords, but Hannigan’s soaring vocals never falter.

It occasionally loses focus, but overall the decision to open up has worked wonders.

Throughout, he remains prickly and eloquent.

This second album finds them in incendiary form.

Only the didactic, Jessie J-esque I Had a Dream mars an album loaded with laser-guided, heartfelt pop.

Hey’s attempt at menace is overegged and the violence just sounds cartoonish--but the abundance of winning songs elsewhere makes such minor flaws forgivable.

It feels like he’s aiming for a 21st-century version of classic albums such as Sign ‘O’ the Times and What’s Going On and, on astonishing, soul-scraping laments This World Is Drunk and Kings Fall, he almost gets there.

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.

Both comforting and discomfiting, The Best Day recalls prime Youth, when their tense experimental attitude dovetailed with often sour but instantly accessible pop melodies.

Full of unexpectedly bittersweet horns and electric guitar, his mellow confidence here eschews clutter and bombast.

Recalling her early experimental work, while hoovering up dance genres at will, KicK iii is imbued with a joyous sense of freedom.

Lush, cavernous record.

A hushed, thoughtful collection.

All of this is delivered with upbeat charm and wry humour; pedal steel solos don’t so much sweeten these pills as dunk them in a vat of serotonin.

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.

Vocally, the “queen of Latin music” isn’t particularly distinctive, but she ranges from seductive to strident in a single line and makes both equally appealing. Her Majesty’s moods are despondent (rare), thirsty (much less rare) or proudly powerful (nearly always) and she ensures you’re buffeted by every emotion billowing past.

Almost everything else, however, is a treat, the successive iterations of Communication Breakdown and Dazed… showcasing the evolving chemistry of one of Britain’s greatest ever bands.

On paper, its influences--surf punk, Prince, oriental pop, minimalist dance--smack of hipster posturing, but on record, they blend beautifully.

The resulting album is rich in imagination, and--at times, most notably on Bull and Brando--surprisingly accessible

Allelujah! picks up where Montreal's premier apocalyptic instrumental outfit left off, setting the collapse of the first world to wordless music.

If… is a joy, its 10 mostly instrumental tracks proving both intimate and powerful.

Like previous Jay Som records, Anak Ko might seem slight at first listen, particularly Duterte’s winsome coo, but the payoff for lingering in her evolving dreamspace is hefty.

A master musician on top of his game.

Georgia turns everyday emotions into exotic and enticing vignettes.

Rustie's hyper-enjoyable second album derives its title and some odd peacefulness from an unlikely source: birdsong, aka the green language, which was to medieval mystics the perfect mode of expression.

The results are frequently exquisite.

The mood is open and playful.

The standout track is Cruel Disguise, where Harvieu’s melancholy, powerful vocal combines with a lithe bassline and baroque rock stylings. And while the singer may no longer be flavour of the month, this is still an impressive set.

Half wallow, half messy I-don’t-need-you self-care, Sour is the perfect first breakup soundtrack from a hugely promising new talent.

Her strange, fluting voice twines elegantly around sparse arrangements of piano, acoustic guitar and the charango lute.