Sprinter combines the raw energy of Torres’s 90s forebears with modern minimalism; the result is captivating.

The commercial emo that has earned Tennessee's Paramore platinum sales is still present on their fourth album, as are the unremarkable ballads, but there's also a new willingness to try other genres. The results are mixed.

There is a form of mania at work here, but the results are propulsive and ecstatic.

This is a record chockful of beauty and thoughtful autobiography that only a more experienced, more assured songwriter could have made.

The result is a minor country-soul gem, full of lovely and deeply atmospheric instrumentation gilding Ford’s alluring vocals.

Short Movie’s best songs are all about Marling’s ongoing voyage of self-discovery; an indulgence we not only permit musicians, but pay them for, on the condition we can listen in and pick up tips. There are plenty of those here.

There are plenty of big tunes here and no shortage of chest-beating, but too often Brun’s lyrics bring things down with a bump, shooting for emotional sincerity but drifting into tepid platitudes.

A litany of icy threats, Break That (ft Suspect) doesn’t advance the genre much, but like much of this mixtape it does remind his original fanbase that Octavian is a threat as well as a hedonist street philosopher.

Essentially, there are three types of Pet Shop Boys albums: life-changing, great and OK. This one’s great.

Lindsay’s wonky music, meanwhile--he plays most of the instruments--benefits hugely from the strength of Marling’s voice and persona. The only bum note is that there isn’t more Lump to treasure.

If III suffers a little from the patchiness endemic to the mission statement, musical freedom – a sense of unfettered “let it be”-ness – is the chief draw here.

Perhaps the NSFW art and videos for Vanity and En skew the narrative, but Mutant feels even more sexual than its predecessor.

Bereavements and recent fatherhood have led Washington to ponder mortality. But there is little dread in these 12 rich and versatile tracks, which touch sensually on Zapp’s Computer Love and examine the Road to Self via a 13-minute workout.

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

Beneath the swearing there’s a sharp sense of humour and even sharper powers of observation, Williamson’s freeform wordplay painting vivid pictures of an at times uncomfortably recognisable contemporary Britain.

The star power of Alexander: an articulate, thoughtful frontman with depth as well as acting-out genes. Here, pop star after pop star (Britney, a little J Lo, the list goes on) is invoked on an album that sounds like a Spotify playlist.

Boy from Michigan doesn’t quite stick the landing as Grant forgoes his customary high-wire balance of wit and wry emotion for a more direct style. But it’s rich in bittersweet beauty and surreal levity.

Thebe Neruda Kgositsile (as his mum knows him) has as intuitive a grasp of how to punctuate a thought process with musical trigger points as any rapper in history.

An elegant, luminous album.

The results are less surprising than you might imagine.

Far more satisfying are the contemplative songs, in particular These City Streets, wherein the new and old Weller are reconciled.

The record is most effective when Lindén sounds more animated, as on I’ll Be the Death of You and the nimble, propulsive, Kraftwerk-influenced Neon Lights. Unfortunately these moments are overshadowed by lengthier excursions that give longueurs a bad name.

A captivating, low-key set from a singular talent.

Perhaps Money Plant is overlong, but the mournful coda of Ladder more than makes up for it. Yes, it’s a little one-dimensional, but it’s a lovely dimension.

anyone fond of latter-day leftfield singer-songwriters such as Sharon Van Etten or Waxahatchee will revel in discovering a more buttoned-up, southern version of their hypnotic relationship exegeses.

The lack of any sort of beat only adds to the disorientation. And yet, played loudly enough, Kannon sounds astonishing: by turns eerie, hypnotic and thrilling.

By now, most listeners will know where they stand on Vedder’s distinctive holler and the band’s beefiness; little on Dark Matter is likely to enchant gen Z away from their own heroes. But the faithful will rejoice.

Ebbing and flowing with daydreams and a glossy but gritty pulse, Lost & Found is quietly, confidently remarkable.

Storytelling and suffering remain at the heart of this rich, gauzy and lush record, which, like Gaslighter, expands the borders of country while strengthening its core tenets.

Carry on the Grudge is a big step up in craftsmanship, but at no point do you feel this London troubadour might stray into realms as high as another London product of the Clash, grime poetics and the US--King Krule--does.

Beautifully crafted, Crush unsettles with its quiet, fervent chaos bubbling beneath its surface.

Why Make Sense? finds the London indie house outfit more or less as they always have been, with only minor aesthetic variations disrupting the dulcet flow of their electronic pop. Those variations, though, are beguiling.

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.

Indeed, this is one of those rare albums that reveals a little more with every play.

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

Little sparks surprise and delight, such as producer FaltyDL’s creative use of unpredictable backing vocals, and Anohni’s gossamer hook on French Lessons. On the other hand, Ketamine proffers a disorientating rhythm and queasy vibe – presumably designed to recreate a K trip – that is oddly not that enjoyable to listen to. However, the main problem is a constellation of guests.

For all the variety, no single track stands out; Nérija rarely stray from the comfortable territory of mid-tempo, mid-dynamic improvisation.

It all adds up to yet another winning set from a band still to release a subpar album in a 25-year career.

Modern Country is a beatific and expansive ambient record daubed in acoustic and electric guitars, analogue oscillations, some really scary bells and no words; its meaning can be fluid.

Occasionally, as on, er, Thunder Moon Gathering, things get a little pastichey, but it’s worth it for sublime moments like the title track, where lines between worlds and times blur.

Her second album, written in Nashville, continues to make up for lost time, moving on in both craft and playfulness.

The album sags a little in the middle, but what’s an epic without a few longueurs? The optimism of the title is well founded.

A non-religious religious album might seem like a conceptual dead end, but this is another accomplished set from a master songwriter.

Just as judging the past from the present can be a fraught undertaking, weighing up the throwback 90s indie du jour by the standards of the decade itself is probably unfair too, but you wish Beabadoobee could muster a little more period-perfect surliness.

The songs are sad but considered, their melancholia held at bay by Habel’s strength of character and touching lyrics.

As ever, Beth’s theorising is air-tight, but ironically, the album stutters most when it is being most provocative.

Their formative years in the underground have always supplied this trio with a sharp and occasionally dark edge. It is an edge no more, but the defining feature of this pugilistic album.

The results are frequently beautiful, the new settings making even the most familiar texts (Ode to a Nightingale or The Lady of Shallot, say) sound fresh.

It's hard to tell whether this is Plant teasing, or connecting threads, or both. Whatever the truth, his bloody-minded refusal to countenance that Zeppelin reunion continues to yield beguiling new directions.

Its louder moments--and there are plenty--are even better and feature stomping incantations that demand air and company.

It all makes for his most coherent effort yet.

Washington warmly traverses various themes (across both subject and music) and--via the wailing sax on Humility, the sleazy funk of Perspective, and the quasi-bossa nova of Integrity--it’s an enriching listen.

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.

Engaging and adventurous.

Weller seems incapable of releasing a downright bad album at the moment, but this isn’t one of his best.

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.

By turns droll, pungent and lovely, it deserves more than a lo-fi production.

There is a compelling talent here, turning his damage into something noble.

Pineapple Skies is the most obvious soaraway, feelgood hit, but very little on War & Leisure falls flat.

At its best, The Magic Whip has all the charm of Blur at their most mysterious, and little of the laddish triumphalism of Blur in headline slot mode.

The extra girth suits them well, and their old wit and twinkle hasn’t deserted them as the shimmering, harmony-laden pop of Miss Fortune attests.

It is a brave experimentation through unexpected sounds, including Depeche Mode-style new wave on Sainted, but Big Joanie are on more stable and satisfying ground when they put the glittering melodies aside.

Call the Days, the track that heralded this brand new folk-inclined singer-songwriter’s extraordinarily assured debut, suggested an Antipodean Laura Marling, a talented 24-year-old with a preternatural ability to translate internal weather into chords and words.

His tales of youthful hustling and newfound wealth ("Your plane's missing a chef," he taunts) are compelling, albeit well-worn. The star here is the production.

A wistful, autumnal collection.

Seriously impressive, unashamedly grown-up songs from, and for, the soul.

While Loving in Stereo palpably lacks Sault’s moral fire, their soundscapes do align very pleasurably indeed.

The pleasure, and it’s considerable, is in the detail.

It’s comfortably strange territory, and while it might not open any new or mind-melting doors, Thee Oh Sees remain rampantly good fun.

There are glimmers of musical progression on Sleaford Mods’ ninth album: Jason Williamson sings the odd line, and there are even occasional choruses. But, pleasingly, for the most part it’s business as usual.

A strangely cogent album for wildly unstable times.

Some of this magnificently sullen band’s edges have been filed down; their strides into left field could have been more decisive.

In short, it has the kind of beauty that sees you playing it, and only it, for the next three weeks.

These 11 tracks are immersive, shifting creations, retaining the heavenly signature harmonies of FF’s previous work, while further expanding the band’s sound.

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.

A lush, teak-panelled Nashville soul record.

It’s definitely an album served best by headphones and solitude, and one that won’t draw you back as much as it draws you in.

These songs feel personal, intimate and urgent.

A sleek, enticing record that certifies Cakes Da Killa’s place at the forefront of this sound.

A strangely flat album.

Rainbow is both stranger and more normal than you expect; uneven--does Kesha really rhyme “highway” with “Hyundai”?--but likable.

This record is crying out for the calibre of musicians that helped Bowie make Blackstar, or Bill Callahan’s painterly band, or a truly dial-moving producer – or perhaps some intellectual assaults on the very notion of music itself to pin the listener down and inform them that John Cale – John Cale! – is in the building.

Friedberger picks over love and relationships in ways that keep you guessing: strange flights of fancy are balanced by offbeat humour and there are startling moments of emotional directness that bring you up short.

The title track and R.E.M. smush together her penchant for musical theatre and 90s R&B. Everytime bridges tight melodies with synths like a large elastic band being plucked, and God is a Woman feels almost tantric, with guitars and harmonies spaced between sweaty beats.

Sweet Heart Sweet Light is another one of these perfectly serviceable Spiritualized albums.... But there's a lot of old rope here, let down further by Pierce's singing.

There are blooping keys and retro drum machines on River Rival; Thinking of Nina feels like a long-lost hit from the 80s. Even better is Soft Boys Make the Grade, a tune that relocates Williams’s gothic bent into a killer soft-rock tune in which he sidles into someone’s direct messages.

It’s a bold, fun gamble, and one with ample winnings.

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

The trouble is, much of it still sounds about as vital as Coldplay Babelfished into Icelandic.

Caprisongs collates a set of more ephemeral pop tunes in which twigs broadcasts selfhood 17 ways, finding unexpected common sonic ground with artists such as Grimes, Charli XCX and Self Esteem.

At 11 songs (yes, the title is a trick) and just over 25 minutes, it all makes for a short, sharp, exhilarating blast, closing with the question we’re all asking as things fall apart: What Can You Do But Rock’n’Roll?

Overall this is a deeply satisfying meeting of many minds.

The resultant soundscapes stretch invitingly on tracks such as the lilting Hondo, while Kalahari summons up an appropriately threatening desert atmosphere.

These songs respond beautifully to the pathos and drama of their subject, summoning a mood with subtle musical shifts but knowing when to deploy the grand gesture.

There are excellent Miles trumpet solos all over these tracks too, proving that he’d got his sound back after his late-70s breakdown.

Bird conducts his experiments with the lightest of touches: his ingenuity matched by a gift for simple, lilting melodies.

By turns eerie and starkly beautiful, Replica rewards repeated listening.

Musically it’s a fascinating, low-key meld of 70s funk, gospel choruses and wonky rock guitar. Build a Bridge swells with Prince-like melody, No Time for Crying is stark and serious, and Peaceful Dream a gospel singalong. Inspirational work.