She still struggles to throw off what must now be very tiresome PJ Harvey comparisons. That said, this is very much a resonant record, set in the here and now, with melodies to the fore.

Its songs, by southerner Randall Bramlett, don’t have the heft of Dylan or Simone, but prove a good fit for Lavette’s heart-on-sleeve vocals.

Unfortunately, Gordon’s spiky, staccato delivery is too often drowned in distortion and diminished by tune-dodging cacophony. So many songs, such as Trophies, are tense yet torpid, and when the airless intensity clears briefly on Shelf Warmer it’s too late.

Slighter songs such as the Britpoppy My Gruesome Loving Friend or the trip-hoppy Barefoot aren’t as arresting, and the new-agey lyrics coupled with Isabel Munoz-Newsome’s impassioned, highly mannered vocals can grate. But overall, producer Dan Carey smooths their varied styles into a surprisingly magnetic debut.

A special evening, but one containing both chasms and confluences.

Sometimes it feels more like an oral history project, with first-hand spoken-word accounts by Liam Bailey (the title track), or Brown’s appreciation of her family on Just Be. Mostly, though, she succeeds in channelling her anger, sadness and defiance, all the while conveying gratitude for the richness of her Caribbean roots.

An overarching concern on Petals… is how Williams constructs a workable new femininity free from her old tomboy identity in Paramore. The blooming metaphor is, as a result, slightly overplayed throughout. ... Although there are a couple of low-key co-writes, Williams and York remain the organising creatives, and Williams sounds both free and in control.

The end result finds elegance trumping excitement.

More immediate songs such as In the Same Room are ineffably breezy, while other tracks illustrate her handle on ancient Greece (This is Ekstasis) and the uncommon control she has over textures and motifs, atmospheres and vocoders.

The songs often lean more towards the arty end of the mainstream, losing touch slightly with the startling radicalism of Sudan Archives’ early sound.

Frontwoman Tina Halladay’s voice appears to have only one setting: overblown, lung-bursting holler.

The album’s title speaks of urgency; its nearest song, Don’t Look Now, details the unwanted advances that bedevil a model. But the episode twinkles a little too prettily for the subject matter.

Dose Your Dreams is a dizzying mix of styles, often within the same song.

While it’s a nice retro bagatelle, a regrettable lack of originality really hampers Foil Deer.

These arrangements are never overloaded, the brass remains stately and discreet. If Reid never quite poleaxes you with her insights, this remains a thoroughly lovely record.

While All Melody’s textures are magnificent, plick-plocking susurrations, his treatment of the human voice is like a gash in an otherwise beauteous canvas.

At 12 tracks, though, Fear Fun could do with a good trim.

There are tunes aplenty, making this second Protomartyr album a surprisingly pleasurable dose of swaggering anomie.

While there’s little wrong with the songwriting, only Love Is the Key By the Sea and Beautiful Morning linger in the memory, the latter coming on like a nature lover’s remix of the Jam’s romantic English Rose.

Garbus's voice is jostled too much amid the hectic production to allow its personality to shine through and, with some notable exceptions (the call and response of Real Thing), hooks are hurried on before properly taking root.

No chance of paunchy homage here; lyrics cluttered with Munch, war and the Chartists and the tightly coiled energy of its best moments, such as Misguided Missile and instrumental closer Mayakovsky, suggest they are fronting up to middle age rather well.

Musically, too, there are tempestuous moments (Missing Children; Sing Me a Song), but the quartet only soar when the lights are dimmed and ambience takes precedence over energy.

Looser, grungier, fuzzier and yet more abrupt, perhaps, than latter-day Wilco offerings, Star Wars is proof that you can get considerably more than you pay for.

A plethora of found sounds and jazz inflections keep everything compelling. But the hovering, sustained and gliding elements miss the brave sensory overload of Aviary and the pop nous of Wilderness. The best track is the simplest: Meyou, a warped, minimal vocal meditation.

It may not rank among Wilco's boldest works. It could have done with more wig-outs. But it captures the art of the almost with both hands.

Transgender Dysphoria Blues lives up to its title with candour and tunes.

This record is just shy of being truly groundbreaking. Polachek remains too much of a class act, a little too wedded to conventional beauty on songs like Look At Me Now, to really take her pop to the bleeding edge.

With this album, you'll be scrabbling for a lyric sheet because Homme seems so uncharacteristically unmoored.