Perhaps a little inconsistent, Habibi Funk packs a lot of charisma, and on balance delivers the goods.

Their eighth studio LP, is fearsome stuff. Tracks like The Grind, Lung and A Slow Reaction display perfectly pitched aggression to fine effect but Unsane are at their best when they allow a circular groove to really take hold and lock down for the duration. Not all is quite as compelling--Distance and Avail feel rather leaden, but this remains a fierce listen.

The remixes mostly offer lush versions festooned with synths, offering a glimpse of how the album might have sounded had Stevens followed a different path in the studio.

The tone is consistently one of hope, if James intended it to act as a balm to soothe any of the problems of the world, he’s certainly succeeded.

With its cinematic strings and glacial synth arrangements, Rise is certainly rife with theatricality--but rather than play-acting at the role of singer, Gainsbourg’s patchwork embeds the answers to those questions, and many more, deep within.

Huge swathes of the album are like an elaborate game of spot the steal. ... Overall, the songs are better crafted than on his previous HFB albums, more persuasive and memorable.

Golden Teacher aren’t quite there yet, just missing a tune or two that really defines what they do. They haven’t produced something that is manages to simultaneously play to their strengths; as catchy as opener Sauchiehall Withdrawal, as rhythmically engaging as the West African-inspired Diop, as pumping as Spiritron.

Way more folk-ridden than Orc’s hysterical prog racket, this one’s soaked in acoustic guitars, lush strings, early-Bowie eccentricity and singing saws.

The Peter Asher-produced album is glossily listenable even if you have no knowledge of the star name fronting the band. Whether it deserves the level of coverage it will receive is another conversation.

Some of the bombastic stadium moments are so silly they’re fun but the more rustic pieces are where this Starr shines brightest. Speed Of Sound and Shake It Up have good-time rockabilly swagger, while the record’s highlight is So Wrong For So Long: a pedal-steel breakup tune which reaffirms Starr’s scouse-cowboy croon as one of the great lost voices of country music.

Low occasionally summons enough leavening fervour to make a Morrissey album seem worth the time: no small achievement after his dreaded political blather.

The unpromising combinations separate rather than coalesce. The talented, pugilistic youngster’s best feels yet to come.

Fleeting pleasures aside, the focus becomes wayward afterwards.

Nothing here is going to uproot trees, but given Hillman’s recent lack of activity the release is welcome. The ideal aural companion to Johnny Rogan’s comprehsive Byrds books.

The resultant World Wide Funk comes across as a well-drilled unit running through manoeuvres without actually going into battle.

Opener Fly On Your Wall is oddly reminiscent of the plodding, tense quality of some of John Lennon/ Plastic Ono Band – the bits where Ringo appears to be playing biscuit tins--that is, until Olsen’s soaraway, otherworldly vocals take it somewhere altogether more spectral. Special follows, a languid jam that could have easily slotted on to the last album.

The sounds are cosmic and enveloping, yet at times comedic, and full of joie de vivre. It’s fulsome, nattering with treble, and all quite similar, and is hence something of an assault course, but is a great reaffirmation that Yoshimi holds the keys to happiness, as viewed through a cracked mirror.

Ostensibly half an hour of instrumentals, recent Walker converts should tread carefully but long-time watchers should come along for the latest excursion in this evolving ride. Things could get wild.

Most of Billy 2.0’s low-key lullabies are pleasant enough. Indeed, you could place any one of them in the middle of a big rock record as an eyebrow-raising, spine-tingling palate cleanser. Enduring them all in one sitting is, unfortunately, less fun than consuming 11 consecutive courses of the same pumpkin-flavoured sorbet.

More abstruse and cerebral.

The first UNKLE album in seven years regresses towards bad old habits, its patchy pleasures often lacking the cohesive clout needed to sharpen its ambitions.

Ultimately, Woods deserves the hype, though more consistency would deliver fully on her talent.

Cameron could be a pop contender, but the masks that make the man are as much barrier as blessing here.

It’s all fairly light, but there’s plenty to savour.

His eponymous seventh LP feels like a massive leap forward, as though an epiphany has allowed him to put all the right pieces in all the right places, and suddenly the picture becomes clear.

Cut Copy need to learn to make music with the reckless abandon of a good night out--at whichever type of club they end up in.

The understated closer Admiral Of Upside Down is evidence that somewhere beneath all the sonic experimentation he’s inherited at least a modicum of his famous father’s ear for melody.

Colors suffers for sacrificing personality for immediacy.