Planta feels lightweight; not much really catches the ear or imagination.

It's that rare thing: an album that will reward repeated listening by drip-feeding you its secrets.

There is joy in these grooves; the attentive care of studio perfectionists, and the warm embrace of an old friend.

It sounds like a Sabbath album, from the tortuous lyrics to the eight-minute track lengths. But something about it feels wrong.

Much of the time, it's reheated Madchester. The rest, it's over-literal psychedelia.

The weird, aquatic-sounding requiems are getting better all the time.

Its chances are boosted by Ian Broudie's bright, bold production, but, apart from one obligatory Beatlesy ballad, it's full of route-one glam-rock stompers with not a single interesting or original twist and lazy stuff-that-rhymes lyrics.

The band return to the slow-and-low, sinister alt-boogie that made their name, with Homme's satisfying dirty badass guitar sound in full effect.

Desire Lines lacks the hooks of their best work, with no obvious hits.

It's bright and brash, sometimes almost life-affirming, but leaves you wondering two things (the influence of Graceland and singing in a comedy "foreign" accent).

There is nothing not to love about it.

Spread over a 67-minute album, their second with new voice William DuVall, that grinding insistence first impresses, then just grinds.

It remains the case that this kind of thing only has something to say about distance travelled, no more.

CocoRosie [is] squat, inventively, somewhere between Fever Ray and Joanna Newsom.

Fans of Springsteen's downer side might flow with the music's riverine vibe.

The duo often leave any sense of taste with their gumboots outside on the doorstep.

In short, if Land of CanAan were a Stevie Wonder album, it would be Hotter than July rather than Innervisions.

The occasional off-kilter touch throws things sufficiently askew to deny listeners any complacency.

It's an album which makes you feel warm.

You won't have heard anything like it before.

A genuinely odd collaboration.

Bracing stuff.

A compelling experience.

In place of the suavité we associate with Songbook Rod, we get a whooping, sequenced modernisation of 1970s Guitar-Rock Rod.

This is a sweet, light confection, but insubstantial as whipped cream and too sugary for some tastes.

The majority of A (clever title, in the context of Faltskog's history) consists of dignified, age appropriate ballads.

It's seldom terrible. And seldom does much to persuade you that it wouldn't be a better idea to cut out the middle man and listen to Gillespie's old LPs instead.

Each song sounds much like the last but with hooks like this, who needs prizes for subtlety?