While not quite a return to form, the album’s sleek yet plaintive production is a welcome reminder of what Blake does best.

Homo Anxietatem is at its best when it throws the genre doors wide.

There are gestures towards something deeper – rapper Roots Manuva rattling his baritone at the end of You Ain’t No Celebrity, or the harsh, thumping bass of Holding On – but largely, Volcano trades on Jungle’s same, safe formula. There is little new in the nostalgia of these 14 tracks.

End of World is frustratingly hit and miss – the staccato glam-rock stylings of The Do That are particularly annoying – but then you suspect that the arch contrarian Lydon wouldn’t have it any other way.

Songs such as Waves may offer up intriguing oscillations, and some unforeseen guitar riffs ambush The Weeks, but more variety and definition would transform a very promising mood piece into a truly memorable one.

Although always listenable, Austin soon gets tired and whiny.

Perhaps the slightly stentorian tone of Cosentino’s vocals is at odds with the fragility of some lyrics – she sounds pretty much invulnerable whether celebrating love, or admitting she never thought she’d be worthy of it. Still, when she stretches herself, as on piano ballad Easy or the moody alt-country of Real Life, it feels as if she has a real future on her own.

The catch is that some passages here feel featherlight and unmemorable; a record about such transformational jubilation deserves to sound more characterful. A surprise sitar solo on Keep On isn’t quite enough.

While masterfully engineered as always, the album is too polite, lacking the monstrous, alien menace of the band’s bassier efforts. It’s an album that could do with a dub treatment.

Átta feels surprisingly unengaging.

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.

The less good news is that although every pairing has juice in it – the inclusion of a Nicole Scherzinger-paired Hawaiian traditional is a great curveball – many of these songs feel like over-pretty drawing room star turns. Nothing here is slick, exactly, but much tends towards mellifluous pleasantness – even the songs about protest and murder.

It’s a shame, then, that the songs accompanying Grohl’s most powerfully affecting set of lyrics so often fail to reach the same standard [as the Foo Fighters’ 1995 debut].

Too many songs start engagingly, become slightly less interesting then peter out. And as ever, Tucek’s lyrics fall between pleasingly quotidian and blandly banal, derailing promising tracks such as The Tunnel.

What’s lacking is a standout floor-filler. There’s nothing here that comes close to Ooh La La, and some of these slight but elegant songs just fade too far into the background.

Subtract is palpably a grownup record on which he swings from coping to not coping. ... Artistically, things are less clear cut. If this is not a time for frisky, funky percussion, the watery tropes on these songs are matched by the album’s misty sound.

Mostly, this post-genre approach works. But pure electronics are her strongest suit; you want to cheer when the housey oscillations of Sky River arrive after too much derivative wafting.

In its themes of longing and Berninger’s baritone vocals, it has all the hallmarks of a National record, yet lacks the vitality to stand out in their back catalogue.

Standouts such as Run a Red Light and No One Knows We’re Dancing provide clubland demimonde vignettes, while a number of expansive, impressionistic sound-beds allow for more matter-of-fact lyrics about loss (Lost) and cutting oneself some slack (When You Mess Up). Less memorable are the songs – like Caution to the Wind - where the two coast pellucidly along.

For all Hetfield’s soul-baring, however, as a whole 72 Seasons seems to mark the end of their late-career renaissance and is ultimately far more solid than spectacular.

Ultimately, this is a fragmented listen – the sound of Bailey attempting to find her feet and stumbling as much as she succeeds.

Ultimately, this is the work of an artist in transition, catering to old fans and well-trodden styles while attempting to settle on something new.

A small step back in the right direction, but at times they still sound somewhat leaden.

Her more experimental material can be heavier going: the sparkling funk of Pump’s first half gives way to an interminable coda that’s far more annoying than clever.

The human guests all serve some purpose. ... But the instrumental tracks that don’t bother with female vocals, or opera, are just better.

Patchy but playful in places, Trustfall is reliably Pink.

The duo’s first full-length project stays close to the club, proving Dickson’s canny ear for foot-twitching rhythms accompanied by exuberant Bollywood strings. However, on songs such as Hurricanes the spiky drums and candied orchestration submerge McAlmont, leaving him politely fighting for attention down in the mix. It’s mostly fine – Happy Ending, Otherwise and The Fever are fun – but that succulent voice, lighter than a fly on a feather, needs more space, more time.

Smith is an easy fit for disco pop. ... But then Ed Sheeran crops up on Who We Love, bearing the unnecessary gift of a midtempo wet blanket.