Again, there are no beats, just washes of guitar noise; the difference this time is that Gordon’s vocals are now buried so deep within the mix that they are largely unintelligible, and strangely unobtrusive.

While there’s no shortage of dazzling playing from a group that have the intuition of a jazz combo, with odd changes of tempo, and a couple of instrumentals to let rip their bluegrass picking. A curious curate’s egg.

Joy fails to replicate the shock of the new and for all its effulgent harmonies, a certain gnarly swagger has been lost.

You would not start here if you were new to this ear-boggling band, but Longstreth remains a singular talent.

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.

It all adds up to a baggy and frequently baffling record that’s unlikely to mark a historic moment in grime’s renaissance--and suggests its maker’s cultural clout lies squarely elsewhere.

I’ll Tell You What! doesn’t have quite the same crossover potential as Jlin, whose Black Origami album on Planet Mu topped almost every best electronic album list last year. But it’s a definitive statement of a sound that has staying power--and packs a triple-speed punch.

When there’s too much Albarn, there are too many songs shooting for the insidious sadness of On Melancholy Hill, and hitting the pleasant, inconsequential mark instead. Yes, Idaho, Lake Zurich and Souk Eye aren’t bad songs, but you’ll miss the bass and big choruses.

High As Hope still has the odd damp patch, and does not lack for oxygen: references to skyscrapers, and overproduced backing vocals see to that. There are skies full of song.

It is hard not to hear Bougatsos refracted through the lens of Grimes, an artist who radically expanded on GGD’s commercial potential. In comparison, Bougatsos now comes up a little ephemeral.

Sophie’s defining hyper-minimalism has given way to a new lushness. While enduringly “other”, tracks like Infatuation and Pretending lack focus, and this wafty iteration isn’t as original as Sophie’s other modes.

Though No Shame ultimately feels more like a transition than a reinvention, it’s good to see Allen coming back for seconds.

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.

Over a brief seven tracks, the 40-year-old superstar confirms his production prowess, veering between sparse, hyper-modern styles and compositions which hark back to the soulful bent of the producer-turned-rapper’s early career; a volatile mix of the sweet and the acrid, the sentimental and the tendentious.

Brevity sharpens the ex-Clipse rapper’s focus, though: rarely has he sounded as urgent, even with his signature laconic tempo, as he does on bravura opener If You Know You Know; or as authoritative as on Santeria, which packs three different movements into under three minutes.

There’s ample disgusted fury here, as tracks like the powerful Rain of Terror attest, but inner strength and enduring creativity are the takeaways from this unexpected record, as well as nods to Prince and Biggie Smalls.

Lemon Glow is particularly engrossing, a curdled night sky of a tune whose constituent parts weave in and out of focus. Black Car provides even more enthralling unease, where the various elements become unexpectedly off-kilter and 3D. ... Elsewhere, though, it’s business as usual.

Now she sounds fully formed, her rich lyrics (“Was my cup so full I thought it was empty?” she riddles, koan-like, on the dreamy shuffle of Mama Proud) and the dark depth of her Chan Marshall-ish voice adding intrigue to these subtly crafted songs.

Although some of Godfather II stays true to a classic sound--see the authoritative I Call the Shots, feat JME--other tracks, such as Certified, feat Shakka (a banger), are unabashed lunges for the mainstream.

Certain sections of Bridges’s audience are likely to define themselves against modern forms, so there is a risk here. But Bridges handles the transition deftly.

Too often, though, you’re left wishing for the thuggish bass and head-severing hi-hats of less cerebral dance music. There’s not enough food for the brain or fuel for the feet here.

It’s a compelling and moving opener to In the Rainbow Rain, but nothing else here scales the same heights.

It would all be so much anodyne chart mulch, but Anne-Marie has something of a plain-speaking everywoman image too. Some tracks here connect a little deeper, offering common-sense snapshots of unglamorous lives.

Sting’s still a fearless, fascinating lyricist, and Shaggy’s attractive persona remains one wink short of a leer. 44/876 may be no more exciting than a well-made sofa, but only psychopaths don’t like sofas.

While Hippo Lite does have its moments, well before the end you find yourself reflecting that Young Marble Giants, Rosa Yemen and the Raincoats did this far better almost 40 years ago.

This 73rd studio album stands out from the somewhat erratic output, a winning mixture of confessionals, nostalgia and humour, co-written with producer Buddy Cannon.

For every genre-busting banker such as Human (inventive, effects-laden soul) or Recovery (pugnacious swing-pop), there are so-so tracks that should have been palmed off on to someone else.

The deeper cuts boast a little more personality. You don’t expect too many sonic innovations from a record this mainstream, but the creaking chair beat on standout track Ooh La La is a welcome curveball, as is Salt, an almost bluesy track that showcases Tinashe’s huskier register.