For all the promise here, the definitive Ladytron album remains the 2011 compilation Best of 00-10.

[7 Rings] is a hit, but isn’t actually all that great, using Rodgers and Hammerstein’s My Favourite Things as its sing-song musical base. The rest of the album remains of interest for its evolutions in sound, delivery and attitude.

There’s no song here that would make an encore, but Hello Happiness is a vital calling card to remind everyone to come hear this unearthly voice, still sizzling with spice.

The standout performance comes from country singer Margo Price, who depicts living a life in fear of a vengeful God on the powerful Sermon (“God almighty’s gonna cut you down”). But Williams deserves credit too, for her impassioned take on Ode to Billie Joe, a 1967 US No 1 single drafted in here to replace the original album’s inessential Louisiana Man.

If you’re looking for muted mystery, Jessica Pratt’s third album, as its title suggests, will enigmatically oblige.

The MC born Ché Wolton Grant is on fire, yet in some danger of losing his individuality.

McCombs’ lack of interest in easy interpretations endures and, if anything, prettifies, on this engrossing record.

Yes, the chords [on First World Problems] recall the Rolling Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil, but fans looking for a Roses-adjacent tune packed with slouch and King Monkey life advice are well served here. Not everything else lives up to it--Barrington Levy’s Black Roses is a dull, rockist trudge of a cover--but overall, Ripples is studded with little surprises.

While there are several moments to savour (particularly Pretty and the shoegaze-influenced Minute in Your Mind), the more muscular approach ultimately does them few favours: one is left with the sense that they have traded in what made them different for a stab at fairly unadventurous alt-rock by numbers.

Kouyate’s playing remains at its heart, pulsing, ingenious and spellbinding.

There’s nothing wrong with this album’s unifying ambitions and things-get-better mood. There’s just something studied about it that’s hard to love.

These are 10 skillful and meditative instrumental acoustic guitar renderings that bear the weight of Americana--of contemporary America--lightly, but consciously.

Cardy’s lyrics are still a slight disappointment, however, consisting too often of ill-defined “us v them” sentiments (witness So What’s “They don’t care about us so we don’t care about them”). Still, that’s a minor quibble--it’s hard not to enjoy an album as full of energy as this.

The best songs – Give a Little, Say It, On + Off, lean harder into the hip-hop grooves, Rogers’s strong and soulful voice gaining a bit of grit. Overnight and The Knife, however, fall into melodic predictability, Fallingwater drowns a more interesting structure in ersatz gospel and Past Life, the overportentous, dragged-out ballad at the album’s heart, reminds you that viral doesn’t always mean catchy.

Piano, the Jupiter 4 synthesiser and some elegant, spacious production courtesy of John Congleton replace Van Etten’s previous surging indie rock guitars. And yet Van Etten remains resolutely herself: possessed of a slow-burning seethe that builds to swirling crescendos, she is a consummate surgeon of relationships, keen on Bruce Springsteen

This album is, without a doubt, a big, glitchy, swooning, hyper-modern declaration of love.

The Unseen in Between (what a title) kicks Gunn up a gear, redeploying his influences into a left-field but welcoming whole, pearlescent enough as a background listen, but sufficiently arresting to make you stop and appreciate Gunn’s chops.

These are mature, classy songs. They’re also abuzz with the thrill of a bright new musical friendship, audible in the confidences Brewis conjures on the punchy Watercooler, or Hayes’s unburdening of private griefs on the radiant, string-swept Springburn.

This isn’t a terrible record by any means--and at just 20 minutes it’s admirably succinct--but it leaves the listener with a definite sense that Ty Segall might be overstretching himself.

Once you accept the intimidating length and occasional clumsy lyric (see: “An attack of the mind / like Optimus Prime in his prime”), there’s plenty here to appreciate.

The Trouble, with its richly twangy slide, spooky reverb and oblique enchantments, is particularly powerful, but throughout, Middleman’s voice is dark and engaging, her songs possessed of a deceptively subtle charm.

There’s nothing here quite as aurally arresting as Moonlight, off XXX’s ? LP, but his recasting of Slim Shady as an eclectic depressive indelibly coloured this year.

Located somewhere between a TED talk, an episode of VH1’s Storytellers and a confessional, it’s a hugely nourishing listen – not least because Springsteen, the boss of righteous stadium bluster, unveils a self-deprecating sense of humour.

Chasescene confirms Knox as a master storyteller, and is a record to settle into on dark nights, glad that you’re only a listener to its frightful tales.

Pleasingly, it’s Morrison’s new songs that impress most. ... Of the covers, Hooker’s Dimples is the standout, but in truth there isn’t a weak link here. Excellent songs, expertly rendered--what is there to dislike?

Overall, it’s not as gleeful as their last one, but melodic light relief abounds, as on the Belinda Carlisle outtake that is It’s Not Living (If It’s Not With You). Those conclusions feel earned, not merely hashtagged.

Thirty years into his career, Warm shows that Tweedy is as absorbing as ever.

I Don’t Want To, Growing Pains, Comfortable and, particularly, 7 Days are all excellent examples of sensible-sweater, big-sister pop.

Maisha are no mere copyists, however; this is above all a celebration of young, eclectic Britain.

More of a curio than a proper follow-up to May’s Deafman Glance, and is likely to be of far greater interest to DMB completists than the casual listener, but it makes for an at times intriguing project.

Phoenix is perfectly fine, but its strongest moments make you realise that it could have been great.

Although Merrie Land has its flaws, this son of Colchester is usually right about the important stuff.

Sadly, three minutes of mild excitement are no compensation for the 59 of tedium.

Little Mix albums have always struggled to find their own identity, and LM5 still owes too much to Beyoncé’s flirtation with hip-hop and top-40 trend chasing. It’s frustrating.

Wealth is a recurrent theme, but musicality remains to the fore.

Streisand’s powerful delivery of simple, pointed lyrics (“Facts are fake and friends are foes / And how the story ends nobody knows”) convinces, even on the gamiest heart-tuggers.

No track here breaks the five-minute mark; only Something Human lets the side down with an acoustic guitar.

There is no attempt to sugar-coat his legacy. Unfiltered, melodic, cinematic and raw, this album has moments that feel a little cheesy, but that’s in keeping with how unconcerned he was with “coolness”.

Comparisons with such late-career highlights as Johnny Cash’s American Recordings albums and Leonard Cohen’s You Want It Darker are inevitable, but Negative Capability really does belong in such exalted company.

This is arena-moulded rock-rave, rather than the unhinged, roofless futurism of their 90s albums, and it’s glorious, dumb fun.

There is nothing fly-by-night about Rita Ekwere, an artist in the classic mould – audibly from London, but gazing outwards. Empress feels hugely current.

Revisiting her childhood terror of nuclear war (“Protect and Survive” et al) is perhaps fighting yesterday’s battles; otherwise, a flawless outing.

It’s to Yorke’s credit that the sense of foreboding he conjures, whether in the discordant Volk or the more elegant Olga’s Destruction (Volk Tape), manages to be so evocative even without Guadagnino’s visuals.

Rather than try to top her peerless pop peaks, Robyn has instead uncovered a new warmth, and the effect, on the lofty, dark techno of Human Being and the trippy tempo dips of Baby Forgive Me--redolent of lost small hours and fleeting epiphanies during dancefloor marathons--is sweet indeed.

There are fractured beats, and tendril-like melodies, but here nothing really lands--as either protest or revelation. ... But mid-album, Cherry and Hebden hit a very sweet spot indeed as Natural Skin Deep finally syncs Hebden’s rhythmic dub jazz and Cherry’s pop nous.

Too much is forgettable.

Across 80 sprawling minutes, Vile does lose his focus occasionally, most notably on the 10-minute title track, which fails to gain much in the way of traction, and the similarly unremarkable Cold Was the Wind. Still, this is an album to savour.

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.

A decent debut, then, but with Mai’s rich voice you can’t help feeling that it could have been stratospheric. Instead, it fails to innovate, and all feels a little beige.

A litany of icy threats, Break That (ft Suspect) doesn’t advance the genre much, but like much of this mixtape it does remind his original fanbase that Octavian is a threat as well as a hedonist street philosopher.

It’s not that C5 is too little, too late; more that the baton between the generations passed some time ago.

Though life has its shadows still (the motorik psych-country epic Round the Horn, the vocoder lament Christmas Down Under), the core of C’est La Vie is radiant happiness, Houck’s familiar sounds buffed to a transcendent shine.

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

Marshall now has a manager, but Wanderer has that spooked strangeness of old. The grim reaper looms large. ... But there are tunes, too--pretty things like Horizon, which pays tribute to her family, while Marshall simultaneously eyes the exit.

Roosevelt’s is an airbrushed, off-kilter kind of pop, and while he still isn’t pushing the envelope, Young Romance is a pleasant enough listen.

It’s About Time is a masterly collection of relentlessly upbeat floor-fillers, even if the song titles--Boogie All Night, Dance With Me, Do You Wanna Party?--occasionally verge on self-parody.

While many of these 21 tracks (interludes abound) sound familiar--tunes like Pass the Knife share considerable bongwater with Cypress Hill’s 90s heyday--innovations do liven up the Hill’s central theme.

Dark and absorbing, The Blue Hour is never dull, although in an age of playlist-friendly immediacy it’s hard to imagine its appeal stretching far beyond already committed fans.

It’s an intensely intimate experience, appropriately voyeuristic and transgressive for a songwriter who wrote about both things so well. The versions of Prince’s better-known songs may disappoint some--Purple Rain is a meandering snippet--but what stays with you is the sense of talent, hardening to genius.

Although neophytes might struggle with Holley’s shruggy attitude to tunefulness--his free-ranging sound recalls, at different times, Tom Waits, Gil Scott-Heron or RL Burnside--a coterie of associates help to flesh out Holley’s non-linear storytelling into something more conventionally accomplished.

Here, as with Grimes, percussion is used as a weapon; none of the lyrics are clichéd top 40 pap. Unlike Grimes, however, Letissier has a bold, synthetic funk payload to commend her, and her lyrics are more obviously personal.

14 tracks stretches the hooks a little thin, but My Mind Makes Noises boasts pop craft to rival big-money production teams, and much better eyeliner to boot.

Weller sounds at ease with this more introspective material, the lush orchestration acting as a perfect foil to his voice.

It’s a beautifully crafted, upbeat pop album, and MNEK’s voice is compelling and gorgeous; the only small quibble is it’s a tad long.Colour , a triumphal duet with Hailee Steinfeld, feels a little tacked on in an effort to emulate the success of his Zara Larsson collab Never Forget You, and the conversational between-song interludes likewise feel a little extraneous, if all part and parcel of MNEK’s unique, mellifluous Language.

The finest songs here land immediately and hum with urgency.

Kamikaze finds Marshall Mathers revelling in his Slim Shady rabid underdog role, fulminating at critics, boggling at Lil Yachty, and sneering at the Migos flow on Not Alike. How riveting all this finger-wagging is probably depends upon your birth date.

The melodies are simple but lovely, often spelled out on tumbling acoustic guitar, as on Like Water, before being taken up by the group. It’s wonderful to have them back.

Bloom is a bare-faced record, thrillingly honest and defiantly queer, proving Sivan is one of pop’s most essential voices.

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.

What makes for a happy life is this album’s implied question, and as well as all the necessaries about love, Honne offer up idiosyncratic takes on cars (the Peugeot 306, no less) and shrinks.

Flight of Fancy and Number 10 impress too, but elsewhere the quality is more variable: Daniel Kessler’s delicate guitar lines aside, the slower Stay in Touch lacks any light or shade. The equally uninspired closer is called It Probably Matters; on this evidence it probably doesn’t.

Set over gorgeous production, and serving as a comforting reminder to black sheep and ugly ducklings everywhere that it pays to be true to one’s full self, Negro Swan is a dizzying triumph.

AC plumb depths of paucity more than subtlety in this wilfully desolate expanse of dispassionate vocals and vague, awkward ambience.

The title track and R.E.M. smush together her penchant for musical theatre and 90s R&B. Everytime bridges tight melodies with synths like a large elastic band being plucked, and God is a Woman feels almost tantric, with guitars and harmonies spaced between sweaty beats.

There are traces of White Chalk-era PJ Harvey, Low and Sufjan Stevens here and there, but At Weddings introduces a new and singular talent.

The album’s sole achievement is its brevity.

The record does lean a little close to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road at times.

Although nothing is exactly under-produced, the governing principle remains loose. White is so sweet-sounding, you might blink and miss the commentary of songs such as Crashing Your Party (“gimme that bow, gimme that stone, gimme that rake, I’m gonna take my place”) or Gold Fire, the most fully realised piece of music here.

Remarkably, this 15th album might be their best.

Most tracks float by in a pleasant if unremarkable funk-lite haze, but there’s an overall sense of Miller being older, wiser and more at peace than before.

Not everything here is riveting: Gurnsey’s narrative arc is a little underdeveloped.

It’s let down by a few too many unremarkable ballads (Fumes, I Would), but that doesn’t detract from the fact that Testament shows this comeback is more than simply an exercise in nostalgia.

So you might come to Teatime Dub Encounters--a most English half-smile of titles, one that echoes the rueful cosiness of another Underworld opus, Second Toughest in the Infants--for the antic misdemeanours, or for the latterday Dylanish radio drawl, but you will stay for the way Iggy confesses that he has always struggled to make friends and keep the ones he’s got--the gist of I’ll See Big.

Over 15 tracks, however, progress stalls. For all Gaika’s articulacy--he also writes for Dazed & Confused--the downbeat haze in which he operates privileges numbness over passion and ire, qualities his arresting music merely hints at, rather than weaponises.

Sadly, his second album is blander than supermarket jerk chicken, and its wistful, ruminative opener, Watch Who You Tell, promises depths that never surface.

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.

Hive Mind--their mainstream-facing fourth outing--offers up another set of come-hither sounds whose confidence has taken another leap.

Throughout, Raymond takes this roiling, rhythmic traditional sound and stamps her own imprimatur on it.

The result is a fearless and powerful debut.

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.

The production of Malcolm Catto, of London’s Heliocentrics, adds subtle, atmospheric touches, notably on the squelching dub of Land of Ra. Deep and inspirational.

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.

Wedding ramshackle rant-punk to deadpan, slackerish tunes is a positively Jurassic move for a new band. But this five-piece nail the absurdity of contemporary life with that surprisingly evergreen formula.

Too bad Williams doesn’t sing on the plaintive Ballad of the Sad Young Men. Otherwise, this unexpected collaboration doesn’t miss a trick.

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.