While rumours of the album's demise may well have been premature, the digital age certainly does present increasing challenges when it comes to getting punters to keep and treasure music. Of course, really it all went wrong with the CD: those irritating plastic cases with hinges and catches guaranteed to snap off and get hoovered up, the booklets you have to squint to read, the discs that slide under car seats or behind radiators. Even “deluxe collectors' editions” were never going to be all that glorious compared to a big slab of vinyl or two and a lavish gatefold record sleeve.

The music of Hype Williams is the definition of an acquired taste. It sounds ramshackle, thrown together, deliberately awkward – either deeply contrarian or the work of very, very messed-up people just playing around with archaic home recording equipment. But immersion in it reveals all kinds of layers of strangeness, and particularly a rich and emotionally resonant sense of melody that weaves through all the clashing rhythms and crackly recordings. Even the arrangements, it becomes apparent, are not random, but show real complexity – although what is deliberate and what not is hard to pick apart. It slowly becomes apparent why a label as respected and aesthetically rigorous as Hyperdub might have picked them up as they have recently.

Pål Moddi Knutsen is from Senja, an island off north Norway’s west coast. Inside the Arctic Circle, it’s so far north as to be all but adjacent to the borders with Sweden and Finland. Due east, Murmansk is less than half the distance of Oslo. It’s no surprise that Moddi’s debut album evokes solitude, the endless light, the unbroken night and the contemplation that has to come with the territory.

Is Guy Garvey really as lovely as he seems? I hope so. Last night, on the first of two nights for the Bury band at the O2 Arena, their lead singer, this big bearded bear of a man, came across as clever, funny, confident, warm, positive and inspirational. He can sing a bit, too, possessing a voice of uncommon sweetness and purity and unerring accuracy, slipping effortlessly into falsetto and back when required. Really, unless you happen to be the kind of person who likes to swim through seas of cynicism, what’s not to like?

And blowing away cynicism was what this gig was all about: shamelessly, cheesily (arm waving? Tick. Singing along? Tick. Giant mirrrorball? Tick), this was an exercise in making 18,000 people feel better about themselves, about each other and about the world, using big bold and anthemic songs allied with sparkling spectacle to lift the spirits and banish the demons. Nor was this some kind of Panglossian la-la land; Elbow make music that’s rooted in real lived experience (something that’s inevitably accentuated by the northern-ness of Garvey’s delivery, sung as well as spoken), reflecting individual traumas and collective tribulations. But what shines through, always, is the big beating heart of this five-piece band.

They’ve played big festivals before, but to my knowledge they’ve never performed in a place the size of the O2, and yet Garvey was entirely undaunted, chatting garrulously, completely at ease. There was nothing here of the frenetic desperate nerviness of other great live bands such as Arcade Fire: the occasion was dignified by a sense of calmness, almost serenity, that was reflected in the rapt attentiveness of the crowd. Garvey was even unfazed when a pair of knickers landed next to him. “That’s never happened before,” he said, “in 20 years!” before calmly tucking them into his suit-jacket pocket.

Elbow’s set of nearly two hours was paced with the confidence of a band who have been together for 20 years, who know how to lay a long, slow-burning fuse, beginning with “The Birds” (from the new album, Build a Rocket Boys!), moving on through the stately big-beat waltz of “The Loneliness of a Tower Crane Driver” and culminating in the glorious explosion of joy that is “One Day Like This”. A smaller satellite stage gave Garvey (and for a while the rest of the band) a place to roam and pace, a station from which to survey the audience, while lights and screens added sparkle and colour.

Also, mention should be made of the sound system: I don’t know how it was from elsewhere in the arena, but from where I was sitting it was impeccable. I have seen countless gigs in which string sections were employed for what can only have been decorative effect, given that their sawings were almost always entirely inaudible, but here the four string players were strong and, well, stringy. And the rest was marvellously clear, too, from the deep rumble of the bass on “Station Approach” to the gently plucked acoustic guitar on “Weather to Fly”.

So, nothing to complain about? Well, in arena gigs the crowd have an important part to play in creating an atmosphere and trying to lift the lid, and here I think they shirked their responsibilities somewhat, being a bit on the passive side. But that’s all. And if I’ve given the impression that this was just the Guy Garvey show, this certainly wasn’t the case: the other four members of the band (pictured above) played their parts brilliantly, too: Elbow’s music is at times quite tricky and multilayered but they never missed a beat. It’s just that Garvey, the force of his personality, the bigness of his heart, is so compellingly watchable.

This is the most gorgeous Finnish Krautrock album I've heard in ages. Yeah, I know, how wacky, how alternative, how off-piste – but bear with me. If you associate Krautrock with over-serious record collectors it might sound like damning with faint praise, but yes, this mostly instrumental record is made by a trio of demented Finns; yes, it is rooted in the psychedelic repetitions of mid-1970s German hairies; and yes, it is really, really gorgeous.

Judging a CD by its cover has always proved fairly reliable in my experience, but in this instance it also wouldn’t seem unreasonable. For this young Sao Paulo-born singer-songwriter did all the charmingly whimsical artwork herself and its gentle Surrealism (the featureless face that doubles as the silhouette of a tulip) does reflect the understated quirkiness of the music.

What's weird about the reams of commentaries that have already sprouted around The King of Limbs is the way they try to tell you what it resembles, but not what it actually is. Apparently it's like Miles Davis, Foals, Autechre, dubstep, Talk Talk, Philip Glass and Charles Mingus, among others. But is there an essential Radioheadness at its core?

Joan Wasser, who operates under the name of Joan As Police Woman, has probably seen all sorts in her time, having played with Antony Hegarty and Rufus Wainwright and dated the late Jeff Buckley. But even she was thrown by an inappropriate comment from the stalls at the Barbican last night. "Show us your tits" is the sort of thing female comedians in working men’s clubs, not soulful, passionate musicians in concert halls, have to put up with.

P J Harvey has been shouty, and she has been tremulous. She has crunched guitars and caressed pianos. She has explored almost every emotion experienced on an ever-evolving musical journey. But on Let England Shake, her first solo album for almost four years, she’s turned away from the world within to give her take on the island on which she lives. And this bittersweet reflection feels like the culmination of everything she's been before.

Simon Raymonde's Bella Union label occupies an enviable position within the music world. Successfully (although, as you'll see below, only just) weathering the travails of an industry beset by downloading and market fragmentation, it enters the 14th year of its existence strong and confident, with an impressive roster of maverick artists with actual or potential mainstream appeal.