Jason Mraz… How can someone so big slip under so many radars. Mine, the muso with whom I trek to all sorts of gigs, and that of a wide range of friends, most of whom are pretty au courant with the scene.

“If you look at music, you see theme, variation, you see symmetry, asymmetry, you see structure,” observed Dave van Ronk, the late folk musician known as “the Mayor of MacDougal Street” in Greenwich Village.

“You stop playing for three years and you double your crowd,” jokes Amy Boone at a sold-out gig at the Jazz Café in Camden. The reason for the Delines’ hiatus isn’t much of a joke: Boone was hit by an out-of-control car when walking in a parking lot in Austin, Texas. Both her legs were broken badly, she needed nine major surgeries and a skin graft and spent those years in rehab, delaying the release of the Portland, Oregon band’s acclaimed second album, Imperial. She now walks with an elegant silver cane.

Its Dali-esque sleeve image captures Goes West perfectly. Over its 10 instrumental tracks, the music drifts inwards from outside as if introducing the endless open space of an intensely lit desert. There’s a sadness-tinged reflectiveness too; one which could bring on tears and induce a need to look heavenwards for support.

It’s hard to see the first album under the Pedro the Lion name in 15 years as anything other than a homecoming. There’s the title, Phoenix, for one thing: a dual-purpose nod to both songwriter David Bazan’s hometown and the mythical bird, reborn from the ashes of what came before.

Forty years on from her eponymous debut album, the eldest child of Johnny Cash and his first wife Vivian Liberto returns after a near five-year gap from recording with a collection of songs that walk the hyphen of country-rock.

In our era of TV so-called talent shows and cynically manufactured stars, how wonderful it is that many of the truly talented musicians who for decades have written the soundtracks of so many lives are releasing late-career albums that can stop you in your tracks. This year has been particularly rich – Joan Baez, Paul Simon, Judy Collins/Stephen Stills – and now David Crosby, with his fourth album in as many years.

Fifty years after he first entered what was then known as “the hit parade”, Duane Eddy stepped on stage at the London Palladium, cheered to the echo by an audience old enough to remember 78 rpm. By and large, they’d worn less well than the man they’d come to hear, who looked trim in charcoal jeans and cowboy boots, and a jacket of the sort tailors on Nashville’s Music Row specialise.

Kurt Vile is a cult artist with growing commercial heft. He’s gained this without making concessions to mainstream sensibilities. Ever since Walkin’ on a Pretty Daze in 2013 he’s become an unlikely contender, mustering sales. His last album, a collaboration with Aussie fuzz-troubadour Courtney Barnett, almost made the UK Top 10. He’s not yet in the league of his old pals and band-mates The War on Drugs but his latest album, a step forward and slightly to the left, won’t do his career trajectory any harm.

It's a little hard to compliment KT Tunstall without seeming a little snitty. Her music is familiar, it's grown-up, it's Radio 2, it's full of lashings of Fleetwood Mac, Tom Petty, The Pretenders, Springsteen, Nashville, Laurel Canyon.