On first hearing about Staff Benda Bilili - a Congolese band partly made up of paraplegics – I felt a little uneasy at the prospect of reviewing them. The last thing that one wants as a (hopefully) trusted critic is to feel compromised by an obligation to either give a positive review, or feel guilty about lessening their chances of bettering their circumstances with a bad review. Yes, rather embarrassingly, the vanity and solipsism of your reviewer has no limits.

Old joke: when is N’Dour not N’Dour? When he’s Frank Sinatra. The comparisons of the Chairman of the Board with Senegal’s biggest star may seem a bit far-fetched, but I wondered as I watched him whether there’s a current European or American star who has the sheer authority, laid-back charisma and utterly distinctive voice that Frank used to have and Youssou has. In Youssou’s case, his voice of warm honey and mahogany is one of the seven wonders of the world. As it happens, for the first few numbers, Youssou was also as lounge-musicy as I’ve ever seen him.

After his spectacular performance at the Brit Awards, the stage running amok with a dancing jury, shimmying riot police and balletic convicts, I wasn't sure what to expect from a Plan B show. Perhaps a theatrical experience somewhere between Rick Wakeman's infamous 1975 King Arthur on Ice extravaganza and the Ray Winstone borstal flick Scum? But, no, the newly minted Brit-hop soul star adheres to a traditional band format, albeit sharp-suited and backed by two feisty gospel-belter ladies.

Beards, beards, beards: at the Roundhouse, they seemed to be everywhere, sprouting from the chins of hundreds of chaps in the audience. Perhaps, though, I was just looking out for them, what with the luxuriant growth on the face of the man they had all come to see: Iron & Wine, the artist otherwise known as Sam Beam, singer, songwriter and former film studies professor from the American south-east.

Sometimes it’s worth remembering that what is world music to one music lover is pop music to another. Portuguese four-piece Deolinda’s first album, Canção ao lado, spent nearly two years at the top of the charts at home, so there are an awful lot of people who see this band as pop music. This must also make it strange for the band themselves who, presumably, play sizeable venues in Portugal, only to find themselves in front of a London crowd of less than 300 at the Jazz Café last night. And to add one final twist, this London crowd seemed to be largely made up of Portuguese fans.

Halfway through last night’s show, as songs segued and smooshed into each other, it became clear that Robyn has perfected a high-concept pop that’s impossible to place geographically. She might be Swedish, but bloopy Chicago house, Euro electro and synthetic Japanese new wave are in the mix. A human blender, she’s at a peak – visibly fizzing.

I have thus far been a bit wary of the Janelle Monáe hype. It's only natural: when an attractive young performer is taken under the wing of megastars like Outkast and P Diddy, and drenched with media acclaim that pronounces them an artist on the level of Prince, all on the basis of a few download tracks and one album, one bristles. And when that album is heavily conceptualised and crisply produced but more full of overt retro references than it is instant tunes, the suspicion only grows. Live reviews, meanwhile, suggested that there might be something more stage school than old school about her soul stylings. I really didn't have many expectations for last night's show.

Since breaking through with her 1992 debut album Dry, PJ Harvey has constantly been on the move, changing and evolving, both musically and sartorially. Last night at the Troxy in East London was no exception. As she walked onstage dressed in a long black frock with a riot of matching feathers exploding from her head, she resembled Lady Gaga's bonkers West Country Edwardian ancestor.

There are some glorious sounds to be heard in the world of music: a big band in full swing; a symphony orchestra in full flight; a gospel choir; the Hammond B3 organ. But to my mind there’s nothing quite like the sound of a line of electric guitars – not chugging along like the Quo or Lynyrd Skynyrd, but meshing, interweaving, thrumming, humming, threshing, shredding, screaming; like Mogwai.