Therein lies Gush’s greatest strength. An album pulling in opposite directions musically and thematically could easily have proven misguided, trying and obtuse, yet under Smith’s guidance, it proves an intriguing, tantalizing, and surprising natural fit.

The songs on Jump Rope Gazers aren’t as immediately addictive as what came before, but The Beths’ natural intuition for emotive and melodic writing is still intact.

On Storm Queen she’s an actor given complete creative freedom with a classic text; the voice of an avenging angel; a ballet dancer performing with a sharpened sabre in hand. Summoning thunderclouds and hurricanes with her inflections and rippling vocal cords, she is the Storm Queen through and through.

All that need really be said is that it is sublime; both in terms of execution and aesthetics.

Pilgrimage of the Soul feels like a statement of intent from a band now entering their third decade of existence, and this is a fine record that both acknowledges past victories and shows desire to develop and progress to new ground.

We have heard many albums about the pandemic and life within it, but this is more about about life after it; how to pick up the pieces of the lives we had before it and transform them into this new life that just relentlessly goes on. Vile’s music is attuned to the unrelenting progression of life.

Races' debut is a powerfully tenacious effort.

Yet another impressive and experimental addition to Dawn’s discography, Second Line proves that this prolific artist is not running out of steam or fresh ideas any time soon.

A final gorgeous, understated moment to close out a record full of them. Even without Powell’s signature voice, it sounds like Land of Talk and no one else.

Such is Krug’s way with words: deliberately or not, he’s weaving a huge tapestry that makes the author clearer to us. Julia With Blue Jeans On is another section in it and is a damned beautiful, it not great one at that.

Cloud Nothings, the eponymous debut from the project of Dylan Baldi, is the work of another young mind who seems gifted beyond his years.

Its fragmented nature is tied to its accessibility; each track stands alone on its own merits, albeit at the expense of the record as a whole. The more oblique lyricism allows for the possibility of wider interpretations here, where previously they have felt out of reach.

The King is full of voices, both his own and those of the ones he sings about and for, and that communion is one of the album’s biggest strengths. It does maintain some habits that threaten to curdle the gravity of his songs into preciousness or melodrama, like his quivering vibrato and theatrical mannerisms (at times, the songs almost sound like folky musical theatre numbers). But, overall, these nitpicked conflicts don’t negate the sheer power of what Anjimile has constructed here.

It’s an evocative thrill ride and a captivating rumination on mortality that also asks questions of life afterwards. It isn’t an easy listen but it’ll soon become something you’re drawn towards time and time again.

Push the Sky Away has the ability to move without raising its voice above a whisper.

He may not have superstar charisma on the mic, but his ability to create an enveloping, dungeon-like sphere of sound practically guarantees you'll be seeing his name pop up on plenty of great releases for years to come.

Maybe not every song here is as fully-realized as her best material, and maybe there are a few too many slow-moving ballads – but this doesn’t lessen just how delightful Planet Her ends up as a whole. It’s the type of pop album there should be more of: both playful and psychedelic, rich in intelligent production, and filled with charismatic and chameleonic performances.

It would be easy to say the album is carried by the collabs or FaltyDL, but that would be a lie. Mykki’s imprint is just as strong and powerful. Lyrics about spirituality or black queer politics add to the depth and joy of the record.

Many of the best rap records are monochromatically single-minded, but then the other half, embrace contradictions as a weapon, rage hiding insecurities, heartless satire shielding weakness, such as Earl’s hero, early period Slim Shady.

The "point," if there is such a thing with this kind of music, is that even during its most trepidatious or lonely nadirs, there is a beauty to experiencing love that overwhelms the heart. Windy & Carl seem to aim to replicate that overwhelming sensation through their music.

The 10 tracks that make up DÍA‘s streamlined 33 minutes and 47 seconds channel that volatile orientation honestly, not forcing itself into a deliberate linear sensibility.

Zoo is a well-produced record that captures a band on its way up the ladder.

To be fair, she's still in the process of resurfacing, rather successfully actually, and Body Talk is a fine dance-pop album.

It's not that Beams is a lighter listen than Black City, but it's certainly more honest.

If the album in its entirety feels open-ended, well, that's because it is, but by any measure Family Perfume is a pleasantly disarming ride, loaded with great, barely noticeable moments.

Her third album leaves no stone unturned, turning darkness into sheer catharsis. Sounds like something we all could use.

Undeniably their most vulnerable and exposed album to date, Tomorrow We Escape sees Ho99o9 infuse an ethereal, melancholy softness into a sound they’d already established and mastered.

There’s a constant fluidity, a continuum of becoming throughout IRE, and the band stubbornly, almost gleefully, refuse to return earthbound.