To say that the band still have a bite to their sound might be a little unkind to a group of men who may not have most of their own teeth these days, but Rack is testament to the need to grow old disgracefully.

While the mixes on Manning Fireworks are studiously crafted, Lenderman’s presence largely enrolling, and his guitar acumen undeniable, the set’s overall gestalt is naggingly emulative. Lenderman, as compelling as he can be, rarely transcends the influence of his forebears.

It’s hard to say if it is necessarily ‘better’ than its predecessor, but Endlessness is yet another incredible, standout record from arguably the most gifted jazz musician her generation has seen so far.

You may be wondering why you’d ever want to listen to an album that is so overrun with desperation, which is a somewhat valid concern. But there is an alchemy to what Spirit of the Beehive do in their unique sonic approach that makes their depressive messages not feel self-pitying, but genuinely human.

Wednesday’s Karly Hartzman and MJ Lenderman are featured on several tracks, as is indie rocker Ella O’Connor Williams (a.k.a Squirrel Flower). Yet their presence only enhances and never overshadows the trio’s music.

Each track holds its own and proves that Wunderhorse is indeed a force to be reckoned with in the world of indie-rock. They exhibit considerable yet humble strength in all regards of vocals, lyricism, composition, and orchestration.

It’s great, urgent music. Sad and enticing.

New fans get a wonderful introduction to a fascinating discography, and existing fans get a project that will leave them both pleased and eagerly awaiting the next move of a star that can seemingly do it all.

A solid and polished record, a beautiful collection – not one to outlast time, but to chronicle its passing nature, and the melancholy released from that realisation.

Realistic IX is a wonderful record on many levels, just don’t say it’s shoegaze.

To the Ghosts both romanticizes life and love while also providing a reality check that is much needed and somehow manages to be jarringly comforting. The album showcases all that we have come to know and love about Cults, while also allowing them to explore other sides of their creativity.

Aghori Mhori Mei is Billy Corgan’s return to his true passion, a fully formed and cohesive work that sounds like an actual Smashing Pumpkins album without resorting to self-references.

everything still worries me is Ozard honing the skills she’s been showing off over the past few years, but before long she’ll have to step outwards, make bigger steps, and take more risks

There’s something to be said for burning bright and fast, but with the limp arrival of Y2K! it seems this room went dark long before we were able to leave the party.

This is him using collective dialogue – with a large cast of varied characters – to have fun. And it’s infectious.

Delivering their most ambitious and longest album since 2010’s opus Romance Is Boring – and doing so while maintaining all the hallmarks that have made them such a beloved force.

Simpson’s voice is more resonant than ever, his melodic sensibilities on full display. Over eight songs and 41 minutes, he forges sublime and heartfelt work, evoking the epic poles of experience: loneliness and belonging, forlornness and gratitude, faith and doubt.

The album’s only other real fault is that an unnecessary number of interludes for such an economic LP (runtime: 36 minutes) creates a sense of disjointedness. However, My Light, My Destroyer remains an unmistakably gorgeous listen created by a musician attuned to perfecting lilting melodies like few others are.

Charm lives up to its title – not with slick, rehearsed pickup lines – but a joyous, unguarded ‘Oh god, I can’t believe I just caught myself thinking this’-type of sincerity.

MEGAN doesn’t really match her most memorable projects. The music doesn’t match a multifaceted generational talent, and the result is a record full of what feels like compromise. Nevertheless, the Hotties get many new great songs to enjoy, and Megan and her team get proof that the rapper can successfully take her sound in many different directions, even if that proof is interspaced with much more filler than it should be.

Washed Out’s fifth album is a genuinely engrossing return to form, filled with memorable songs and flawless craftsmanship. A soundtrack for growing out of the past, and into the future.

In the increasingly crowded corrido field, Peso Pluma’s calling card is his raspy vocal and he uses Éxodo almost like a shop window to showcase its possibilities (or limits).

Vocally, lyrically, and sonically, Fratti captures the way in which the micro and macro are forever colliding, shrinking, erupting, dissolving around us and, more pressingly, within us.

In changing the dynamic, The Mysterines get a little lost.

It is a little short, some of the songs feel a bit undercooked, and occasionally her lyrics tiptoe over the line of poetic observation into eye-rolling territory — but it is her best and most genuinely surprising since Reprieve, as her last few albums have been pleasant but not exactly groundbreaking. But when an artist can so thoroughly show a new side of themselves this far into their career, that’s worth celebrating.

In a catalogue as rich with esoteric bangers as Bat for Lashes’, a work this defined and heartfelt still is a striking gem. A hushed secret, it has more to offer than just that.

Normani stays one to watch, and for now her fans have some very solid material to enjoy until she decides to come back.

It is an exciting and emotional listening experience that feels both carefully masterful and sincerely unfiltered.