The best tracks on 'Haram' come together with crooked production that twitches with sharp samples and cuts, and AH’s billy woods and Elucid filling the space with pointed flows.

Not only is ‘I Came From Love’ the best album that Okumu has released but it’s one of the finest albums of the year so far.

It completes Amaarae’s transition from a fringe Alté artist to a future-pop icon in the making.

It’s another marvellous addition to the Father John Misty catalogue, delivered from a songwriter that surely now deserves to be recognised as one of, if not the greatest, of this decade.

A product of its time, it will unsettle and confuse you, and there are even moments that feel poignant. That is why they will be remembered as an important band, and this album a significant milestone in modern guitar music.

We're New Here is a psychedelic atlas with which we can all sonically voyage upon. A great way to start the year.

Black Country, New Road somehow remain just as essential as they were back then. It takes time to get your head around ‘Forever Howlong’, with its freeform song structures and heady arrangements — but if you allow yourself the space to unravel its secrets, you’ll be amply rewarded.

This is invigorating, wilful and wildly exuberant--and one senses an invitation to collaboration with David Byrne might be in the post.

In context and execution, Songs Of Praise is one of the most daring, scorching, seethingly intelligent, and at times downright funny British guitar albums to come our way in years.

A record of real depth, ‘Wall Of Eyes’ closes on a sombre note. Distinctive, melodic, and defined, ‘You Know Me’ doesn’t so much pull at the heartstrings as slice right through them, Thom Yorke’s voice dissolving into a mesh of strings. It’s a suitably potent moment to end the record on – poised and suggestive, it becomes a bridge from one phase, to something as yet uncharted.

Latin lamentations and oscillating interferences spin sinful tales of transgression and violation, with a flagellating undercurrent of austerity, to create an uneasy, intuitive, idiosyncratic masterpiece.

Her balladry is simple, sparse, unfeigned and unpretentious, and her torch songs smoulder like burning embers.

It’s romantic, existential, frantic, and disorganised, and that ultimately strange mix of tones, genres, and production all adds into a singular esthetic. Nonetheless, it’s hard to ignore its shortcomings, and it is all too easy to rue what might have been, as there are moments of brilliance here that are too often cut short by an unnecessary lull in artistic reinvention.

It’s not a perfect album by any means – I’m still torn on ‘Wretched’, whose anthemic chorus seems a little too eager to please, and ‘Cosigns’ is a little too spartan in its production. Nevertheless, it takes a wealth of creativity and guts to make an album as individual as this.

For the most part, although the record is not without its weaker moments, ‘Flow Critical Lucidity’ is a good reflection of Moore’s rare experience. A deep, if relatively short, listen which will reward repeat plays.

Confident, strident guitar music, it’s a record that blends hugely effective songwriting with wicked production values, granting their work a crisp 90s-adjacent sheen that refuses to sacrifice their raw live endeavours.

This album is purposely ambiguous. By omitting such boundaries, it offers a storyline recognisable to everyone. Love is universal!

The pacing can get interrupted somewhat by the sheer amount of skits on here, and a Jay Sean featuring ‘Any Day’ slams on the brakes mid-album, but other than that this is a tightly packed, lightning-quick swing at the racism of British society. Riz Ahmed might now be more famous for his acting, but he’s been making music since he was a teenager – and on this album, it shows.

'Few Good Things' picks up steam with 'Still', a reflective collaboration with 6lack and Smino, climaxing four songs later on 'If I Had a Dollar', the most melodically ambitious and emotionally evocative song on the album.

Futurology is the Manics doing what they do best, with added Krautrock, Georgia Ruth and Green Gartside.

A raw snapshot perfectly designed to capture the ugliest sides of Britain, it’s obvious that the duo is happy to knock at our doors once again. There’s an ongoing need for this portrayal of relevant topics, and their sharpness and humour are as strong as ever.

Those that are used to their favourite tunes packing an immediate punch may be left disappointed, but the time spent ruminating has clearly served them well.

A project that demands to be listened to in one sitting, there is an immersive quality across the tracklist that instantly strikes through. Each track is submerged in a nocturnal wash of acoustics, playful in its use of distance, textures and melody.

It’s true that Lianne La Havas does lull in places, and the vocals do rescue her from a tight spot on more than one occasion, but you get the sense that this is a record which you really have to live with and invest time in before you’re lucky enough to appreciate its myriad charms.

‘Someday, Now’ is a pretty perfect progression from ‘Return.’ It’s bolder, more individual, and, dare we say, more fun. Wonky indie-pop that’s built to soundtrack these strange days we find ourselves in.

Yet for all the ideas, it’s a patient album: the deft funk of ‘Music Concrete’ takes its time, with a muttered repeated title, while ‘Space Station Mantra’ pulses and fizzes skywards, bringing things full circle with more motorik murmuring.

A contemplative, decidedly indie collection that trades sonic innovation for stillness and emotional clarity.

Confessional yet cathartic, ‘Metalhorse’ is an emotionally resonant piece of work that is vital, vivid and showcases why Billy NoMates is an undisputed ‘Tor’ de force.