The Helm Of Sorrow manages to sound like a different entity, while still riding that wave of existential horror.

It jabs with style, and demonstrates that, far from running out of ideas, this band remain intent on staying at the cutting edge of modern British rock.

Every note and drumbeat speaks of friends enjoying the freedom to do whatever they damn well want, in the company of musicians and composers whose talents bring out the best in each other. Even amongst such impressive back catalogues, Killer Be Killed have crafted a record which absolutely destroys in its own right.

After a while the hell-raising wears thin, though, and Luke’s jugular-bulging yells start to sound indistinguishable between songs. But when the Nil’s no-holds-barred approach comes good, it’s glorious.

Neither Boris nor Merzbow are particularly known for their music being concise, and of course this opus is no exception — clocking in at almost 90 minutes it takes its sweet time making its point. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, as they unhurriedly pick apart their previous material it provides fresh perspective and an opportunity to rediscover.

As with the original, Black Stallion is an album of competing extremities held together in a state of perfect equilibrium. It is certainly true that White Pony needed no augmentation. In its original incarnation it sounds as breathtaking and innovative now as it did in June 2000. To weigh Black Stallion against it would not only be unfair, but also miss the point. What we have here is a whole new set of parallel hoof prints to marvel at.

Weird! is a collection of good moments disappointingly hidden under an avalanche of sugar.

Does it need to be quite as much of a lengthy binge as it is? Maybe not. But second helpings of something that’s fundamentally good are never a bad thing. And in the moment that Smashing Pumpkins currently find themselves – three-quarters reunioned, confident, dare one even say comfortable – there’s joy to be heard throughout, as they turn over rocks and see what they can find.

A selection of genuinely catchy songs built around cast-iron melodies.

Power Up is a reminder that this music has a power that belies its apparent simplicity (and here do not mistake this for being easy – go stand in a practice room and listen to how many drummers can’t do the ’DC beat properly). The context and tragic shadow from which it comes and the world into which it arrives makes its odes to freewheeling good times so very poignant.

There’s plenty to latch onto, whether it’s the neck-rending riffs, the snarling/soaring vocals or just wanting to vibe out and let the darkness envelope you; it’s a display of artistry.

Ghostemane knows who he is. That he expresses himself this articulately without giving too much of that away is in itself testament to his esoteric skills.

BMTH have long known how to play what cards when, and just when we need something cathartic, something heavy, something with an element of the familiar in amongst the creativity, they deliver richly here. Fourteen years on from their debut, much has changed, but in some other ways some things are exactly the same.

The beauty of Puscifer is that they can be taken any way you like depending on how you look at them. It is more than enough that the music on Existential Reckoning is superb. But should you attempt to get under the skin and solve the puzzles within, there are vast riches to be had.

NOTHING, a band noted for their none-more-dour demeanour using a black hole as inspiration might be a little too on-the-nose for some tastes. At a time when hope feels in scant supply, wade into the blackness of these waters at your own discretion.

Grown men revisiting their youthful hijinks should be a terrible idea or, to borrow an FNM title, a midlife crisis. Instead, this record is an absolute rager, testament to both the original material and the present-day dedication of its lunatic creators.

Razzmatazz comes at just the right time and it was well worth the wait. iDKHOW might not be changing the game exactly, but they’re packing the kind of addictive, dopamine-like qualities that’ll make you want to keep pumping coins into the slot for another hit, time and time again.

The main selling points of this album are a sleek production job and the technical performance of vocalist Conor Mason, who once again proves himself to be in possession of some serious lungs. The problem, however, is that despite the surface sheen, too many of Moral Panic’s songs fail to really go anywhere.

A reminder of how fun music can be. Sure, it’s not as joyous as Morbid Stuff, but for a stopgap to keep fans going in these bewildering times, it does the job nicely.

There’s nothing too out there on Forgotten Days – the ’80s synth of the closing Caledonia probably the biggest surprise, but a welcome one: a playful take on the pain of the past – and all the tracks are solid, with any experimentation woven tightly around Pallbearer’s doom roots. This is the sound of a genre being refreshed, and of a band making it entirely their own.

Throughout, DevilDriver are taut, tight and tenacious.

This is the band’s most engaging and expansive musical outing to date.

It’s a lot of fun. With all this in mind, will such an eccentric listen be for everyone? Probably (k)not. But, right now, you’d be silly to not let yourself get caught up in it.

Each of their previous three albums have proven invigorating examples of their punishing aesthetic, but Atlas Vending finds them pushing things forward, broadening their horizons to tremendous effect.

Each is very different, but they’re connected by a sense of the time and space they were crafted in. It’s a collection of postcards from the edge that we’ve all been walking and one that’s utterly engaging.

A superb dose of head-banging fun by way of The House That Heaven Built brings this record to a joyous conclusion, and caps off an experience courtesy of Japandroids that overflows with vitality.

Not only is Tickets To My Downfall a slick sideways hop from what you might be expecting from Machine Gun Kelly, it’s done excellently. It celebrates everything great about pop-punk without feeling cookie-cutter or third division. It also finds its energy from the knots Kells works through in the lyrics.

Some will inevitably hold every Public Enemy album up against their ironclad classics like Fear Of A Black Planet and It Takes A Nation Of Millions, but to compare What You Gonna Do… to these untoppable milestones is to miss the point. What matters is that PE are not only still going after all this time, but still making music that matters.