‘Lianne La Havas’ is a far more cohesive record than any of its predecessors, focused around a primary nucleus of intimate vocals, nimble guitar-work and driving percussion.

Familiar ground, but consider this the sound of modern masters honing their craft.

Fact is, if you know enough about Joy Division, New Order and Happy Mondays to want to watch the movie, you probably own everything on this record already.

There’s an occasional tendency for the guitars to spill into the clunky arena rock territory preferred by Lenny Kravitz--who shreds on ‘Face The Sun’ but Wildheart impresses nonetheless.

This is ambitious electronic music rewarding persistence.

Bosnian Rainbows finds Omar in controlled, more conventional territory than he has been in a while. There’s structure, sub-four-minute songs, melody. It’ll never be Nick Grimshaw’s Record Of The Week and it’s still prog, but it’s a punky prog that at least feels like it is actively trying to make friends with you.

Its darkwave soundtrack is all the more sinister, sexy and thrilling for having visuals set to the sound.

If you want to know about the Glasgow scene which spawned Franz Ferdinand, 'Push Barman To Open Old Wounds' is pretty much essential. [21 May 2005, p.66]

This Is All Yours engulfs you like a deep forest. Alt-J Mk II, then: an impressive expansion, with hugely improved connectivity.

Yes, ‘Vince Staples’ was a beautifully personal reflection from start to finish, but ‘Ramona Park…’ enriches the listener’s relationship with the rapper.

If A Head Full of Dreams really is to be Coldplay’s last hurrah, then they’ve gone out with a flashbang of colour and catharsis.

Unlike ‘Kiwanuka’, this album doesn’t keep you guessing. Rather than punching you in the face with a barrage of beauty, it softly rolls pockets of magic into your path. Yet, the softness of its approach does nothing to lessen the impact of Kiwanuka’s long-awaited return.

Poignant package-holiday dance, sun-drunk but urgent with passion.

This might not be the ‘music of the night’ that rotund talent show type Lloyd Webber and his phantoms had in mind, but based on the majority of this album Messrs Kapranos, Hardy, McCarthy and Thomson can definitely take us out tonight.

It’s a hollow, unforgiving, brutal yet utterly beautiful record, full of deep intricacies that won’t let you go. ‘By The Throat’ indeed.

Sunbathing Animal is not an immediate or cushy listen, but it is gripping; a considered and brutal reminder that Parquet Courts’ aren’t necessarily an accessible band.

Though it barely scratches the surface, then, ‘Essiebons Special’ succeeds in its aim to celebrate Essilfie-Bondzie’s legacy.

As the sprawling title-track brings the album to a close around the 67-minute mark, the heft of it all can feel overpowering, leaving you wishing for a more concentrated dose.

For those who can stomach its muscular experimentation, Circles is out of this world.

You can hear Badu’s influence across EarthEE, which flows as freely as its predecessor, but is more sonically detailed and rich.

Cole’s incisive, mic-dropping end to KOD reiterates his importance to the rap game in 2018 and, if you’re the speculating type, could even serve as a taster for an imminent full-length follow-up.

This is very much a post-Stormzy, post-Skepta, post-Drake-going-roadman album, and an important stepping stone along the path to the UK establishing itself as a bona fide world-beater at beats and rhymes.

The result is an absolute pleasure.

A clear progression from 1997's broody 'Vanishing Point' and 2000's abrasive 'Xtrmntr', the seventh Primals album is genuinely their most diverse and consistently thrilling since 'Screamdelica'.

The immaculately chiselled 'Daybreaker' is so beautiful and distant that it almost isn't there at all.

One of the best live albums that NME has ever heard.

Taken as a full album in a single sitting, the drum-heavy tribal starkness of it all could be a little overwhelming; unrelenting, even; but the tracklist is just crying out to be dismembered and spread across your playlists like blood-spattering across a crisp white wall.

It's essentially more of the same kickabout beach-pop that Brian Wilson might have sounded like if he'd listened obsessively to '80s indie legends Felt while he was plaing in his sandpit. [1 Jul 2006, p.36]