A tempestuous record, one that stays with you longer than the rage and anguish which, here, is as fleeting, yet deeply magical, as the changing seasons.

Although the record is vivid, striking and thought-provoking – with nearly every song on this album a deep, pensive sonic sulk – the south Londoner’s voice is beginning to slip further away from a generation he intended to represent: one that’s done overthinking and just wanting to feel.

Lead guitarist Michael Bradvica, in particular, is an assertive presence throughout. His Nile Rodgers-style “chucking” on ‘Cinema’ gives the track both groove and depth, while his deft playing on the vulnerable, emotive ‘Smiling’ almost creates a dialogue of sorts between himself and vocalist Maisie Everett with transfixing results.

Album number three from Just Mustard is a more three-dimensional, glorious noise – reaching for euphoria while capturing the rollercoaster of comedowns and the spaces in between; driving melody through the malaise on a psych-driven neon bullet train.

By the end of ‘West End Girl’, it’s clear the relationship in this tale might be over, but Lily Allen’s comeback is just getting started.

It’s an accomplished listen – still as deliciously dramatic as ‘Prelude To Ecstasy’, fleshing out their world more and more with daring, dashing songs of true depth.

Part of why it feels like such a beast is Shelton’s total frankness and vulnerability across these songs, which, while welcome and galvanising, also feels exhausting in the way watching someone run a marathon does.

By its fourth track ‘Loser’, the album’s first single, his insecurities are so hammered down to the listener – “I’m a tragedy / tryna figure my whole life out” – that it begins gets in the way of his arrangements, which so far are imaginative and varied compared to the stylistic tedium of ‘The Slow Rush’.

The 20-track project adeptly captures the sadness and social isolation sparked by Young Thug’s time away, but conveys it with such lethargy and incoherence that you’re simply left feeling sorry for him rather than inspired by his storytelling.

Here, this penchant for simplicity shines – her raw, unmistakable voice operating as the album’s unbudging anchor.

‘R Is For Rocket’ isn’t a record that breaks new ground nor delivers constant hits; but it is a promising debut that does a damn good job at what it set out to do: solid songs, played loud.

By the time ‘Axis of Evil’ rolls around to close things out, you feel as though you’ve been given the fullest scope yet of what the band are capable of.

Gone are the wistfulness and melancholy that permeated her last four albums, yet ‘The Life of a Showgirl’ still sounds curiously muted despite Swift reuniting with pop super-producers Max Martin and Shellback for the first time in eight years.

‘Vie’ proves that Doja Cat remains pop’s ultimate shapeshifter, offering an album that moves, seduces and entertains on its own terms.

The record isn’t as cohesive or experimental as ‘Caution’, it’s not a big musical transition moment like ‘Butterfly’ was, and it’s not as viral-worthy as ‘Memoirs Of An Imperfect Angel’ – but it’s still pretty darn good.

It’s good to hear Sprints develop on ‘All That Is Over’, but to do so without extinguishing that fire is the fine line they walk.

This record comes to cement her place. With it, marks the next chapter in Dean’s career, one as a popstar risen.

The result is a bloated, soulless shell that never finds its own voice.

This is a band living up to their reputation as exhilaratingly free-spirited, not so much proving they deserve all the accolades and fervent fanaticism bubbling around them but demanding it.

‘I Barely Know Her’ is a slick, ambitious collection of songs crafted for big venues and festival stages.

Biffy Clyro have delivered one of their most personal and definitive records to date.

Rock records don’t come much better than this.

‘Altar’ is a beautiful portrait of working out what you’re willing to give up and how to keep pushing yourself forward despite the aching within you.

At times, ‘I’m Only F**king Myself’ feels a little all over the place – though, cramming so many interesting and surprising spins on pop into one record, and largely pulling it off, is still commendable.

While ‘Pain To Power’ advances the harsh pairing of the saxophone with noise-rock that Maruja have already explored, its standout moments come through expressions of love – fulfilling Wilkinson’s on-stage promise.

Sheeran hasn’t committed as wholeheartedly to the genre-hopping bit as he did on ‘÷’. There are an awful lot of those sickly ballads, some of which are better than others: ‘Old Phone’, inspired by seeing an old text from Edwards, is genuinely moving.

An album that’s chock-full of bravado, intelligence and, frankly, hits.

It’s frustrating because there’s plenty of great material scattered across these two parts, which would be far stronger as a single, shorter release.