While he shouldn’t have to answer all his critics, Bridges does so on ‘Good Thing’ with remarkable aplomb. If he was indeed once a rehash of the past, this time he can’t be tied to one specific time, past or present.

Many of the songs deal in wavy synths and trap beats, but a few tracks show an appetite for experimentation that reflects poorly on the rest of the album.

Coombes’ vocal, of course, gives the whole thing a nostalgic familiarity, but musically it’s an album that, for him, explores some fresh ground.

Trilling’s lyrics are the glue that holds together this powerful but vulnerable album.

Enjoyable, fiendishly moreish, while also somewhat disjointed, A Girl Cried Red is most rewarding for what it tells us about Princess Nokia, both as an artist and a person--showcasing an alternate side of an open yet abstruse enigma.

Musically, it’s a soothing sound--think Imogen Heap, Regina Spektor, Laura Marling and Tori Amos--that without attentive listening could be mistaken for a pleasant enough electronic-pop record. However, in Half Waif’s quest for some kind of calmness they’ve actually made an album that, inwardly, burns furiously.

This record isn’t a monument to His Royal Badness. It’s one of the greatest artists of our time carrying Prince’s baton into the new world.

While this second LP broadens their scope to take in baggy, shoegaze, jangle pop and even some ill-advised bits that sound like Travis.

Castle is not just cohesive--it feels like it’s been made to be consumed as one whole body of work. Each song segues into the next, giving barely a second to pause or hit shuffle.

At its best, the album is a selection of polished and inoffensive pop songs, but at its worst, it’s forgettable.

Grid of Points is a seemingly-unfinished bunch of loose ends that somehow appear complete when combined.

An album that’s packed with dry wit and choppy, off-kilter energy, but one that’s lyrically far better suited to a darker, post-#MeToo world.

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.

Throughout she offers up rich, swirling instrumentals and intricate musical landscapes, crunchy chord progressions and twinkling chromaticism complemented by her confident, warm vocals.

The comparatively featureless pessimism on the rest of the album makes for an oppressive and often dull listen. It’s a shame, because underneath it all, Lord Huron are making lusher and more varied sounds than ever.

Not so much leaping between time-signatures as entire time-zones, the gristly riffs and ambient metal meanderings of ‘Sonder’ strive for a kind of stoic, sombre enormity, but they clash badly with Tompkins’ often slick pop vocals.

It batters through good taste, though its reggae-lite template is musically forgettable.

At its best, the record builds on some of the weirder elements in Hot Chip, but at its worst spirals into self-indulgence.

At one point, Presley claims, he and Le Bon used the sound of a frog’s ribbit for an instrument. It’s here where Hippo Lite verges towards sounding like music that was only ever made for its makers, rather than an outside audience. In a quest to discover simple living free of consequence, Le Bon and Presley can, at times, get lost in their own little bubble.

Every sentiment on Novelist Guy is deeply felt.

With a Balearic pulse and horizontal attitude throughout, this record is ready-made sunshine--MDMAzing pretension-free fun for the masses. This is the album we need in these hard times, even if we don’t deserve it. Put this record on, dance until sunrise, gurn through Brexit and rave until war is over.

This “psychic reset” has reinvigorated Thomas, and even if the results are sometimes a bit messy, there’s no way you can call this record boring. Long live King Tuff II.

Tinashe and her fans were kept waiting a frustratingly long time for Joyride, but perhaps it was this extra time that gave her the opportunity to craft the album into the sensual, star-ridden offering she’s released.

There are many ways to find solace in the unstable world we live in, and The Lookout is Veirs’ quietly optimistic manifesto.

Lil Xan is by no means the worst thing to happen to hip-hop, nor does he symbolise its death. However, he isn’t very good either. Stretched to a full album’s worth of material, Xan’s music, like a certain branded prescription drug, quickly tires those with little tolerance.

The sheer scale, pop-pomp and balls on show here render their survival an absolute victory. Resistance may be futile, but the Manics continue to advance.

Occasionally, Geography grows monotonous, but derivative it is definitely not. There’s something undeniably unique about the tone of Tom’s voice--precise yet effortless--and his guitar skills are prodigious.

Mostly this album succeeds on attrition and attitude, much like ‘Bodak Yellow’ did.