Fenian is an immensely enjoyable record. Chara and Bap have a great natural sense of flow, able to syncopate phrases in a way to ensure the punchlines hit.

It’s a tremendous return, and all the more gratifying for its honesty.

A playful record that pushes in different directions without straying too far from the Seventies dancefloor brief.

This is a solid, saloon-door-slammer of a country classic.

There’s a sway to the melodies that slip around you, supportive but unassuming, like an old friend’s arm around the waist.

The Swedish pop innovator take charge over nine expertly produced tracks, exploring matters of sexuality, relationships and desire with playful candour. It’s brilliant, too; Robyn’s voice is commanding but also curious, enveloped by tremendous salvos of house and electronic sounds.

Her appetite for the heart-on-sleeve razzle dazzle of it all is glorious. This Music May Contain Hope is a pure audio spectacle that will have you screaming for an encore.

She tries her hand at new instruments and darts boldly between genres. As a consequence, Girlfriend can be a hard record to get a grip on. But it’s the ideal album for anyone else on the comedown from 2025’s Brat summer who now yearns, with Ives, to be “drinking up the day”.

Trying Times falters slightly in its final third – “Obsession” registers more as a sketch than a song – but these are minor frictions in a record whose emotional logic is otherwise unerring.

There are some pretty decent tunes on his 14th album, Make-Up is a Lie. .... But instead of falling face-first into music as we once did and enjoying a good old wallow in self-pity, we must now approach it as a minefield.

By stepping away for a minute, allowing any fears of getting left behind to cease, Styles has been able to return with newfound clarity and, more importantly, music that actually sounds like him. He let the light in, and it shows.

Over 15 tracks, a giddy mix of moods, genres, cultures, languages and time periods is woven together with virtuosic ease by Anoushka Shankar’s liquid sitar, Johnny Marr’s shimmering guitar and Ajay Prasanna’s gliding bamboo flute.

Gracie Abrams’s light graze of a croon skates elegantly over the sweet, piano-driven “Badlands”. Guest-free highlights include the delicately plucked “Alleycat”, resonant “Stay” and “Conversations with My Son”, which skips along its gorgeous acoustic guitar solo while Mumford’s lyrics pledge enduring love and support.

Charli proves herself much more in tune with the terrible complexity of Brontë’s original vision than Fennell: there are no inverted commas around the emotion expressed on this record. A windswept, gothic triumph.

Listening to Piss in the Wind can be a pretty gloomy experience, as it piles futility on futility. Ideas and tunes go unfinished. Yet its graceful, open ended melodies and raw emotions also tune into a very human ghost in the machine.

I doubt many listeners would be able to identify these as Tomlinson songs. But this is a likable, grounded collection of sunny-side-up pop from a likeable, grounded guy.

At times Locket’s sheen can flow rather frictionlessly over your ears, pretty but perhaps a little mass-produced. Yet it’s an album that reveals deeper, more enduring layers and real emotional skin beneath all the shiny fabric and pouty poses.

A record like this should go out with a bang. Instead, it’s a bit of a limp finish to an otherwise fun record from one of our most charismatic pop stars.

Celeste sings like a woman striding in confident slow motion away from a massive explosion. Shaken, but determined to be heard.

Music purists can entertain themselves all they like by debating whether this is “true” classical music. The rest of us can revel in what is possibly the best album of the year.

Everything on this record feels more focused than anything she’s done before.

This intense story-driven format lets her sound sharper, smarter, and more clear-eyed than before. .... Allen sounds newly alive in the contradictions we loved her for: acid-tongued and soft-hearted, ironic and sincere, broken again but alright, still.

There’s a lot of human heart pumping beneath the bangers here. Be prepared for your mascara/fire-pit kohl to get smudgy. Because It’s Not That Deep actually sounds like the work of a woman who’s done some serious digging in order to party this hard.

Deadbeat starts intimate and confessional, with what might be the best opening track of the year. .... From there, the tracks flow and blend hypnotically, tied together by the piano. Sometimes a song’s coherence is sacrificed to tranceyness, but hooks keep bobbing to the surface like lava lamp bubbles.

At the height of his powers on this long-awaited follow-up to 2022’s Reason to Smile. .... Don't Look Down is a superb album, his best to date.

The Life of a Showgirl might be one of her most uneven records, but she’s as compelling as she’s ever been – the showgirl, the ringmaster and the circus all in one.

It’s rare for music to be both deep and breezy, isn’t it? Minnie Riperton does it on “Lovin’ You” (1974) – all those casual la-la-la-las sinking into something profound. Corinne Bailey Rae did it too, with “Put Your Records On” (2006), flagging the nourishment of some much-needed downtime. Olivia Dean’s second album, The Art of Loving, manages the same feat.

Sprints are smarter, and louder, than ever before.

Here for It All doesn’t exactly shake things up, but it’s a pretty, polished affair all the same, Carey sitting comfortably on top of her sonic throne and uninterested in relinquishing it any time soon.

This record’s greatest strengths (and weaknesses) lie in Young’s bold, blatant and occasionally bewildering commitment to being messy.

Perimenopop is destined to get listeners hot and bothered; Ellis-Bextor remains as cool as ever.

The highs on That’s Showbiz Baby are so thrillingly nutty that it’s hard not to be all-in with the idea of Thirlwall as Britain’s galaxy-brained saviour of pop – at least by the time album two rolls around.

There is evident ambition on Play, but not a holistic or thorough one. Probing attempts to broaden Sheeran’s sound are offset by melodic and lyrical choices that are too safe.

Big Thief have done it again. Despite the 2024 departure of their bassist of nine years, Max Oleartchik, the Brooklyn-built indie band’s sixth album sounds like another instant classic.

The key to Flyte’s music is just how evocative it is, setting the scene perfectly and drawing you into their world.

There are incredible highs here, but too much that feels like a first draft.

These are songs that you can immediately tell will come alive on stage, where CMAT’s effervescent energy is really let loose. On record, they’re still a good listen – but it’s the words, honest and precise, that will keep fans coming back.

You can really relish these songs as outpourings of vulnerability, confusion and anger. They could be perfect to help lovely folk to dance away the pain of messy breakups. But you don’t have to strain too hard to hear them on the incel’s playlist either. Hickey’s a tricky one.

The songs are individually worthwhile, but get lost in the aggregate: Guitar rattles through agreeable ditties about life, love, and music at a clip that makes them blur together.

From the lovely momentum of “Carousel”, complete with fairground chimes, to the shivery, spellbinding flair of “Forget-Me-Not”. She’s as compelling as Julie London on “Silver Linings”, as heart-rending as Sam Phillips on the bold, surprising “Sabotage”. It’s sublime.

Although both the solid, retro stylings of The Love Invention and the more delicately dreamy Flux contain some lovely melodies and beautifully detailed production, the woman herself seems less edgily present than she while haunting 2000’s “Lovely Head” or on 2003’s “Strict Machine”.

No Rain, No Flowers turns out to be a muted effort.

It’s an utterly cohesive record, perhaps to a fault; the individual parts end up consumed by the whole. If you vibe with it, though, Anhedonia has made an album that has real depths to explore – it’s just a matter of finding the right frequency.

If Bite Me isn’t the consistently massive deal Mean Girls fans might have hoped for, it’s still pretty fetch.

At times, Dog Eared can feel like being let into a luxurious, vintage cabin at dusk. Sheepskin rugs on wooden floors, low lighting, open windows. At other times, it’s at risk of becoming classy, crepuscular wallpaper. But given time and attention, the confident craft of the songwriting and mellow musicianship will sink their grooves into the soul.

If you’re a longstanding Belieber by this point, you’re probably used to the tonal shifts of his adult material. But, outside of his hardcore devotees, Bieber remains more of a curiosity than a consistent, coherent creative force – Swag won’t do much to change the conversation.

Far from being burned out (or being bullied into selling out) by the sudden wave of global fame, they’ve doubled down on their own weird energy. Moisturizer's uncanny electricity is off the voltmeter.

Tempest plods a little through his breakdown of the social issues – poverty and addiction – facing modern Brits. There is power and truth in his weary clarity, but it can also feel a little prosaic. The pace, if not the mood, picks up on “Breathe” as Tempest addresses gang culture and describes a scene in which he found himself with blood on his trainers, delivered over a jittery trap beat that recalls Mike Skinner.

Virgin doesn’t find Lorde back in her finest, most exhilarating form. But it’s a record that sees her heading in that direction.

For all its promise that it never quite delivers on, I Quit is still another cool step in the band’s evolution – as well as a great way for fans to get their own step count up.

At 14 tracks, Remembering Now has a slight paunchiness to it – something that grates particularly during the drearier slow numbers, such as “The Only Love I Ever Need Is Yours” and “Memories and Visions”.

This is not Young’s best work. It is, however, a record that should raise smiles on the faces of the faithful.

Addison Rae may have started out as an internet personality, but Addison earns her a seat at the pop table. Rather than a work of fluke or novelty, it marks the arrival of an artist who knows exactly what she’s doing.

She distils her pain, venom and eventual acceptance into 13 perfectly executed songs.

More accomplishes in just three songs the transition between fan-settling familiarity and creative advancement.

Something Beautiful isn’t quite as crazy or groundbreaking as she seems to think, but its spirit of adventure encapsulates what we’ve come to know and love about one of our most frustrating yet endearing pop stars.

Boys These Days – in step with recent records by fellow leading alt-rock lights Fontaines DC and Wolf Alice – is blind to restraints of era or genre, a work of invigorating emancipation rock.

Doherty remains a charismatic scene evoker – even though you can’t follow the thread of all his tales, he still makes you feel you were there.

At times, Yorke moonwalks into self-parody with lines such as, “What's the purpose?” But such sixth-formery is compensated by the gorgeous melody and elegant phrasing of “Bugging Out Again”, so beautiful it's hard to hear with your eyes open.

At times, Vega’s use of clunky rhymes undoes the elegance of her more literary lines. ... It’s still lovely to have Vega back in action. Her level-head, outward-facing ideas and collected tone really steady the heart and offer the mind safe opportunities to wander.

At times the whole jazz-hands-emoted, Original Cast Recording! vibe can grate; the stageyness undercutting the intimacy of Taylor’s sharp, literate lyrics. At others, the evident effort of performance plays winkingly well into the choreography of her self-dramatising self-analysis.

A warm and inclusive record.

It’s cool to hear Vernon choosing fun at last. It’s a decision that’s opened up a whole new court for his melodies to play in. A slam dunk.

The album's direct confrontation with ageing and death serves to intensify these artists' joyful, companionable celebration of life. Outsized, old-school, dad-rockin' fun.

This was an opportunity for untethered rapping and bold experimentation that still exists within the bouncy freedom of Smith’s once-playful musical universe. Unfortunately, Based on a True Story just isn’t it.

No wheels have been reinvented on Rushmere. But it’s a solidly crafted and comforting addition to the band's earthy, fraternal oeuvre.

Her soothing voice, though very lovely, doesn’t always sell the cleverness of her lyrics.

Too much of this album purrs by, forgettably and disengaged. Banks really needs to bring herself into focus.

Versions of these 10 tunes have already come out in the relentless flood of confusing, multi-format material that flows from Young’s archives .... One of the USPs of this release is that these are all original 1977 mixes, making it maddeningly essential for completists.

Gaga’s return to outsider-empowering form could not be more timely. At a moment when America’s leaders seek to shove its marginalised citizens back into the shadows, she invites them back into the centre of the floor, celebrating their defiant differences in the bright strobe lighting. Maga? Oh nah-nah!

Open Wide melds the confidence of youth with the poise that comes from experience. It's the sound of a band who’ve truly come into their own.

Sensitively produced by Marta Salogni, the result is both seductive and hypnotic. .... I may already have found my album of the year.

Polari is brash and bold on the surface, but Alexander flails when searching for something truly profound to say.

The Purple Bird is reassuringly well-crafted and woodsy.

The transitions here are remarkable; skipping a single track feels akin to jumping three chapters in a novel. .... It would be easy to dismiss this album as indulgent – particularly after Tesfaye gave everyone the collective ick in HBO’s ludicrous misfire of a series The Idol – but Hurry Up Tomorrow is impressive for its ambition alone.

Can’t Rush Greatness is a bold statement, yes, but one that Central Cee does, by and large, live up to.

It’s defiantly weird, rawly explicit; at times, it does wander around in vague search of melodies. But it’s also a gorgeous grower of an album that blossoms with different details each time you hear it. The overcomplications and stickiness are part of its prettiness.

At times, the tracks loosen up to the point of unravelling completely. Yet Balloonerism remains a rather wonderful, albeit unsettling, reminder of a talent lost.

Although Cain is clearly pushing away one type of fan, this album is destined to bind others more closely to her. While I can’t work out when I’d choose to listen to it again, Perverts is distressingly exquisite. Repeated plays guarantee sonic Stockholm syndrome.

It’s relentlessly interesting – a cleverly crafted new noise around every corner.

Armatrading has proved more than willing to evolve down the years, but How Did This Happen is mostly a welcome return to familiar sounds and ideas. She produced the album at home, playing all the instruments herself (as she has done for decades) with considerable slickness.

It was worth the wait, of course.

It’s a superb album, full of welcome surprises.

So even if this is an elegy for FJM, it’s a rather wonderful one.

Too Cold to Hold is also one of this year’s most acute depictions of 21st Century turmoil.

His vulnerability is admirable – if only his songs were half as daring.

AAA doesn’t give us the faintest clue as to who these women are – or why we should care.

Nothing revolutionary about From Zero, then. But certainly a re-energised return to business for a band that has been sorely missed.

Gillespie has never quite had the voice to match his colossal ‘tude. But he can still channel the back-alley menace of a truant teen.

Songs of a Lost World is just eight tracks long, although it’s so immersive you’ll lose track of time.

It’s a record that celebrates motherhood as an expansion of creativity, rather than the stifling of it that she had expected.

Tension II feels bolder, tougher and more inventive than its predecessor, while still flowing directly from the same fun and fizzy vibe.

Jelly Roll is still finding his place in the world – you can hear that in his songwriting – but the polish and potency of this album suggest he’s almost there.

Cutouts feels a little like the cheeky younger sister of Wall of Eyes. The arrangements on that second album skewed traditional; more sombre and vulnerable in tone. Here, there’s a newfound vibrancy perhaps taking cues from Skinner’s jazz background.

Songs are lyrically underwritten, pretentiously packaged, and too often bookended by stretches of lilting, soporific ambience.

It’s always been their melding of sounds that has singled them out. That glorious, flagrant disregard of genre is on full display here, a merging of sensibilities smooth as a rich, dark rum.

There are deft sonic nods to the madness of Harley Quinn – it’s a pity there aren’t more of them.

The sense of fun that propelled Perry to international stardom has been replaced by a weariness (or perhaps wariness) of the industry she once dominated.