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The sense of fun that propelled Perry to international stardom has been replaced by a weariness (or perhaps wariness) of the industry she once dominated.

It can, at times, feel like you’re on an interminable carousel circling round and round again, but there are moments of pause. Every time you’re about to fall off the ride, a song will crop up grabbing your attention once more.

Wild God can feel fathomless, but it leaves you buoyant.

The whole thing is delightfully caffeinated: Short n’ Sweet is full of hiss and steam, grinding gears and deep kicks beneath the shining chrome surfaces.

Breezy, Smiths-esque indie folk closer called “Favourite”, featuring a guitar riff that could’ve fallen off Viva La Vida…, evinces the depth and richness that new producer James Ford (replacing Dan Carey) has brought to the band on a record that leaves post-punk in its dust and roars off into broad new horizons. Potential fulfilled.

Although this album loses some of his distinctive sound – and has none of the cool experiments of Beyoncé’s record – it also showcases his undeniable song-crafting chops.

The songwriting on This Is How Tomorrow Moves has a deeper confidence to it, allowing Laus to embrace the sweet, hooky melodies, which swell above her Nineties-indie-inspired sound.

At times it does play like the soundtrack to a rather pretentious spa – but Cellophane Memories snuck up on me with its subtle, synthy scrapbooking. Slyly seductive stuff, if not Peak Lynch.

There’s a wickedly infectious energy, wit and filth to her confrontational braggadocio.

While he may have grand notions of his own artistry, it often – in Atlanta, or in his very best music recordings – lives up to it. Bando Stone may be the work of a man high on his own metaphorical supply. But more likely than not, you’ll end up high on it too.

Mathers’ rapping maintains his signature sharpness of diction throughout; it’s the content that’s at fault: punching relentlessly downwards, so joylessly, so without inspiration.

Happenings finds the Leicester band on synth-corroding, speaker-rattling form, with Pizzorno banging out big tunes and splashing out big, bell-bottomed chords. .... The slower songs still keep the tunes rolling.

By the time the album closes on “Lose My Wife”, it is clear that the “sweet sexy savage” persona of Kehlani’s seminal 2017 debut is alive and kicking.

Imagine Boudica painted by a pre-Raphelite and you’ll get a sense of this record’s softly swirling string tendrils and dreamily plucked harps. That said, there are also some shield-banging electro-beats to ensure the relatable rawness of everyday life comes battering through.

No doubt the album will satisfy lovers of understated soul, but the hangers-on from Normani’s pop days will take more convincing. Either way, after so long a wait, you might hope for a bigger dopamine hit than this.

A debut this assured is rare but, then, Tems evidently is an all-or-nothing kind of artist. Just as her lyrics show her turning away from romantic distractions (she craves real connection), so, too, do her songs make it clear that she’s in it for the long haul.

BRAT is a hedonistic, ultraviolet collection of songs whose thumping – slightly disorienting – club beats more than succeed in their aim of “capturing a feeling of chaos”.

Any sense of individuality is concealed behind generalities, platitudes, and an irritably battered cowbell. Likewise, when he sings of romance, he keeps things sweet but vague.

A record that whispers its way through a marvellous maze of music to deliver some big emotional wallops.

It’s a happy surprise to find a fresh, shiny energy-driving CWPHF. The tunes are sparkier, tempos more varied and the sonic textures cheerier, as though the band were given a clean shave and a hot lemon-scented towel.

Urgent, upbeat, demanding and funky, Lipa is a finger-snap personified throughout Radical Optimism.