Even if the album largely sets aside the impeccable hook-craft of previous work, the sequence is indeed sonically and thematically compelling.

Her flow can often be propulsive and deadly, and every so often, she strikes gold (“All Mine” and “AAAHH MEN!”). Even something like “Jealous Type”, one of Vie’s least cohesive mash of rap and pop, gets the job done.

These ten tracks are an arrestingly assured summary of who they are now, while fully embracing their former selves.

Snooper’s vision of egg punk is more hygienic; the full experience is still reserved for the stage. They’ve fantastically magnified a glimpse of that for larger crowds, but in the studio, Snooper aren’t as wild as we thought they were.

There’s plenty to admire of Swift – her voice, her curiosity, her ability to mine emotional nuance – but that’s been true of every Swift era. What’s missing here is the glue. Similar to Red, some tracks just don’t mesh.

The remastering work across the whole album is more subtle than might have been feared in that it does not draw attention to itself, but simply and effectively brings out more clearly than before the (positive) group dynamics and the sonic range. .... The three records are in an attractive tri-fold sleeve, though it would have been good, for such a lavish and correspondingly expensive product, to have the paper inner sleeves for both the studio album and the live one poly-lined.

The sleek and luxurious Through The Wall, doubles down and delivers the purest distillation of her vision so far, and on top of that, it’s one of the best pop albums of the year.

It’s in the album’s quietest moment that Dean delivers her most compelling performance yet.

All That Is Over is direct, furious, sometimes messy, but always alive.

The sense of freedom that comes with being unapologetically herself must be exhilarating – it’s definitely infectious.

Cements them as no longer excellent imitators of the bands they once tipped their hats to, but worthy equals.

There’s so much good stuff here that it can take several listens before the less overtly outgoing gems (also including the wounded hush of “Love Is For Love”) emerge from Twilight Override’s mass of music.

So: Dance Called Memory is a very good Nation of Language album – perhaps their most tonally varied since the debut – and for many fans that will be more than enough.

Though the topics may be hard-hitting and steeped in despondency, Crookes still finds space to allow the light to shine through, with swooning vocals and infectious percussive beats (“Perfect Crime”). Throughout, vocals remain reminiscent of Amy Winehouse, with gritty yet honeyed intonations detailing intricate narratives.

Whereas her blockbuster debut Invasion of Privacy used every minute of its runtime, AM I THE DRAMA? wavers and meanders around tracks that are fine at best and miserable at worst.

It has the angst and energy we have come to expect, but refined through a miscellany of new sounds and influences while challenging what a Black Honey record can be, shifting away from their punk and grunge roots and cementing their growing reputation.

Their growth is obvious: the songwriting is more versatile and the dynamics more daring, the emotional range broader.

With her fourth studio record, Lola Young has created a tapestry of conflicting narratives delicately intertwined.

It’s ultimately futile to fight the album’s considerable charms, culminating in “When It Rains”, a low-lit, minimalist beauty that eventually curdles into a storm of fiercely shrieking guitar feedback and electronic dissonance.

Wednesday know what they want to say, and how: Pouring their hearts out with reckless riffage to illustrate the agony and ecstasy of smalltown life.

Ellis-Bextor's decorated back catalog has always split a complementary difference between a good groove and inventive intrigue. Even when she turns the dial ever so slightly in one direction, Perimenopop is no exception. Turn it up and enjoy.

They continue to forge gripping narratives and confrontive declarations, their verses ensconced, often straitjacketed, in industrial, hardcore, and metal sonics. In fact, there’s not much “mock” here, just well-crafted juggernaut mixes and volatile cum apoplectic vocals, with touches of pop sensibility thrown in for good measure.

Williams has created something that exceeds even her finest, most vital work. In short: a masterpiece, then.

Maruja and their defiant debut record meet us at that starting point, helping us to make sense of a world gone numb, to turn numbness into feeling and fire.

This debut shows a woman free to make the music she wants to, and boy does she do it well.

No One Was Driving The Car represents a strong return to the guitar-driven, fictional, but nonetheless moving terrain of La Dispute’s third (and best) album following the more personal and pastoral Panorama.

It's a potent start, but Allbarone gets better, deeper, more engaging and – crucially – stranger with each track, with Dury’s half-muttered speak-song voice mutating into more and more enticingly contorted shapes with each successive track.

It’s one that will thrill fans of inventive, guitar-driven alternative rock.