As ever, Lynch has crafted a strange world thick with foreboding, one that some will find inaccessible. For those willing to stay a while within it, though, there is much wonder here.

A varied and highly enjoyable record.

As protest albums go, it’s a strange one, but if this is what the revolution sounds like: sign us up.

Silver Tongue may prove to be a bridge, between a time of turbulence and a period of renewed creative independence. However, even in that, this record is proof that she can remain uncompromisingly herself.

The musicality of It’s Real is deliciously idiosyncratic, yet refreshing and musically progressive.

These songs are raw and beautiful. Glaspy's voice is roughened, tremulous and hypnotic. Her guitar playing is characterful and advanced. Be sure to leave a space on those end-of-year lists.

The result is less a stylistic refresh than a confident reaffirmation of their combined output up until now.

The back half loses steam a little, but even mediocre RE is well-written and easy to enjoy. Victoria is an Alex Bleeker-led song with a bit of pedal steel twang, Airdrop throws in some synth and Freeze Brain has bongos for some reason. But these little affectations rarely distract from the uniformly gorgeous arrangements.

Bad Witch has a more palpable vein of nihilism coursing through it than perhaps any Nine Inch Nails release since the seminal The Downward Spiral.

The previously released singles on 1992 Deluxe, Brujas, Tomboy, and Kitana, are still as urgent and energetic as when they first gatecrashed YouTube. The bulk of the album, however, displays a versatility that appears directionless but is nevertheless entertaining and engaging.

At times (Pay Attention To Me, Rot In Hell), their chief inspiration point seems to be Nirvana’s seething grind through Devo’s Turnaround, but their gleeful dedication to deafening scree also calls to mind both No Age and TAD’s 8-Way Santa.

Murry's singular talent makes sure this record never sinks beneath the weight of its influences.

While Deportation Blues may have come from that place of great turmoil, it also further magnifies the dynamism and creativity that underpins BC Camplight’s work.

There's an assurance on Um from an artist that has gained the requisite experience to release such an accomplished debut.

kick iiii was intended to be all instrumental piano, and while it certainly isn't that, it is a relatively calm affair (in stark contrast to its violent cover).

Circle weighs heavy with its search for meaning, but makes no attempt to gloss over the answers.

The Art of Pretending to Swim is an album that will reveal itself after a few listens.

While this album could be characterised as a return to 'normality' for Dirty Projectors, such a label has no bearing on a group this relentlessly imaginative; a creative rebirth would be more accurate.

Monument Builders is an augmented reality to spend time with, explore and get lost in.

These are sprawling works with clear focus.

As an exploration of a incredibly specific emotional space, and attempts to leave it, Look Up Sharp works tremendously. But it’s dal Forno’s compositional poise and skill with restraint that sets her apart as a creator of works of truly unnerving grace.

At times though, the album’s dreamy nature lacks the variety and depth exuded on Owens’ previous works like Inner Song. Its reverb-soaked aura may be lovely, but it rarely drifts course.

Indie-goth, shoegaze, post-punk, all of these descriptions fit but none of them can begin to tell the whole story and with the arrival of In Search of the Miraculous there is a sense that this soulful, anthemic, continually evolving band are just getting started.

This is intelligent party music, but it’s also headphone listening. Production is manic and plays at an attention deficit (though really these songs are crafted with a mandala-concentration, rich in samples, styles, and sonic layering).

Overall, Space Gun gives hope for the continuing future of a band that’s already died twice. While there’s a few bumps here and there, this is the sound of a group drunk off its own energy and excited to be alive.

What was previously disarming in its honesty, we now expect and prepare for. This doesn’t mean that the quality has suffered, it has just softened.

What is said is interesting, and delivered with a fiery ferocity worthy of the howling big cat on the cover, but too often the dissonant noise serves to exemplify the disconnect between the engaging ideas and the impotence of their presentation.

The More I Sleep follows on nicely from their earlier releases, channelling them in a consciously reflective manner, and harnessing their typical dissonance while also not feeling as frantic in places as its predecessors.