cannibal world’s breakbeats, a not unfamiliar sound for Nothing, brings them into the lineage of the bands – TAGABOW, forever ☆ – doing this well (better, even) now. However, the record cocoons into the kind of soft strummed ballads that a young Neil Halstead would write about pain and heartbreak in a Welsh cottage.

Like much of Callahan’s finest work, this is an incredibly contemplative yet focused collection of songs from one of the most talented raconteurs of his generation.

Ultimately, The Mountain blends darkness with light to explore the thrills of existence in Gorillaz’ own idiosyncratic way.

Even at its most heartbreaking, embraced for a second as we die reminds us to inhale life and that clarity and connection, however brief, can still be found.

The album sways more into the meandering rather than the conclusive – perhaps an observation on the unpredictability of life itself, but nevertheless leaving things feeling somewhat stunted.

It “accompanies” the film. It’s also the best part of it; a correction: Brontë’s gothica as something that clings and stains. And Charli, thoughtfully and tastefully, suffusing that stain into her continued ascendancy.

The poetry of it is woven into the musicality; the longer I listen, the more deeply I fall into it. The album is delicious; it's a nourishing meal for this cold and dark season.

The whole record contains this sense of purity, the songs sitting somewhere between hymns and nursery rhymes, not just in their simplicity but in the sense they seem to have always existed.

Whether shouting over martial drums, whispering behind thick, smoky synths or rapping against a razorwire guitar, URGH is an exercise in harrowing noise; unapologetically visceral and all the better for it.

Dorji remains a superb judge of when to introduce melody into the haze, but for a lot of its runtime you can’t help but wish for more.

So Much Country ‘Till We Get There is barely 15 minutes long; it is scarcely believable how much promise they’ve packed into it. Believe the hype.

It's an aimless wander through the uncanny valley, ideal for close-listening dissection or complete dissociation.

Opener Belly of the Whale envelops us into a trance, setting the tone for an album gripping at dark corners.

There will be much to admire for Fontaines fans, but anyone with a penchant for the poppier end of The Cure’s catalogue will also find plenty to love.

Both make exclusively great records, and it’s business as usual here.

It sometimes roars to life, while other tracks present a flat wall of noise. Gina Was emerges as the album’s most musically complete moment, showing what they can do when it all comes together.

The album doesn’t make for a grand departure from Let’s Eat Grandma’s sound, though fans of the band will have no problem hearing about what Hollingworth got up to on her holiday.

On their underrated Stumpwork though, they found surprising ways to provide setting, but their and Cate Le Bon’s production choices here are mostly safe. The album’s second side starts meaner, muddying the palette nicely, while the shuffling, pretty I Need You’s electronic elements are a breath of fresh air.

Bang is a truly original debut album that burns bright with emotion and wild imagination, confirming Zajac as one of Scotland’s most fearless and intriguing new voices.

Downey has captured something that you’d perhaps have to call 'Caledoniana' – Scottish country with a pure heart.

There is poetry in silence, and with Vesper Sparrow, Ellis allows us to lean in and hear it.

Where EUSEXUA is immaculate in its design, EUSEXUA Afterglow is the glorious unravelling. It’s hedonistic and messy, somehow both more lithe and more maximalist than its predecessor.

While a few of the songs feel somewhat repetitive, they are more than compensated for with the experimentation and risk-taking on tracks like Angel Like You and Could Be Machine.

Twenty years on, The Dears still have a vital, driving passion that deserves a wider UK audience.

Night Light, their seventh studio album, is one of their best yet, even when they veer into Bryan Adams-cheese on ballad Everything Is OK.

Nestled among the more turbulent pieces are some truly infectious melodies, with euphoric lead single Lose It Again closely followed by the effervescent Part That Bleeds, while frothy, loved-up closer Stuck might just be the record’s most endearing moment.

Loading all but two songs with features leads to a certain amount of tonal whiplash, but Brown has the chops, charisma and unbridled energy to mostly pull it off. Few of the featured performers can keep up with him, but the production is inspired and demonstrates how a newfound clarity and focus have elevated every aspect of his artistry.

FEVEREATEN is an act of catharsis scaffolded by rage, disappointment and hope. At their most connected moments, Witch Fever are prophets of a kind, delivering the listener to a space where big things – noises and feelings alike – are welcome.