Ultimately, it is Titanic Rising’s fusion of ancient and contemporary, 70s singer-songwriter tropes and electronic burbles, that convinces; the beauty Weyes Blood offers has its eyes wide open.

Carnage was clearly made in the same creative breath as Ghosteen. We remain in the grip of Cave’s loss and its fractal of consequences – a haunt enabled further by Ellis at the peak of his powers.

This resulting work is hefty enough to tick industry boxes, and just weird enough to intrigue; a qualified success.

It feels like a feast at a time when pop is offering up scraps. As she mentioned herself when announcing the album to a mix of anger, intrigue and confusion: “This ain’t a country album. This is a ‘Beyoncé’ album.” It’s also her fourth classic in a row.

Lamar's major-label debut, probably the year's most significant hip-hop release, proves his talent to be as prodigious as his online output.

The rapport among the five of them, especially between Miles and Shorter, is beyond belief. The sound quality is excellent throughout.

These sour notes aside [Energy and Heated], Renaissance is the feelgood manifesto that puts all the other post-pandemic party albums in the shade, a song cycle crammed full of homages to the historic continuum of Black dancefloor therapy.

It swings. It grooves. It’s not bogged down by a self-consciously poetic concept. And it feels like a record rather than a showcase, anchored by the production work of Simz’s childhood friend Inflo.

Arcade Fire producer Markus Dravs brings depth and heft, whether spotlighting each player or drowning everything in a deluge of guitars. Singer Ellie Rowsell steps up with some wonderfully shapeshifting vocals.

Hit Me Hard and Soft clearly wants to make a virtue of its subtlety, a strategy that Eilish gets away with, due to the chef’s kiss production work and her lyrical zingers. (“And the internet is hungry for the meanest kind of funny/ And somebody’s gotta feed it,” she sighs on Skinny.) But it would have been fun to hear this album’s “hard” edit.

Overall, Guts is perhaps missing Sour’s big pop moments, but as a snapshot of an upturned life it’s consistently fascinating.

The reversals in the lives of African Americans are front and centre; this most conscious of hip-hop crews remain exemplary bellwethers.

It treads a fine line between swashbuckling versatility and a lack of cohesion. Versatility largely wins out.

Carrie & Lowell is so dark and deep, those of a sensitive disposition might need to rehydrate once they remove their headphones. But light pierces the murk.

A few songs here--best of all, Shady Lady--are full of the kind of 60s harmonic whimsy associated with the Beatles, locating the album in the 20th century, but The Scarecrow remains timeless and terrifying.

It feels like he’s aiming for a 21st-century version of classic albums such as Sign ‘O’ the Times and What’s Going On and, on astonishing, soul-scraping laments This World Is Drunk and Kings Fall, he almost gets there.

Bleak but compelling.

Corin Tucker’s yelp remains a thing of wonder, Brownstein’s lead guitar never takes the easy option and Janet Weiss’s drums anchor all the thrilling unease.

Bridgers’s second album under her own name, Punisher moves forward confidently from her 2017 debut, Stranger in the Alps.

Frontline and My Family are among the best singles of the year, and there are three more just as good here.

Throughout, Mitski’s voice has never sounded sweeter or more exquisitely measured, even as she sings of protagonists vomiting cake, alcoholism (Bug Like an Angel), men, dogs, God and the devil.

Dazzling.

It all culminates in Lesley, a staggering, 11-minute exploration of toxic masculinity and domestic abuse. “Tell a yout’, if you got a brain then use it,” he raps, early on; Dave’s doing that, but has much more in his armoury than just brains.

Oon The Record, Baker, Bridgers and Dacus pack layer upon layer into their sound, standing tall and exquisite.

A beautifully packaged time capsule.

Even when battering his piano strings with a toilet brush, Frahm creates something mesmerising.

Equal parts funky electro throwback and prog chanson monster, St Vincent's fourth album feels like the culmination of a trajectory from the margins to centre stage with a minimum of intellectual loss.

Rather than try to top her peerless pop peaks, Robyn has instead uncovered a new warmth, and the effect, on the lofty, dark techno of Human Being and the trippy tempo dips of Baby Forgive Me--redolent of lost small hours and fleeting epiphanies during dancefloor marathons--is sweet indeed.