There’s hardly a dull moment on this album.

An entertainingly diverse set.

The album is meandering in places, evoking a sense of the unknown that’s become so familiar in 2021, but there’s a sense that the trio want to bring their growing fanbase with them into a new dimension. It will reward those who come along for the ride.

Many affecting tracks detail the sharknado of outrage and bewilderment in Blake’s trademark delicate soprano, offset occasionally by well-chosen collaborators (SZA, or rappers JID and SwaVay) or startlingly pitch-shifted vocals.

There’s no shortage of killer hooks deeper into the album – a commitment to bangers matched by BLK’s wise words about personal damage and heartbreak on songs such as the excellent title track.

ATLWB feels like a step up, detailing an emotional journey that refreshes tired tropes with hard-won insight and musical self-assurance.

Despite the turbulent backstory, at first listen these songs sound effortlessly sunny.

The result is an artfully realised exercise in melancholic, grown-up pop with textures that owe much to the Swedes’ later work. It’s also a welcome return to form, after 2018’s water-treading Resistance Is Futile.

All of this grandeur is punctuated by shimmering orchestral interludes, the plummy voice of Emma Corrin (AKA The Crown’s Princess Diana) as Simz’s life coach, and hard-hitting tracks of another kind, where the artist examines her motivations (Ovation) and her relationship with her absent father on the heart-wrenching I Love You, I Hate You.

Their formative years in the underground have always supplied this trio with a sharp and occasionally dark edge. It is an edge no more, but the defining feature of this pugilistic album.

She tips the listener headlong into the scrum that is your 20s, when self-doubt and growing self-assurance wrestle one another to the mat. The emotional wrangle is skilfully handled, knife-sharp, funny lyrics carving out beautifully structured songs – co-produced by Gartland – with never a note wasted, dancing nimbly across styles.

The album’s pace never really recaptures the Primal Scream vibes of the single. But the album is not much poorer for this equanimity, with its former teen star, elevated to instant mega-fame in the 2010s, pondering past lives, present happiness and future uncertainty with some deft writing, a gauzy feel and the odd Beatles melody.

If these collaborations occasionally rely on comfortable nostalgia, the prowling, Usher-assisted Do It Yourself – all splintering electronics and heaving beats – is a welcome reminder that Jam and Lewis can still conjure up something fresh-sounding. ... Overall, however, this is an immaculately produced debut that makes you instantly long for Volume Two.

Itchy, blistering boogies such as She’s Gone and Let’s Get Funky epitomise their visceral approach, amid a smattering of slower outings. Antique maybe, but a reminder that the blues retain their odd, primal power.

A couple more songs with the punch of Candidate or last year’s Headstart, here relegated to a bonus track, and a couple less mid-paced numbers among its 14 tracks would have made Different Kinds of Light unstoppable, but it’s a sure step forward by an impressive songwriting talent.

Frontman Brandon Flowers channels his Utah childhood on this lush, uncharacteristically reflective album.

Fredo may not yet be the GOAT (greatest of all time) for storytelling, but with his dark wit and wordplay, he’s now grazing in the same field.

The rest of Happier Than Ever tells a richly nuanced story about how human beings intersect.

Dave’s Mercury prize- and Brit award-winning debut, Psychodrama, became a classic overnight; now it has a rival for introspection, operatic quality and wordplay. Tender piano arrangements, unadulterated storytelling and sermon-like verses flood this topical album that is part confessional poetry, part social commentary.

It all feels highly personal, with Antonoff still channelling underdog status on songs such as How Dare You Want More. There’s plenty of filigree too: string arrangements by Annie “St Vincent” Clark, input from Warren Ellis and a writing credit for Zadie Smith.

Seriously impressive, unashamedly grown-up songs from, and for, the soul.

A brave, thoughtful album.

Ruminating on everything from love, abusive men and her new dog, Joanie – even on an impressive instrumental number named after said canine – Sling is a generous, cinematic delight.

Staples’s new album is much more personal and accessible than anything he’s put out before.

It’s pretty special too. ... If a sense of discomfiture has run through all Sault’s albums – they challenge, seethe and weep, confound expectation, change tack abruptly – there is never a sense of a misstep.

With all this shiny surface comes depth, too – the hard-won emotional content of these songs is all Mvula’s own.

Throughout, there are echoes of the rootsier moments from Give Out But Don’t Give Up, but with the earlier swagger replaced by vulnerability. It’s as pleasing as it is unexpected.

Given that these songs are really, really good, you pity the competition when Griff: The Opus finally lands.