Unlike earlier Jam City releases, this one aims to create friction, to disrupt the party, even if it doesn’t force its message down your throat.

The subject matter, then, is unrelenting. But Anohni’s impassioned delivery succeeds in making ecstatic music out of it, carried along by propulsive soundbeds; music that is equal to the apocalypse.

Excluding the syrupy 26 and seething No Friend, After Laughter could be one of the year’s best pop albums.

While there’s nothing here as instantly memorable as Can’t Get You Out of My Head or All the Lovers, Disco benefits from a consistent sonic palette, and one that nestles neatly inside the Kylie comfort zone. Free of the pressure of big singles in a streaming era that often sidelines “heritage” acts, the album also feels relatively filler-free.

Green Day deliver everything with such panache that the songs’ limitations don’t really matter, especially when they manage to make tired old tropes seem fresh, as on the swooning brilliance of Take the Money and Crawl and Meet Me on the Roof.

By turns angry, celebratory, mournful, hopeful, here’s an album for complex times.

If the lyrical content often favours navel-gazing, nearly every song comes with an expertly crafted, big pop chorus or a sonic gear-change – Flatlining, for example, shifts from warm synths to a four-to-the-floor beat and tumbling electronics.

There are moments, as on Every Child Begins the World Again, so musically numinous and epochally sad that Lambchop approaches Nick Cave’s recent work.

There is some respite in the poppy, piano-assisted chorus of New Morning Comes, but no trite redemptive arc: this is a sensitive and subtle response to living with grief.

This is not the kind of sunset in which mortality looms, but where the gentler evening light casts everything in a fresh aspect. There is warmth and succour here, undercut with a playful scattering of mischievous sounds; orchestral soul with eloquent quirks; nuances that hark back to Weller’s second band, the Style Council.

These are unanchored R&B songs for unmoored times, with Kelela’s alluring vocals holding fast, front and centre.

Tough, visceral stuff.

Here he turns in a set of fine, affecting songs, from the 80s soft rock of Anything I Say to You Now and Do You Still Love Me?, to the more introspective We Disappear, which recalls Paul Westerberg at his most intimate.

Except for all the bits about getting high, and the bit about begging his best friend not to kill him, Lysandre is a composite love story as old as the hills, but this retelling is surprisingly refreshing.

Their 2014 comeback Do to the Beast--featuring just Dulli and bassist John Curley from the original line-up--was a little underwhelming, but its follow-up finds them rewinding the years more successfully.

They haven’t completely ditched the relentless aggression--much of Paradise races past in an alluring blur of distortion and melody--but this is a welcome broadening of their palette.

Densely layered and richly rewarding, Wildheart is further evidence that Miguel suits his outsider status.

Crazymad, for Me doubles down on CMAT’s self-knowing “too muchness” with a meatier sound and more vaulting ambition.

It’s a brave album, at times raw with anger.

There are beautiful moments.

A seductive, original piece of work.

Magnificently, songs like Taste or The Fall are only energised by these diverse sonic signatures. The double-drummers are key, too: Segall’s in the left-hand channel, while frequent collaborator and multi-instrumentalist Charles Moothart is in the right.

The record is a career highlight from an accomplished artist producing luscious, storytelling music from experiences so foundational that they defy neat narrative.

Omar brings an elegant touch to Herbie Hancock’s Butterfly, and snappy vitality to opener Rules. Robert Mitchell’s piano shines among a supporting trio, and Pine, whether in contemplation or post-bop flurry, shows why he’s still top dog.

Overall, About Last Night… manages to keep the party going – it’s just more convincing when tears mix with the prosecco.

Daft Punk have shone a laser beam into dark corners of the 70s and 80s and made them sing again, with timbres more human than ever before.

A handful of derangedly catchy singles have already rolled off the tracklist, highlighting the pair’s fluency with nagging melodies and killer hooks. The glorious Mememe still offers up an earworm crafted from bass and tinnitus.

It all makes for his most coherent effort yet.