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.

What’s never in doubt is the authenticity of the “missteps and redemption” detailed in its songs, or their engaging, personal delivery.

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

While not quite a return to form, the album’s sleek yet plaintive production is a welcome reminder of what Blake does best.

At 15 tracks, Club Romantech can feel relentless in its rhythmic energy. Yet if you surrender to the sound, it’s hard not to find the album infectiously danceable. It is a brave new world for Icona Pop, one that finds them closer to Ibiza than Katy Perry.

A punk disposition suffuses many of these nine tracks, immolating assumptions around the j-word. Fly Or Die III (for brevity) rocks, rolls and generally throws itself around.

In a world of diminishing returns, not many artists hit their peak 11 (or so) albums into their career. That only makes Jump for Joy even more of a triumph.

Although Monét is still finding her voice, her production, overflowing with euphoric horns and silky melodies, fits her soft cadence and carefree lyrics like a bespoke suit.

Homo Anxietatem is at its best when it throws the genre doors wide.

Strengths lie in Eat Your Young’s supple funk, a light-footed take on Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal, and the itchy urgency of De Selby (Part 2). There’s a chilling, unforgettable beauty to closing pair Unknown/Nth and First Light.

Struggler continues to convey his strife with a remarkable singularity.

There are gestures towards something deeper – rapper Roots Manuva rattling his baritone at the end of You Ain’t No Celebrity, or the harsh, thumping bass of Holding On – but largely, Volcano trades on Jungle’s same, safe formula. There is little new in the nostalgia of these 14 tracks.

End of World is frustratingly hit and miss – the staccato glam-rock stylings of The Do That are particularly annoying – but then you suspect that the arch contrarian Lydon wouldn’t have it any other way.

Central City bears the hallmarks of all this success, in its own vintage guest list (Ciara, Faith Evans, Lil Wayne), high production values and songcraft.

The result is a full-length debut that is acerbic, vulnerable and swaggering all at the same time.

While it’s a little repetitive in places, Prestige is a sumptuous collection that finds a polished band leaning into the joys of being playful.

Songs such as Waves may offer up intriguing oscillations, and some unforeseen guitar riffs ambush The Weeks, but more variety and definition would transform a very promising mood piece into a truly memorable one.

Although always listenable, Austin soon gets tired and whiny.

Perhaps the slightly stentorian tone of Cosentino’s vocals is at odds with the fragility of some lyrics – she sounds pretty much invulnerable whether celebrating love, or admitting she never thought she’d be worthy of it. Still, when she stretches herself, as on piano ballad Easy or the moody alt-country of Real Life, it feels as if she has a real future on her own.

The catch is that some passages here feel featherlight and unmemorable; a record about such transformational jubilation deserves to sound more characterful. A surprise sitar solo on Keep On isn’t quite enough.

It’s no surprise that Barbie World, the song she shares with her protege Ice Spice, is 109 seconds of pure plastic bliss. Like much of the soundtrack, it fizzes with moreish, sugary filth, simultaneously R-rated and child-friendly.

[The Ballad Of Darren] finds late-life Blur on eloquent, emotional form. It’s an album that often looks back, while summoning textures and nuances that only add to their toolkit.

A whirlwind set.

When unaccompanied, it’s clear that her 12 years in the industry have given the singer ample voice and a formidable ear. On IRL, there was little need for big names, since Mahalia is star enough to hold her own.

While masterfully engineered as always, the album is too polite, lacking the monstrous, alien menace of the band’s bassier efforts. It’s an album that could do with a dub treatment.

Every song is a wonder. It is unlikely Angels & Queens will inspire many imitators of its retro-future soul, its damaged doo-wop. It’s simply too good to be copied.

This might not be Harvey’s most immediate collection, but it’s as fascinating and rewarding as ever.

Recorded quickly, with most of the 10 songs featuring Anohni’s original vocal takes, it’s an album that manages to wear its heaviness lightly and quickly buries its way under your skin.