It does nothing but enhance her reputation.

The decade this outfit have spent in other bands pays off in a record that’s raucous and fun, incisive and – as it winds to a close – profoundly heartfelt, as vocalist James Smith apologises disgustedly for the sins of British foreign policy.

At their best, which is often on Gigi’s Recovery, the Murder Capital combine muscular drama and skeletal grace with a confidence that Radiohead would be proud of.

Nothing on Sleep Well Beast is headline-new. But you are either in singer Matt Berninger’s corner, clinging on as he drills down into his anxieties, or you are wondering why even validated white guys in first-world countries can still eat themselves up inside so insatiably.

It is both old news and a welcome opportunity to praise Letissier’s stylish, empathetic songs: bilingual, sexually fluid, influenced by R&B, hip-hop and glitchy digitals.

It’s a perfect period production that only occasionally tempts the listener to wonder how much more affecting Yola’s songs might be if she turned her attention from “whip-poor-wills” and “the grocery store” to landscapes closer to home.

Lay’s voice may often be sun-dazzled and multitracked, but it is also confident, privileging harmonics and atmosphere over DIY spit and sawdust. The instrumentation swirling around her is both lush and reserved.

A Love and Let the Sun Come In recall the jangle of their early-80s imperial phase. The ballads are equally well executed, most notably the closing I Think About You Daily, with Jonny Greenwood’s hypnotic string arrangement imbuing Hynde’s uncharacteristically swagger-free vocals with a powerful sense of regret and vulnerability.

Using samples for the first time, they have tweaked their sound in myriad ways, while still retaining the sense of proximity within spaciousness for which they are famous.

Despite beats, synths and a signature “old Taylor” shout (“Nice!”), this is a return to pop that’s content to remain relatively subdued. In this smudged, low-lit headspace, Swift’s perspectives carousel round like a zoetrope.

Sumney has described the album as “a sonic dreamscape” and if Aromanticism has a tiny drawback, it is an over-reliance on beauty.

Kozelek, it seems, has nothing left to hide, or lose: the effect is utterly riveting.

Throughout, these 11 songs give the impression of being sweet nothings. They are, instead, substantial and salty with tears.

There’s hardly a dull moment on this album.

Normally you’d change carriages to avoid someone sounding this unhinged, but the 15 dosages Brown dispenses here are worryingly addictive.

There’s a new slinkiness to some of these songs.

Album of knotty nuance bathed in melodic succour.

Even more intriguing are the songs that go beyond quietly epic reportage into a kind of otherworldly state, in which Power’s own selfhood comes under attack--something of an occupational hazard in intense relationships, not least motherhood.

The 71-year-old Texan returns with a striking set of songs that typify his drollery and open-heartedness, all delivered with easy-rolling grace.

Furman’s songwriting is invigorated by a headlong rush of narrative, exploring episodic shifts of tone along the way.

Ba Power finds Kouyaté in full command, his chattering ngoni lines augmented by guest guitars (Samba Touré, Chris Brokaw), the rhythms given a rock tinge by Robert Plant’s drummer Dave Smith.

LaVette, an intense, mesmerising presence throughout.

There’s barely a misstep in Autofiction’s 45-minute running time. A late-career triumph.

It’s a radical evolution that keeps true to their idiosyncratic voice, and amounts to a textbook example of how to do weird pop well.

There’s nothing here that’s particularly immediate, the likes of Cemetery of Splendour only gradually yielding their delights. Instead, Classic Objects is unceasingly intriguing.

A triumph.

This is a record full of elegant consolation, but one that refuses to patronise the listener.

The Prelude finds T’s distinctive flow and trademark “yeuch” of disgust allied to uncommercial but excellent beats.