It might lack some of the energy of their youth (best captured on the How the West Was Won live set, recorded in 1972 and released in 2003), but this is still a mightily impressive monument.

There’s not a weak song here. A genuine pleasure to listen to.

All the nerding-out is secondary to the emotional pull exerted by these creeping, tickling and soaring tracks.

Their debut album, co-written and co-produced with Soulwax, is a treasure chest of funk, French house, sweaty techno and all kinds of dirty electronic weirdness to rival Moloko at their freakiest. But their takes on the fraught subject of wokeness on Esperanto (“Don’t say: I would like a black Americano/ Say: I’ll have an African American, please”), or sexual agency on the Timbaland-flavoured dark R&B of Reappropriate err on the side of basic.

There are moments here that are truly affecting, like the vignette anchoring Leaving LA, the album’s 13-minute centrepiece. The young Josh chokes on a sweet, as Fleetwood Mac’s Little Lies plays impassively in the background. You wish you could hear more from him.

Two Hands is more earthbound than UFOF – in that there’s nothing here that quite matches that album’s astonishing peaks.

Over seven elegant tracks, White and his musicians achieve the kinds of loveliness that Spiritualized, Lambchop, Cat Power and the Beta Band have tilted at, at different times in the past, and quite often missed.

Absorbing.

Nothing else on Home Video can match this intensity [on "Thumbs"], but Dacus’s writing retains its forthrightness throughout.

Trilling flutes and whimsical clarinets break the mood of majestic ache that makes Fossora one of Björk’s hardest-hitting albums.

As much as you want to applaud this idiosyncratic soul outing, the straightforwardly acoustic, demo-grade Fallin’ is probably the record’s most lapel-grabbing moment.

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

The New Jersey trio’s most engaging album since 2000’s And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out.

Tomorrow's Harvest is another intriguing Rorschach blot of a record from a splendidly arcane band.

The modulations and switches in pace remain as bold as ever, and Clark has a knack for memorable melody and a winning voice with shades of Kate Bush and Leslie Feist.

For every guitar-driven bop such as That’s What I Want, there are times when Hill resorts to mainstream genre cliches rather than razing convention as he did on Old Town Road.

In this super-charged debut, which harks back to early-90s hip-hop, she delights in speeding it up.

Mumford & Sons-style tunes are still part of the package, but Man on Wire possesses a depth absent from their old songs, while the highlight, Between the Saltmarsh and the Sea, is a sumptuous fusion of folk and electronica.

All in all, it’s a rich, absorbing work that rewards immersive listening.

Even the mildly satirical skits, which don’t quite work, prove her desire to create a proper album, rewarding repeated listening.

Bloom is a bare-faced record, thrillingly honest and defiantly queer, proving Sivan is one of pop’s most essential voices.

The best surprise of all, in an autumn in which Beyoncé's closest competitors--Gaga, Katy Perry and Miley Cyrus--made underperforming bids for the throne, is how thoroughly assured, immersive and substantial this album is.

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

Swift is a songwriter for the ages, “stronger than a 90s trend”, as she sings on Willow. But she’s still a little muted on Evermore as she was on Folklore by pastel music that smears Vaseline on her otherwise keen lens.

There’s warmth in the album’s fusion of industrial grind with delicate melody, and producer James Ford sparks a revivifying weirdness in songs such as My Cosmos Is Mine. For a record preoccupied by death, its big heart bursts with life.

Her incisive storytelling is at the fore on Heads Gonna Roll, which describes a road movie with “a narcoleptic poet from Duluth”. Ringo Starr plays drums on it, such is Lewis’s back-channel clout. More gripping vignettes follow.

An entertainingly diverse set.

It’s the ghostliest songs that’ll stay with you, though, from the soft piano and slo-mo catastrophe of When the Family Flies In to the obsessive elegy for a dying relationship in Don’t Know How to Keep Loving You.