Out of Heart may not be a home run, but Flohio still scores with her acrobatic rhyme patterns and experimental sonics.

Part of the pleasure of covers albums is comparing the original with the nuanced update; this album misses that moment when the three Horsepeople wrap their dulcet pipes and jazzy arrangements around an ancient, oaky institution. The past, though, is still very much present.

An arresting, if not always comfortable creation from an uncommon talent.

Having explored the darker side of the dancefloor, Nymph finds Muise experimenting with its more irreverent aspects.

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.

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

There are excellent Miles trumpet solos all over these tracks too, proving that he’d got his sound back after his late-70s breakdown.

This is an album that perfectly reflects Burgess’s guileless, up-for-anything, good-egg nature.

For the most part it’s a rich and deftly arranged work, and though there’s a warmth that can sometimes border on cloying, he cuts through with chaos and levity.

There is a feeling of generous unspooling here, with hip-hop breakbeats (on one standout, Dream Another) and nods to machine-made music in among the sumptuous orchestral and genre-agnostic instrumentation.

This is a record about coming home to yourself, about feeling truly alive, one with the added benefit of being stuffed with bangers and not overburdened by corny shredding.

Crossan never strays from the formula. Each track is a verse-chorus sugar rush, giving the listener a three-minute hit of predictable entertainment across radio-friendly styles.

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

Previously unheard on any other archival release, these versions genuinely add to his already considerable myth.

Respite comes with the atmospheric closer, Gaia – a nicely understated duet with Elissa Lauper that also features the Blue Nile’s Paul Buchanan – but it doesn’t make up for the pedestrianism elsewhere.

This whirlwind album is full of feeling and fervour, and its liveliness affirms just why she is a singular talent.

There are blooping keys and retro drum machines on River Rival; Thinking of Nina feels like a long-lost hit from the 80s. Even better is Soft Boys Make the Grade, a tune that relocates Williams’s gothic bent into a killer soft-rock tune in which he sidles into someone’s direct messages.

As woozy and restless as these multipart productions are, she packs in plenty of sticky stuff: melodies, hooks, insistent figures.

This may be billed as his serious opus, but clearly growing up is boring.

This adds welcome colour to the xx cinematic universe, but it’s no blockbuster.

It’s slightly overlong and unnecessarily repetitive, but clearly made with great care and affection.

It’s all consistently inventive rather than dull, but also endearingly daft rather than chilling. Still, that makes for Muse’s most enjoyable album since the 00s.

Written on keyboards rather than guitar, Pre Pleasure was recorded in Montreal with Marcus Paquin of the Weather Station; you can hear the uptick in arrangement and production in the painterly thrum of the instruments.

These are easy wins – a sonic sugar rush that crashes once each three-minute track is over. Yet when Armstrong gives us a glimpse of life away from the party-rapping – exploring his anxieties on Belgrave Road and his relationship with his sister on My G – he showcases a newfound vulnerability.

Holy Fvck has its flaws – Lovato’s powerful voice is unnecessarily finessed and Auto-Tuned, and 16 tracks is too long. But its gutsy ambition is a thing of substance in and of itself.

Album of knotty nuance bathed in melodic succour.

They continue to live and die by the watercolour synth wash. It’s a good job they’re masters of the form – as Broken, this album’s crystalline ballad, proves.

You could dismiss Cheat Codes as dad rap, but this record is absolute joy from end to end.