Tranquility Base Hotel & Casino feels more like an interlude between AM and a seventh Arctic Monkeys album – a delve into the bizarre, where even the Steinway has its own character.
Stormzy is clearly on the verge of becoming the next grime crossover success.
Two Hands is Big Thief’s best to date, and undoubtedly one of the best of the year.
With Konnichiwa, Skepta hoists grime to another level.
At a time where mainstream artists seem almost forced into making some kind of statement against the state of the world, to dwell on the doom and gloom we hear in the news; Golden Hour is a reminder that sometimes - often, if you’re looking in the right places - life is still beautiful. You get the feeling that Musgraves could find the beauty in anything.
It’s an exciting journey, and one that, for all its musical twists and turns, has its feet planted on the dancefloor.
The album is sultry and soporific, sitting somewhere between the minimalist trip-hop of Del Rey’s early days, and the scuzzy desert rock she has toyed with over the years.
This is Rihanna at her most strikingly self-assured and it’s wondrous.
The prevailing tone of The Suburbs is of a more reflective, nostalgic bent – as if rumination upon the past might indeed offer a valid refuge from the uncertainties and worries of the present.
Following the traumatised chaos of 2016’s Skeleton Tree, Ghosteen is a warm cloud of ambient solace – a sonic evocation of the communion he has experienced through his newly porous relationship with his audience.
Less structured and song-oriented than Channel Orange, it’s a long, meandering ramble through Ocean’s passing interests and attitudes, hopes and memories ... delivered in an undulating sprechstimme that seems to be avoiding the difficult choice of a compelling melody.
Where 2016's A Seat At The Table commanded respect, action and validation to an extent, When I Get Home offers respite, support and hope.
My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is one of pop's gaudiest, most grandiose efforts of recent years, a no-holds-barred musical extravaganza in which any notion of good taste is abandoned at the door.
Lemonade is fiery, insurgent, fiercely proud, sprawling and sharply focused in its dissatisfaction.
The dominant sound of Channel Orange is one of "quiet storm" slow jams laid over lo-fi, broken-speaker beats. But it's far from samey.
Save for the chunky “Don’t You Wait”, there’s little punch or pop charm to the album, which boasts a surfeit of luscious textures and feisty attitudes, but a shortfall of killer melodies.