It’s typical of Merchant’s trademark lyrical articulacy, her passion and poetic vocabulary illustrating how she remains powerfully evocative writer over a 40-year career peppered with high watermarks.

Jammed out and demonstrating real chemistry, Time To Die is perhaps best appreciated as one piece of music and proves both atmospheric and immersive in the extreme. The band have lost none of their twisted genius in the four years since their last full-length.

It’s a real coming of age for them as their songs, emerging from woodshedding sessions with producer Richard Swift in a studio in Rodeo, New Mexico, are spontaneous, immediate and really hit home.

The wait is worth it. IV consists of 10 expansive and eclectic songs that straddle genres and push boundaries.

As with any Car Seat Headrest record, there’s always a whisper of a phrase, or an unusual lyric that passes you by and later stops you in your tracks. Likewise, there are plenty of musical layers and varied instrumentation that draw your ears one way and another.

[Eddie Piller] doesn’t sequence chronologically; his approach is more scattershot, with the emphasis on listening experience rather than presenting a history lesson. But 60s mod in all its rainbow colours is represented.

While there isn’t anything here that leaps out with quite the immediacy of Dunn slam-dunks such as Face The Nation, everything has the assured touch of a master, and will undoubtedly re-establish Dunn among the sea of young pretenders currently working in this zone.

Arguably the darkest of the Merge albums thus far, Patch the Sky is a consuming album of blazing chords, heavenly melody and personal torment. No-one does intelligent, meaningful rock like Bob Mould.

Anohni is at her very best when rawly cracking over glacial blasts of percussion.

It’s a hypnotic, jam-heavy set that really benefits from the double vinyl treatment; its pleasures are a little too much to take in one continuous sitting.

The mellow-vibed Green Aphrodisiac also stands out with its succulent refrain and addictive, jazzy groove. The song’s introspective demeanour reflects the album as a whole, which mostly presents heartfelt meditations on love and life.

The 80s traditionalists will delight in the euphoric synth-pop of Happy Giddy, but this is a far more ambitious delight than that. Her voice might have got her noticed, but her songwriting’s proving the most extraordinary thing about her these days.

This is a landmark project in that respect, much of which succeeds in being thoroughly bewitching.

A true gem that deserves the attention that famous episode received all those years ago.

As anyone cognisant with the likes of Tuff Life Boogie, Putta Block and Butterflies 4 Brains already knows, these discs aren’t without their misfires, but when doubled with their respective A-side partners, the likes of No Bulbs, Wings, Lucifer Over Lancashire and Brix’s majestic LA all lend their weight to the argument that--regardless of their chart positions--The Fall are long overdue recognition as one of the great British singles bands of the past 40 years.

The album itself feels like a lost Oldham classic, it’s a joy to hear him tackling some of the more obscure corners of his repertoire in such an intimate fashion.

Spirit Reflection entrances with its delicate, gossamer vocals drizzled over dreamy, summery soundscapes.

Merzbow’s creations add a new dimension to Boris’ material, so the whole thing sounds apocalyptic and huge.

Haynes’ mellifluous voice hits home throughout, particularly effective on slower burners such as Tide and Keep Me, invoking a deeper hoodoo on Kingdom Come and Don’t Need It.

A casting off of the shackles of self-consciousness has borne exquisite fruit here, with any accusations of novelty or fetishism negated by the brilliance of musicianship, attention to detail and sheer fun of the thing.

The songs sound more muscular than on record, swollen by live strings; Cripple & The Starfish, from his debut, is a standout.

It’s in the contrasts between the overtly camp, the most extreme squelch, and the space afforded to the smoother jams that Mr Dynamite really excels. It’s a success because the vocals, possibly the most blatant things here, are not what remain buzzing in your head after repeated listens. More indelible is the mood, the ambience even.

The forceful pace and commanding lyric-mangling that originally brought them to the public’s attention are still very much in place.

Witness is the work of a singer equipping himself for the long haul.

Conceived in antithesis to the tediously technically proficient metal that’s abundant these days, EW’s ninth album takes joy-doom to another level. Their riffs match the fuzziness of their weed-fogged minds.

Given Low Country Blues was Grammy-nominated, stand by for the superior Southern Blood to appear in many year-end lists.

A riot of synth squelches, bleeps and wibbles threaten to derail the music yet never quite do; indeed, repeated listens to the likes of Love Is Blind reveal a wealth of riches hidden among the dense patchwork of sounds.

This extremely brief, fidgety album follows last year’s skronky first outing on DFA, the soon-to-be-reissued Flood Dosed EP, and consistently brings to mind hints of prolific New York underground band God Is My Co-Pilot, or Big Flame if Nanette Blatt from …And The Native Hipsters had been on vocal duties.

An album that taps into Suede’s galvanic guitar-rock drama without falling prey to that dread declaration of stagnation, the back-to-basics album. Perhaps deceptively, Suede’s approach here is forward-thinking.

There’s no denying that he’s operating in a vastly oversubscribed field, but Rosewood Almanac delivers in an economical 34 minutes as vividly and as seductively as any other 21st century confessional singer-songwriter you care to mention.

Heaton remains the go-to chronicler of the Everyman condition, but let’s not underplay Abbott’s vital contribution as both equal-billing foil and relatable conduit of female perspectives in these songs. Plays not just for today, but for weeks, months and years to come.

While this release fails to be definitive, at least it’s a start for a discography that had been long neglected by its creator.

While this collection spans three decades, the focus is skewed towards the later years.

Chris Illingworth’s glistening piano is glacial yet strong and majestic, elegantly floating above the turbulence created by Nick Blacka’s throbbing bass and Rob Turner’s kinetic, febrile drums.

Never mind that his soulful balladeering doesn’t manage to inhabit all the covers (the buoyant funk of Everyday People in particular), this is a glittering display of a powerful talent lost too soon. Hallelujah for its release.

It’s undeniably darker than its predecessor and it’s largely dominated by dense, guitar-heavy workouts such as the mournfully expansive Delicat (sic), the sombre, hymnal Good Word’s Gone and the acid-flecked freak-out of Crystal Sky.

It’s an ambitious collision of worlds that Holden and The Animal Spirits pull off with style.

Compassion is a major grower, but this is because its fusions don’t all immediately translate. Barnes profits from holding onto some of the answers.

He may have been too pure for widespread appeal at the time of the album’s original release, but an arguably more open and receptive 21st Century country fanbase should delight in this reissue.

Fun, the track which is most obviously Booker T, is ordinary, and Feel Good is so-so; Can’t Wait, despite Estelle’s distinctive vocal, suffers from gimmickry and is the track with the least of Mr Jones on it.... The rest of the album, in which the veteran meets current talent, is mostly great.

As she breezes past 70, the mood of Dolly’s songs is inevitably nostalgic and retrospective.

Despite some dubious song titles, that horrible “supergroup” tag and annoying residual longing from White purists, Dodge And Burn is a sweet pill to swallow.

The set mops up a satisfying amount of previously unreleased session material from 1967 and adds the first real stereo mix of the whole Wild Honey LP. ... But the real revelations come with the bonus tracks.

The result is an album of scope and dynamism, sometimes hushed but tooled for outreach on the urgent Dandelion and baleful Neptune, where a choir lifts Tonra’s sunken vocal.

McDowall is very much in charge of proceedings, even if her confidence in the recordings has had to be bolstered by fans in the intervening years.

In the absence of a live album, these re-recordings with a band including son-of- John Cody offer loving snapshots of Carpenter’s reckoning with his track record, here covering the years between 1974’s goofy Dark Star and 1998’s macho Vampires.

Distilled and refined, they remain experimental and temperamental, faltering at times, but ready too to soar beyond National boundaries.

The results are some of the most affecting works of his career, spun through with deep meanings and political sentiment.

The pressures of everyday living crop up again on the confessional Anxiety and Something To Love, while White Man’s World serves up a thick slice of barbed social commentary. He’s at his most heartbreaking, however, on Chaos And Clothes, chronicling the aftermath of a doomed romance.

The Dears handle such disparate moods, genre fluidity and instrumental complexity with an architect’s precision.

The result is a fourth album that conveys Maus’ confounding persona with total confidence: sometimes silly, sometimes stentorian, it gives the impression of a man in full command of his off-piste forays, rendering it fascinating even as it befuddles.

His band’s music has a stylistic affinity with Glasper’s Black Radio albums, melding jazz, R&B, funk, hip-hop, and neo soul into an unclassifiable hybrid that dissolves musical barriers.

A thoughtfully compiled career-spanning collection, performed solo on acoustic guitar.

10 tightly produced co-writes with the massively influential polymath suggest they might finally strike lucky.

The Other Life checks in at the expected redneck haunts, but with the lyrical verve of writers from further afield.

Recorded in Sheffield with crack producer Andy Bell, Afterglow is an ambitious addition to the sounds of a city that is fast becoming the central hub for the UK’s best folk talent.

Additional keyboards and synths fatten the sound in places without swamping the innate simplicity of the melodies, while guest singer Sarah Jessop brings an ethereal twist to High The Hemlock Grows. Likewise, Janovitz’s daughter Lucy weighs in with a delicious harmony on the reserved cover of Paul Simon’s The Only Living Boy In New York.

Gorgeously sepulchral pieces such as Beste Freunde and Glasterlenspiel are perfectly suited to the church where they were recorded as longer improvisations to be edited down, suspending time as they hang in hauntingly contemplative reverie, which is still breaking boundaries. But, in a perfect world, it might even mark Roedelius’ commercial breakthrough.

An often flat-out beautiful curio from an inspired mind.

All in all, another envelope-pushing opus from a pathfinding musician whose talent doesn’t recognise boundaries.

Overflowing with cultural, mythological and artistic allusions and a prepossessing unrest, Life Metal is an album that insists upon provoking imaginative thought, and is sure to do more for your gut motility than any prune.

Sad Clowns & Hillbillies is another sturdy set of bittersweet portraits viewed through melancholic eyes.

Whether you prefer him pensive or primal, his 20th solo album brings that big time.

Into The Diamond Sun fully captures their kaleidoscopic vision over 11 songs bookended with the terrific The Garden (full of warped guitars, nursery rhyme harmonies and Blakian innocence) and Bear Tracks, a haunting, mesmeric sound mosiac.

As Keaton forcefully exclaims in The Pugilist, “I’m an artist, and I still have songs in me yet”, a sentiment he has demonstrated perfectly with Kindly Now.

It won’t be to everyone’s tastes, but if you like your music to sound as if it could soundtrack a coming of age montage in a particularly gloomy John Hughes film, you found your gal.

The mix is a massive improvement on the stereo that we’re used to--there’s so much more presence here from the off. For an album you know to feel somehow fresh, that’s quite an achievement. Purists may balk at some of the perceived liberties Giles Martin has taken (splitting and panning drum parts or backing vocals for starters), but he’s by no means claiming this is the definitive version of the album, and has clearly acted in the interests of the material.

Numero have sifted through its cremains and found many precious relics.

Kouyate has recorded more consistent albums than this but, as a statement of defiance, Jama Ko could be his most important work.

Fading Frontier seems to be Deerhunter’s most crystal-clear record to date. Nine times out of 10, it’s precisely this clarity that allows their miasma of messages to hit home the hardest.

Surgical Steel is both muscular and accessible enough to appeal to metal fans of almost all stripes.

It’s challenging, occasionally difficult stuff, but in a modern world ever more tailored to undemanding audiences and reduced attention spans, that makes it all the more important.

Easy Machines allows Baird’s vocals to shine, a hushed album, possibly the more introspective.

Few singer-songwriters in the modern folk firmament are as eloquent and articulate as Oxford-born Gilmore, and The Counterweight can lay claim to being her most perfectly realised album since her 2003 breakthrough Avalanche.

Golden Hour is a bedazzled, wide-eyed rush.

Borrowing the album’s title from WH Auden’s 1947 musings on how the modern age fosters alienation and isolation, Rodgers has created a fragmented piece of pure 21st century pop.

Far from instant, spectral in feel and altogether dark in tone, The Bride is a challenge--although one with glorious pay-offs. Fans expecting the poppier sheen of Daniel or What’s A Girl To Do? might be disappointed, its treasures lie just beneath its surface.

FFS is actually exciting to listen to, which can’t be said that often these days.

Cacti might show Maries in survival mode, but revealing vulnerability has seen her songwriting soften and come into its own.

Reader’s own explanatory notes enrich these universal songs with a personal edge, completing a particularly satisfying package.

Showcasing her delicate vocals over a smorgasbord of kosmic soundz, it’s a surprisingly coherent affair.

Dr Robert does, admittedly, provocatively parade his influences on the celebratory, Electric Warrior-style The Sound Of Your Laughter and the Jean Genie-esque strut of The Guessing Game. Yet If Not Now, When? still exudes enough contemporary pizzazz to convince on its own terms

The main draw here is the first release of three songs with myth-like status among the infatuated. ... There are a series of rough demos and what sounds like soundboard recordings of various sections of Paranoid Android in the first flushes of development (magnificently wigged-out, whirling dervish-style organ solo, come on down!) and a bare-bones take on Airbag, again featuring embryonic lyrics.

Both as a protest against subjugation and an affirmation of Mali’s world class musical heritage, it’s hard to imagine a more eloquent and powerful riposte.

Sorrows Away is a landmark album by an extraordinary band, full of brutal truths, hope, and moments of musical transcendence that will resonate for generations to come.

There are gloriously sunny melodies (Cali is a breezy masterpiece), near ambient drones (Integration Tape) and even a touch of politics on Home Is A Feeling. But it’s 100% a Ride record, and neither time nor current fashions can alter that. And nor should it.

A pulsing electro cover of Floyd’s Have A Cigar might be an unexpected (though warming) surprise, but the closing quartet of Shadow Memory, Walk, Myriads and Only Lovers Left Alive sees Foxx and Benge simmering in exquisite fashion.

Pop music at its very brightest.

Like the skull ring and handcuffs on the sleeve, some things never change and, with its seductive bite and defiant energy, Talk Is Cheap is still a compelling centrifugal presence amid the bells and whistles. It remains the best Stones-related solo album.

Lamdin and Fatty have created sympathetic backdrops for the Poets to declaim over: lightly jazz-tinged reggae grooves, dubby production flourishes, spacious arrangements that allow for the Poets’ words to take centre-stage.

The result is a bizarre, dark album that slowly builds and improves with extending listening.

They may have been the unwilling faces of a barely-there movement, but De La Soul planted the seeds of something beautiful. Collections like this allow us to reap the rewards.

The Route To The Harmonium feels like a return to the warmth of some of his earlier outings--not that he’s exactly satisfied--with a more mature Yorkston having crafted perhaps the album of his career.

This is more the work of a road-hardened posse, as opposed to the more introspective troubadour of more recent times, the frontman’s now spitting out odes to blue collar pride (The Firebreak Line, If Mama Coulda Seen Me).

Selected Studies Vol 1 is an entirely successful undertaking on its own terms, enriched by the quiet absorption of congruent confederates who intuitively understand that all manner of gods and devils are in the detail.

As The Love Continues inevitably finds purchase on our tumultuous moment in its deftly summoned suggestions of sorrow and fear, resilience, and close-guarded hope.

A fantastic and powerful rock album, Idol’s return commands attention.

The lyrics continue to take a few listens to fully digest (beyond the regular laugh-out-loud moments), as do Fearn’s often misleadingly direct grooves. His basslines sound particularly mighty here, and Williamson’s vitriol (which fills most of the record) continues to be very much needed in contemporary Britain.