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.

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.

You unpeel this 12-song collection’s layers track by track, with repeat listens yielding new surprises as rifts and melodies that you missed first time around float to the fore.

At its best this album is innocuous. Don’t focus on the lyrics and it is palatable and will be Fleetwood enough to please some. At its worst it is the musical equivalent of trying to squeeze yourself into your favourite clothes of yesteryear: uncomfortable, unflattering and not worth the struggle.

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

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

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.

Unable to hold a guitar for the majority of the sessions, his progressing dementia making it difficult to remember lyrics, it is nonetheless a celebratory affair laced with surprisingly black humour.

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.

There’s a sweet familial feel to the opening Wonderful Woman, Berry leading the line of guitars that also features contributions from his son and grandson, but its generic chug disguises a typically leering lyric that, frankly, sounds sinister coming out of the mouth of a man pushing 90.

Can – The Singles is laid out logically and chronologically, and makes a convincing, consistent case for the accessibility of enigmatic, semi-abstract art rock when delivered in concise and chewable chunks.

Bloodlust is close to being a political metal manifesto of sorts, and a convincing one too--but the gangsta tropes have long outstayed their welcome.

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

It is not that The Optimist is awful, exactly--just uninspiring.

Alt-J’s retelling of this age-old tale of ill repute has less edge than a mesh sack of Babybel cheeses.

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.

Harding’s delivery is unique, her range from the deepest velvet to the most discordant cry; her enunciation infusing every syllable with her tortured soul. ... Simply stunning.

The Tale Of The Altered Beast: Part 1. A New World could have easily sat on Blake’s New Jerusalem before the guys drag it into highspeed psychedelic punk insanity.

Slick yet lively, powerful yet clear. Samba (“second-born” in Songhai) showcases Touré’s step up towards the mastery of his famous father; he is now an accomplished bandleader, singer and songwriter, to go alongside his obvious talents with the six-string.

If you’re looking for glacial Nordic chills, Arve Henriksen’s hauntingly beautiful Towards Language will do the trick.

This blasé bunch of post-modern Gen-X alt-rockers still sound more ramshackle than playing rough demos of Pavement’s earliest material through a faulty boombox while being shoved down a cobbled hill in a wonky-wheeled shopping trolley by the late Oliver Reed. Some might find such slapdashery charming or even exciting. Others, I fear, will be rolling their eyes and reaching for Live On Two Legs by Eddie & The Pearl Jams.

Morby is able to conjure vast stretches of beauty, but can also disrupt them, causing dead ends and roadblocks for a listener. City Songs, while by no means an ugly sprawl, perhaps just needed a tad more urban planning.

Rarely breaking into the kind of wryly humourous abandon at which she excels (Twix is the closest anything gets to Music Hole or Ilo Veyou territory), the results are hypnotic, if arguably more short-lived than previous efforts.

On the whole, I Romanticize is both a simple update of Evans’ versatile songwriting abilities, as well as a grand introduction to his music for newcomers.

All the blatantly audible influences become irrelevant, leaving Cigarettes After Sex with a sound of its own, created with scant tools and seemingly minimal effort. Like the best sleight of hand magicians, the trick’s conjured before you, then gone.

Six years on, Crack-Up is deeper, richer and more literate (starting with the title’s F Scott Fitzgerald debt), overflowing with ideas and destabilising tonal shifts. You might call it challenging, but Fleet Foxes were never likely to settle for anchoring comeback gestures of easy reassurance: rather, Crack-Up re-asserts their exalted tug on the heart by testing it at ever-greater distances from known shores.

Inspired by acts as diverse as Crass, Fugazi and Fleetwood Mac, The Guillotine is gritty, greasy and macabre, while lyrically engaging and deliciously tuneful. A word of caution, though; these earworms are liable to turn.

There’s a lot of great, interesting stuff here but the listener will have to indulge him to get to it. If you’re a fan that’s no problem, the more causal listener may need convincing.

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.

Yet for all the tales of sonic Celtic carnage, Dawson’s sixth solo full-length, and second for Domino offshoot Weird World, is his most accessible to date.

A tendency to record in sequence brings its problems; a slight mid-album sag might have been remedied by tighter editing. But the end-stretch’s up-swerve in character and definition suggests renewed direction.

His latest set sees no let-up on the quality, yet feels a lot more home-made than 2015’s The Boombox Ballads.

Sing It High deserves investigation, and LITA do Tumbleweed more than justice, documenting a time when risks were actually backed, regardless of whether they paid off.

Much of the album’s promise brews in Boyfriend, where backing band The Big Moon’s Radiohead-ish guitar chimes offer suitably insouciant support to Hackman’s take-down of male arrogance. But substance runs thin elsewhere as Hackman seems unsteady in transition, flicking through styles without finding any that thrill in colourless contrast to The Big Moon’s bright vim.

It’s not that it’s a bad record--it is an enjoyable listen and is successful in achieving what it set out to do, namely to evoke the true sound and spirit of the London orbital world that claims bored teenagers, squaddies and suburban rebels as its own.

Rather than a retrogressive exercise, by preserving these stories Hayman reminds us of some of the things our country has to be proud of; take Norton Le Clay’s tale of a Belgian settler (“Come all you refugees and strays, come all you immigrants and waifs”). It’s stirring, important stuff.

Without anything to rein them in, these pieces have a tendency to drift, suggesting that a tighter remit, or more judicious editing, might have had more gravitational pull.

Leftism is dance music history and so deserves the big reissue treatment. Leftfield have addressed the passage of time with an up-to-the-minute roster of remixers for the bonuses. Still, the results are generally pretty disappointing – they all put their own mark on things and leave enough of the original versions in to make the connection, but not many come close to the originals.

Little of the imagination promised by the concept seems to have seeped through into the covers, which are remarkably sedate and faithful for a world supposedly in the grip of two opposing ideological extremes.

After the brutal old school motorik of Lights Flicker (Manning, sax and guitar dogfighting over Zappi’s hypnotic vamp) and Heron reciting over the oceanic swell of Fish, no doubts are left that Faust’s unique creative flame still burns as bright as their social conscience.

He writes songs that could be straight out of Allen Toussaint and Dr John’s repertoire. It’s intentional--both are touchstones for the cult hero, and he uses them well, conjuring his own sound from them.

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.

Recorded with Grammy winning producer Matt Ross-Spang and a host of Mississippi sessionerati, Sweet Kind Of Blue is perfectly soulful and understated.

Across nine tracks both men stamp their respective identities on the album, with mutual admiration and respect echoing through every bar. The occasional Kinksian flourish sneaks through the speakers, most notably when Dave sounds uncannily like his elder sibling on King Of Diamonds, but in the main this is a generations-spanning love letter written in familial blood.

Despite this widescreen approach, Resin Pockets never once loses focus--though maybe there’s an argument for some stronger rhythm, to give more drive--but perhaps that’s a casualty of such an ad hoc way of working.

Stewart hasn’t deviated from his love of pop music history. He understands its nooks and crannies as well as its hooks and melodies and handles them with reverent care.

Understandably ruminative in nature, it’s a renewed sense of creative vigour which provides the driving force on a piece of work which stands among the composer’s best.

IV is simply packed to its dank rafters with monstrous riffs, muggy low-mixed vocals and more discordant amp noise than you could shake a deaf stick at.

DAMN. sees the rapper make a 180 degree turn from the sprawling jazz/funk/hip-hop odyssey of TPAB to deliver 14 taut, tough and wise cutting-edge examples of what’s possible in hip-hop today. ... Essential stuff.

The meditatively plodding drums are off-putting if focused on too deliberately, but there is little else to fault here for those who like to zone out into infinity, with the 17-minute long closer being particularly peachy.

Charming, heart baring, polish-free and not buffed beyond recognition. Alive, basically. A pleasure.

In fully embracing his strengths, Cunningham has delivered his most fully realised work.

Seven albums in, Pond-life is exhibiting clear signs of accelerated own-terms evolution.

This is a proper major work, revealing an artist at ease with himself without resting on his laurels. In short, it is the sound of confidence. A Kind Revolution could well be Paul Weller’s greatest album to date.

Everything here is on point; every single element is executed with a stupefying mastery. Soaring strings, luxurious French horn, jangled distortion and purgative, unhinged vocals; all these things fuse together with glorious consequences. Utterly exceptional.

Her finest album to date and one to live with and cherish; that explains the name then.

Ridiculous and ridiculously thrilling, Super Natural reasserts Jones’ mission with riotous fervour.

With Morningside Murray has delivered on the promise of her early singles, creating an album that’ll be much-loved.

They don’t stretch their formula, but there’s little need when their galvanic velocity is this purposeful.

Particularly breathtaking are rafter-raising renditions of 99 And A Half Won’t Do, Out Of The Wilderness, Glory Glory Hallelujah and Move Upstairs, though everything is really ace here.

As long-time residents, the pair are understandably incensed and concerned over recent developments in the US, along with their city’s ongoing corporate makeover, translating their rage into a seething Xtrmntr for modern times that is undoubtedly their best, most relevant work to date yet.

You’re Welcome ups his game, injecting infectious doses of glam-punk muscle, melody and engagement into Wavves’ trademark surf-punk melees.

His voice remains distinctive though, and like all his records, Goths is worth hearing.

Sometimes chilly, this set has occasional echoes of Vince’s former bandmates Depeche Mode and this largely successful, surprise direction so late in their career is certainly welcome.

Throughout, G straddles clarity and complexity with deceptive ease.

While not as refreshing as the previous album, it still feels on occasion as if multiple pop crossovers could theoretically beckon, especially the songs fronted by guest vocalists, including Molly Schnick of early 90s riot grrrls Raooul.

Veteran Rolling Stones drummer, Charlie Watts sounds completely at home on Meets The Danish Radio Big Band.

Sadly, outside the context of the episodes, the actual ditties are only mildly humorous at best, and barely warrant more than one play through.

Baby Blue Abyss is a shape-changing beast. Styles vary, the approach is schizophrenic, but still the core of Baird and his scattershot mood remains.

[Trombone Shorty's] allusive, crossover style is a piquant marinade that blends Crescent City jazz with blues, pop, funk, R&B, hip-hop, and rock flavours.

Along with the melodic, melancholic vocal mumblings and minimalist drum beats, the overall atmosphere is that of a hazy, underwater dream.

He delivers 10 killer tracks which, defined by horns, organ and a defying-the-years-vocal-hit from Bryant, span the spirited How Do I Get There? and commanding One Ain’t Enough to the compelling A Nickel And A Nail and swooning Something About You.

Amid all the proto-ambient wash is much soul and even funk, albeit of a lo-fi variety.

As you’d expect, plucking the most successful songs from their respective albums and reconfiguring them has both an impressive cumulative effect and sets them in a new context. But fans will have all of this music already. The real interest comes with what else is in the package.

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

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.

Greg Dulli’s vocals grow only more aching with age as he transitions from cocky young buck to greying Don Juan. There are jagged riffs and funky organs aplenty; the latter a welcome call-back to last year’s reissue of 1996’s sumptuous Black Love. Yet there’s a fresh emphasis on lush, elegantly experimental arrangements with much snazzy brass and graceful orchestration on show.

Halo is the sound of a mischievous, philosophical soul in full swing. An idiosyncratic joy.

It’s a heartfelt, human and inspired way of celebrating Haggard’s work.

A series of Eloe Omoe’s vein-poppingly furious bass clarinet solos follows before a period containing some of Ra’s most unhinged moog playing. June Tyson is given the responsibility of playing interstellar pied piper before a six-minute stretch of keyboard bleeps and whirrs that sonically alternate between an arcade game racing car, space ship and vacuum cleaner. A tough act to follow and in truth the rest of this collection suffers in comparison.

While the terrific albums they’ve released along the way have continued to describe that lo-fi fuzz and keyboard driven journey, in reaching this album’s sunshine warmth ‘Ripley’ Johnson and Sanae Yamada have elevated their project to a new level.

This Old Dog plays soft and sweet; but its rheumy eyes betray the pain.

If Cardinal established Pinegrove as the punchy, poetic point where alt-country, US alterna-rock, beat-style lyricism and Sufjan Stevens-ish banjo meet, Everything maps a scenic route there.

A collection of great songs, to the point where exorcising the spoken word passages would have created a more sharply focused set.

While his fourth record is still a thing of beauty, it’s a fractal work that splinters off into bursts of grandiose noise and multi-layered, multi-instrumental wonder; you’d describe it as comfortably at the opposite end of the musical spectrum to early songs like Lookout, Lookout and No Tear.

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

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

It’s a delightfully trippy treat that improves with each encounter and deserves to build on the success of Loveless--an aching ballad that, to these ears, likely had some genesis in the work of electronic pop pioneers Alphaville.

As ever, it’s all played with impeccably economical style, tight-as-a-drum country shuffles with occasional jazz excursions; the work of a bona fide legend who’s never sounded more alive.

Moore’s followers will glory in the winding passages of guitars scratched, spiked, stroked and droned, now with the added bonus of fuzzy solos from latest axe accomplice James Sedwards.

True, distinction is not at a premium. But if the job for now is to keep mosh-pits lively while adding chasers of personality and long-term promise, the melodiously snarky Pull The Other One and all-together-now anthem Formidable offer crowning evidence of a job well done.

he Last Rider is yet another confident stride along that path, and anyone with a passion for smart and savvy grown-up pop is enthusiastically urged to follow him wherever it leads.

The thing about Mulcahy is that he can try on all of these voices and it never once feels contrived, the sensitivity of his readings means you believe in him. That, along with the quality and variety of songwriting makes Possum a rare gift.

Great vocals are a bit of a given here. The real treat is in discovering just how eclectic Gargoyle has turned out to be.

The lyrical dimension jars a bit painfully with the generally highly serviceable blasts of clanging, paint-stripping, mildly experimental, and somewhat extended rock.

Humanz’s flaw is what gives it its energy: like the scattered flashes of (mis) information flying out from every handheld and household device, the album throws it all at you in one gloriously delirious barrage that has no real anchor. Richly energised and energising, it’s not only infectious for the listener.

All This I Do For Glory is a triumph of ingenuity, a genuinely experimental work that echoes with the multi-faceted cries of the human soul.

It could run the risk of being a bit of a patchwork in its revolving styles and cast of five vocalists, but it works perfectly in being an ensemble creation that taps into a hazy nostalgia vibe.