Occasionally, the rhinestone pop of Carter’s earlier records sneaks into the mix, but for the most part this is a cheery celebration of the old timey tunes she remembers from when she was knee-high to a sharecropper’s shin.

A welcome return to form.

The tone is consistently one of hope, if James intended it to act as a balm to soothe any of the problems of the world, he’s certainly succeeded.

What could have been an embarrassment is a quiet triumph.

A third of the way in, there’s a sequence of up-tempo dreampunk numbers harbouring brattier attitudes and melodies of a more generically slapdash nature, at which point this reviewer’s notebook became overly burdened with ditto marks. The quality picks up later with a couple of shimmering near-ballads. As far as power duos go, that’s not a bad ratio and it certainly beats those impotent hacks known as The Black Stripes or The White Keys or whatever they were called.

The album’s momentum admittedly falters on less essential tracks such as the dub-infused, 10-minute sprawl of In The Graveyard, but it’s soon regained on Do The Supernova and the defiant 21st Century Man.

The sassy European and fraught, fatalistic Bilbao also have their moments, though there’s too great a reliance on mid-tempo numbers and the proto-punk aggression hinted at sadly fails to materialise.

The misty, murky sound he strives for, regardless of its influences or genre, works best when a voice or idea makes itself known clearly, and though those moments are few, their inclusion just about justifies the whole project.

The remixes mostly offer lush versions festooned with synths, offering a glimpse of how the album might have sounded had Stevens followed a different path in the studio.

Braver Than We Are knows its audience and plays to it perfectly.

It would have been good to have a wider selection of their work here. Surely such an enduring and eclectic band deserve more than a single disc for their admirable milestone anniversary.

La Di Da Di comes across a tad too studied, never lifting out of the complex math of the group’s music.

Their eighth studio LP, is fearsome stuff. Tracks like The Grind, Lung and A Slow Reaction display perfectly pitched aggression to fine effect but Unsane are at their best when they allow a circular groove to really take hold and lock down for the duration. Not all is quite as compelling--Distance and Avail feel rather leaden, but this remains a fierce listen.

This album bristles with anger, desperation and disbelief. Hopeful resilience is occasionally brought to the fore as well, and guest backing vocalists from acts including The Magnetic Fields are on hand to help Superchunk feel less adrift and alone.

Shimmering industrial dance pulses seem so back in vogue that it’s almost as if no-one ever laughed at Nitzer Ebb. Hence, Wrangler’s second studio album, generally much less brutal than Nitz, but featuring a few lyrics undercooked enough to have featured in the latter’s back-catalogue, may be ploofing about at just the right time.

Perhaps a little inconsistent, Habibi Funk packs a lot of charisma, and on balance delivers the goods.

It contains some stupendous playing from both men, whose repertoire covers old bop numbers and several original tunes.

The songs aren’t a huge departure from Folds’ regular style, with sweet melodies, vocal harmonies and lyrics that switch between the quirky and the emotional.

Hayman’s lyrics, vocals and musicianship add up to a frequently touching whole. One wonders though if the presence of others has previously helped smooth out any little wrinkles.

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds release a live album recorded for the radio station in an intimate venue. It must have been something for the lucky few present, but this document doesn’t quite do the job.

An eccentric take on Please, Please, Please is maybe surplus to requirements, but the rest is lean and lithe.

The list of the era’s top head acts is impressive--everyone from Tim Hardin and Canned Heat to Jefferson Airplane and Creedence Clearwater Revival. Trouble is, the roll call doesn’t make much logical sense.

The best moments recall Dan Sartain, a man whose moustachioed fashion victim look Pearson seems to have lifted, but whose freewheeling punk rockacountrybilly essence he hasn’t quite distilled.

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.

He’s been compared to Damien Jurado and while the stylistic link is accurate, Knight is more defined by an urge to experiment. This may be too enigmatic for some but perseverance is repaid during the extrovert moments on The Arp.

The man is a master guitarist--and an unflashy one, content to let a wash of pedal steel or a sprig of piano commandeer the songs.

Produced by Daniel Lanois and newly mixed by Glyn Johns, there’s a more soulful side to Griffin on the shuffling lament Sooner Or Later, while One More Girl veers towards the folky introspection of early Joni Mitchell.

In My Hour is a gorgeous prayer with gently plucked violin, and there are gospel and jazz tinges too, with rock adding bite to tracks like Lorelei. Indeed, one could wish for a little more of the latter, and some songs do sag a little under their own weight, but generally speaking, Carolina is a lovely thing.