Throughout the curation of his archives, all but two of these recordings – that slower Sedan Delivery and the regretful Too Far Gone – have already been released elsewhere, across original albums and newly restored collections, making this official Chrome Dreams an exercise in fan service that would have been a worthy Record Store Day title – or, we hope, an indication that the Archives Vol III box set is approaching.

An official release of lost song Sunshine Woman will please completists, but it’s difficult to escape the niggling doubt that this is little more than a cash-in opportunity, with lost versions tacked on the end of what was a perfectly good record first time around.

My Woman is an odd, somewhat mismatched collection of good and then great songs that could have been more ghostly.

The 10CD version is a patchy collection of familiar highlights and sometimes enjoyable outtakes.

This reissue’s seven bonus tracks will excite completists and include Waco, initially slated for inclusion on the album’s 2002 release before being given away online. But, in truth, the original album’s heartfelt, immediate and tape-hissing guitars and cutely executed melodies excite the most.

By its very nature, RTVD is eclectic, and there is an obvious element of hit or miss to contend with. The sequencing isn’t fantastic, and the compilation does lose focus at times. It does however do what it sets out to do; it explores, and gives a good sense of the ways in which African-American music of the late 60s and 70s splintered off in different directions and absorbed outside influences.

Ultimately, you don’t quite get the sky-scraping, genre-blending bangers mustered in the past, nor the negative synergy and diminishing returns of many collaboration-heavy, late-career albums.

While the music is frequently revelatory, capturing the post-Cale line-up chilled and stretching out, as on the 40-minute Sister Ray with Lou’s guitar on overdrive, most tracks have appeared before; on 1974’s 1969 Live, 2001’s The Quine Tapes and the third album reissue.

More abstruse and cerebral.

It’s true, Love & Hate will win no prizes for innovation. But this s more than just gussied up heritage soul to peddle to nostalgic baby-boomers.

In between more scattered wibblings, (sometimes overly) damaged yet lush textures abound on this long but often rather good and shoegazing-influenced record, the vocalist’s true worth finally being illustrated on the naked Purpose (Is No Country).

Fans will have all these recordings already, but it’s nonetheless fascinating to chart the band’s shift in sound over this time period.

This material represents the label’s least easily translatable zone, startling to--and still held dear by--an 80s audience only just adjusting to drum machine funk, but now dated in a way that Adrian Sherwood’s more earthy reggae recordings and totemic pieces with name acts are not. That is not to say that it is unworthy of investigation, though.

If there’s a sense that some of Kouyate’s charm has been lost through his newfound worldliness, the experiments bear exquisite fruit on Ayé Sira Bla.

While certainly not all things to all comers, this deluxe edition makes a good fist of it.

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.

It’s disjointed--clumsy, even--with only glimmers of consistency, but the hardcore will appreciate that this is the way the band works: nothing comes easy and rewards are hard-won. Those listening out for singalongs, heartbreak and any solidity are better directed to the best of.

While MVOTC doesn’t represent a seismic leap from their earlier material, the general feeling is of a much more considered collection, with greater emphasis on song craft.

Segall is all over the place across these 19 tracks which are too much to absorb in one sitting, if ever. Most of his carefree pastiches, bonhomie homages and sloppy costume-party shenanigans merely induce a craving for the long-awaited studio comeback of the mighty Ween.

Clean, sophisticated and with nary a bushy beard in sight, it turns raditional ballads into something that could be chart-friendly today, sitting them alongside a couple of self-penned numbers.

A take on the Star-Spangled Banner provides a waymarker here, but its playful cadence offers little warning of the unholy commotion to come.

Ultimately, Woods deserves the hype, though more consistency would deliver fully on her talent.

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.

Shauf’s musical ability is impressive, tackling all but the strings, but his vocal tone, much like a bore at a party, is unwavering, Elliott Smith-esque and never with the variety you’d expect meeting 10 new individuals.

It’s all very pretty and pleasant, but whereas Smith Westerns burned with the emotions of their songs, Whitney seem rather more detached from theirs. Which, as easy-going as these 10 songs are, renders them more as temporary, unconvincing background music. It’s nice for a while, but their effects soon give way to the winds of truth and reality.

This reissue fails to add much to entice fans other than packaging.... Anybody hoping for a dramatic discovery of a high-quality version of this long-bootlegged show [ Live At Second Fret, Philadelphia, 1970] will be disappointed; it’s hard to discern any real improvement from the frustratingly bad quality of the circulated boot.

After the lengthy wait, at over 20 tracks and about an hour long, Wildflower doesn’t skimp on quantity even if it does resemble a pent-up outpouring of everything The Avalanches have completed (or at least legally cleared), rather than a meticulously curated collection.

There are strong post-rock and metal overtones throughout the record, but it doesn’t pigeonhole itself; the influence of minimalist music can be detected in Stetson’s playing, and the album is not short of rhythmic swagger.