There's a real richness here, and raw venom beneath any fey first impressions, as gentle finger-picking bursts into free-jazz fuzztone guitar blasts and bloodied lyrics.

Frank is an honest, refreshingly personal record which, though very occasionally strays into easy jazz, has Gucci bags of personality.

Now every track is an intensely creative pop gem, like those brilliant pockets scattered throughout previous releases, refined and condensed.

Excellent Italian Greyhound is vintage Shellac: stark, razorous and blackly comic, lurching into whatever time signature happens to possess drummer Tod Trainer.

Possibly their best and certainly most joyously eclectic album yet.

No doubt fans’ll love it, but virgins shouldn’t expect to swoon at this end-of-the-pier jamming.

The result is less cohesive than Vespertine or Medulla but the fun’s in the exuberance, the jolting between musical styles.

The first few tracks work a treat, melding glitchy beats and stomping brass bands in the best tradition of Björk or Sigur Rós. After that, however, things start to feel a bit overwrought.

The Go! Team are clearly committed to the lo-fi, DIY aesthetic, but with songs as strong as these it’s rather a shame they didn’t apply a little depth and finesse to their production.

The Eraser’s sound lies somewhere between the roiling beat soup of Amnesiac and a poppier sensibility.

It's a bewildering jumble on first gaze, but Harte's little fingerprint-smudged slivers, so lovingly composed, are precious things, and you'll fast find yourself addicted to his sweet, glum love stories.

A welcome reminder of the Brummie art-poppers’ lighter, brighter past.

Their debut has a great deal of shadowy appeal: there are lyrics about ghosts and secrets, set to drowsy washes of guitar.

This is a beautiful record; so wistful and reflective when it finishes it’ll make you feel instantly nostalgic.

Though it still errs toward a languid late-60s template, Cabic’s songwriting is now crisp and effortlessly melodic.

The Loon owes so much to Stephen Malkmus and Frank Black that one imagines lawyers might be called.

Having eschewed the over-earnest knob-twiddling of erstwhile producer Steve Albini, Verity Susman’s vocals and Mia Clarke’s guitars now sound crisp and urgent, and when the envelope gets pushed... the band’s detached cool melts into a pleasing joi de vivre.

Sensuous, subtle but emotionally overwhelming dreamscapes, whose luminous beauty makes pigeonholing nigh on impossible.

The confessional micro-detail of Darnielle’s minimal indie-folk songs – and haunted whine of a voice – remains stoically unchanged.

If you’re after dark, bloody romance with a twist, look no further.

Raymond Raposa, the ex-surfer behind the ever-shifting line-up, sounds like Neil Young after spending a few nights on a park bench, his decayed folky croak the perfect thread to link these hushed laments.

Don't let the seductively pleasant drift of the tunes fool you: this is sharp, dark stuff.

Whatever the permutations, Amiina's fragile magic can't fail to beguile.

A cannily considered, thoroughly de nos jours mix of punk, skiffle and music hall-bred power pop which fizzes with energy and affects a brash charm, but adds little to Barat’s and Doherty’s original blueprint.

The best thing about Garden Ruin is the way they look beyond country borders to engage with the wider world, both culturally and musically.

This is cathartic, psychically haunted fare; pleasing and troubling in equal measure.

Despite flashes of unexpected vigour, Everybody is ultimately more variation-on-a-theme than it is wheel reinvention.

Just Like… is no classic, but it’s enough to make for a teary goodbye.