Has some moribund slumps.

The subject matter takes them closer to Nick Cave than ever before, yet, whereas he displays a knowing black humour, Low’s earnestness sometimes makes them unwittingly hilarious.

This Japanese power trio possess a lurking sense of Metal traditionalism, producing a scabrous wall of guitar noise, crunching, dense and turgid.

Shorn of the orchestral lushness that distinguished their previous effort, The Dears now have little to recommend them.

Lyrically, Allen spins the street-slang tales of blowjobs and booze told with varying success by everyone from The Streets to Shampoo.

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

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

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.

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

It's Christmas come early, and None Shall Pass won't disappoint his fervent admirers.

A more straightforward affair than previous works, and as such suffers from predictability.

This is woozy Americana wrapped fast in thick swathes of serrated menace.

The bubbly cartoon funk of single Cell Phone's Dead is a winner, but tracks like 1000 BPM and We Dance Alone are mid-paced, cautiously funky numbers with neither the bare sentiment of Sea Change nor the ribald lunacy of Hansen’s late-90s bombs.

Features an excess of accumulated ingredients with predictably indigestible results.

My Dark Places captures the offbeat brilliance that made the TVPs indie legends in the 70s, characterised by Treacy’s endearingly slapdash attitude towards singing in tune and playing in time.

Occasionally veering into rakish skiffle in an annoying hat, it’s not quite the righteous sword-slash of vindication prayed for by fans; still, it’s a relief to see Doherty’s muse in surprisingly rude health.

If this was any more showbiz it’d be performed on ice.

Stately, midtempo tunes whose immaculate production belies the darkness at their core.

For what both of Guillermo Scott Herren's alter-egos are concerned with is sound's texture rather than its structure, rendered here through the soft caressing of acoustic instruments instead of circuit board torture.

All whoops and yelps, their third album jumps skittishly from primary-coloured electro to punk to poolside cabaret, with an impressive sense of its own silliness.

It's still heavy on the harmonies and hummable choruses, of course, and does meander into happy-clappy, round-the-campfire territory too often for those of us with a low saccharine threshold.

For Bonnie Prince Billy it's an atypically sexless affair with only his version of Richard Thompson’s Calvary Cross worthy of his previous covers record, More Revery.

It’s an evanescent experience, for whilst you’re awestruck by the sonics beneath the electronic sheen, you can’t remember anything much about them after they’ve evaporated at the end.

The sense of clutter, not to mention a recurring high-pitched motif, makes Preparations feel like being trapped in someone else’s nightmares too long.

Boasts little in the way of joie de vivre.

While it’s a bit hit and miss, the sheer bullishness of this album is impressive.

Caught between essentially meaningless singalongs and trying to actually mean something, what you get is average power-pop with crass attempts at poetry.