The swaggering beasts of Wall Of Glass and Bold kick it off and Greedy Soul waves a musical truncheon in your face as producers Greg Kurstin and Dan Grech- Marguerat find the jugular on songs powered by riffs, choruses, hooks and lashings of attitude to keep up with their swaggering frontman.

A unique, wide-eyed feeling of awe and wonder underpins all the lush melodies (see I Am Learning), but with The Kid’s lyrics offering a thoughtful counterpoint to all the loved-up ambience.

The understated closer Admiral Of Upside Down is evidence that somewhere beneath all the sonic experimentation he’s inherited at least a modicum of his famous father’s ear for melody.

Colors suffers for sacrificing personality for immediacy.

Mary Casio is another cohesive collection, glued together by the slightly silly yet still thought-provoking storyline, which regards the life story of an obscure imaginary electronic composer, who is set upon space travel.

Produced by David Foster, it’s largely tremendous fun, even if the path on which it walks is rather well worn.

If you ever liked Spain, Galaxie 500 or Mazzy Star, this is for you. Smoky, reverb-heavy melodies that gently noodle off nowhere slowly, this compilation of released tunes and salvaged demos contains much for the heads.

The album is streaked through with intelligent string orchestrations that don’t feel bolted onto the songs to pad out or prettify them but increase their psychological intensity.

Their fourth album’s trembling vocals address mortality, heartbreak, collapse, resilience, different extremities of weather, running to someone and leaving the city at night. Such earnestness is offset nicely by jaunty synthesizer sounds and admirably expressive drum work. It remains unfortunate that Wolf Parade have never reached the fascinating twitchiness of their heroes Modest Mouse.

Part of Death's triumph is its unadornment, which allows the songs to glimmer as rough diamonds.

Angular but well-rounded; Pere Ubu remain as paradoxical as ever.

Truth be told, Strange Peace’s series of succinct bludgeonings are more a case of ain’t-broke-don’t-fix and the appointment of likeminded racket fetishist Steve Albini as producer comes less as a surprise than foregone conclusion.

Though he’s undoubtedly an anachronistic anomaly whose idiosyncratic style (think Tom Waits meets Edith Piaf in a 19th Century music hall) appears out of kilter with convention, he has, nevertheless, produced an essential soundtrack to our times.

Like most covers albums, though, this collection isn’t designed to bear serious analysis, so have some fun with God Save The Queen, Cat Scratch Fever and what have you. The real Motörhead is to found elsewhere.

The songs, all from Nelson’s pen, are what really sells this terrific record, knocked into shit-kicking shape by a drum-tight band who effortless play with delicacy or venom, and all points in-between.

Danilova’s most accessibly gothtastic numbers bear worrying resemblance to a pitch for a songwriting credit on the next Evanescence or Lorde album. Yet there’s no denying that tracks such as Veka and Wiseblood are bangerz of the highest, and indeed saddest, order.

Ultimately, The Source, offers indisputable proof that the man from Lagos is thriving in what are supposed to be his twilight years. Like a vintage bottle of Château Lafite, he just seems to improve with each passing year. Long may he continue to do so.

The ambition and scope of these 23 songs is undeniably impressive, Scott still with a firm grip on the country and folk-minded tropes of his best back pages, augmented by (mostly) successful detours into the arenas of soul, funk, even hip-hop.

With enough reference points for old heads to spot and enjoy, but enough invention and melody to stand entirely on its own two feet, To The Bone--with its tales of paranoia and love in the fake news era--is thoroughly recommended.

While it may not be the long overdue and richly deserved breakthrough to a mass global audience, it’s another reassuring set of solidly crafted, intelligent adult pop.

Spooky Action is all a bit like an ambitious sixth-form production--and I mean that in the absolute best way--the sheer excitement of experimentation with the requisite chutzpah to banish any gaucheness.

In 1983, OMD threatened to derail their career with the defiantly leftfield Dazzle Ships. A sense of that adventurous spirit permeates this 12-track collection but Andy and Paul’s flair for infectious melody actually steers this comfortably away from the chillier extremes of that earlier well-regarded but commercially-limited opus.

This is one holiday destination you really should explore.

[The] process of sonic expansion is continued apace on this latest effort.

All told, a rebel-rousing cut above today’s sludge.

Electric Trim is a missed opportunity. The emphasis on meandering acoustic balladry is a real shame.

Old sweetens the deal, with tracks as good as anything from previous releases. However it’s New that intrigues, confuses, saddens and ultimately tempts you back with its sheer vulnerability--this is far deeper than the cash grab landfill this reunion could’ve spawned.

There’s not a sound out of place or misstep, just swooning narcotic allure and bad attitude throughout what will be one of the year’s major debuts.