Occasional bursts of fierce, psychotic guitar evoke the spirit of punk-rock alter ego, Rikki Nadir. Otherwise it’s voice and piano and very little else. The intimacy is at times so intense it’s almost frightening. It is, to borrow the title of a VdGG song, ’eavy mate. There are some clever subplots too, Hammill being at the very top of his lyrical game.

A handful of solo piano interludes also summon inescapable echoes of Spinal Tap’s Lick My Love Pump. Overall, though, Synthesis feels like a successful experiment.

Neither a work of nostalgia nor a move away from the blueprint that made them so special in the first place, this album demonstrates that artistic quality cannot be confined to a specific place in time.

If you compare this to past triumphs like Come My Fanatics and Dopethrone--albums that pushed doom metal into heavier and more joyously drug-addled territory than ever before--Wizard Bloody Wizard falls a spliff or two short of the mark.

Automatic impresses in its scope and daring. Certainly, the drone-like Drive was a surprise choice for first single and opening cut, as if R.E.M were wilfully avoiding the rock god game.

Originally rejected by Reprise Records executives as being nothing more than a bunch of demos, the entire set is spun with some strange, surreal and beautiful magic.

American Fall is their eleventh studio album since the band formed in 1996, and there’s no compromise, no backing down. The anger keeps churning, the hooks keep building. ... It’s sometimes reminiscent of Green Day, but none the worse for that.

Bootsy shines brightest when the Big Daddy Kanes pipe down and he gets to consider mortality on the poignant Heaven Yes, pay tribute to fallen P-Funk comrade Bernie Worrell on A Salute To Bernie, or stretch out on the uncut funk he does best, bolstered by guitarist Eric Gales and veteran Funkadelic drummer Dennis Chambers on Come Back Bootsy.

It’s the ever-present hint of neurosis in Rivers Cuomo’s voice and vaguely bi-polar lyrics (thankfully not produced using the cut-up technique he employed for last year’s self-titled release) that give this band their perennial edge of strangeness, and reaffirm Weezer’s unique place in American rock fans’ affections.

When they play to their traditional strengths, most exhilaratingly on anthem-to-be Cryin’ In Your Beer and the breezy Caught By The Wind, they’re all walloping choruses and galloping guitars, but when they take chances things get really intriguing.

There’s little variation in sound over the 11 tracks, but bucketloads of yearning, wistful emotion that is elegant and uplifting, with just a touch of schmaltz.

Thanks to Mark Lambert’s overly ostentatious and frequently intrusive production, Russell occasionally sounds lost within his own material.

The Groovies are indeed back, still majestic, supernatural and magnificently defiant, and as a result the rock‘n’roll world feels back on its axis.

Manson’s nihilistic take on 2017 is interwoven with glimpses of personal darkness, wrapped up in mutually constrictive and damaging relationships on epic dirge Blood Honey and the closing Threats Of Romance, ordering a partner to do his murderous bidding on the Muse disco blues Kill4Me, and mourning the loss of his father on the seven-minute centrepiece Saturnalia. But even here there’s a renewed crackle to Manson’s attack--a viper regaining its bite.

The record is rivenwith angst, strife and remonstration. Which makes it sound like a knotty proposition. But actually it’s quite the opposite.

The song titles may be a little lacking this time round (although The Sordid Soliloquy Of Sawborg Destructo makes up for it), but The Blood of Gods is more of the same monstrous bilge.

This 1986 Morrissey-Marr career peak proves enduringly rich and rewarding in its punchy, remastered, expanded form.

All told, this is a finely detailed and lovingly curated tribute to one of the true greats.

The truth is that Carry Fire is about as good an album as we could reasonably expect from him in 2017.

Hiring QOTSA producer Eric Valentine has given their bluesy bluster a hint of Josh Homme’s desert Bowie sleaze on tracks like Never Swim Alone, Statues, Caught Up and Moonlight. ... There’s still space for the weird bits, though.

Lady Gaga adds majestic soul diva clout to Find Yourself, Nelson proves to be a sterling guitarist and the whole thing is hellacious, meaning good.

Independence Day is normal for Neil: he tests the climate and the atmospherics are depressing. Terrorise Me, a response to the Bataclan outrage, is the key piece. The rest is no faffing and easy listening.

Thoroughly anti-social and wonderfully obnoxious throughout, this is kick-arse psych’n’roll as it should be.

Opener Up All Night moves through the formulaic pop gears as smoothly as Don Henley cruising along the Pacific Coast Highway, while Holding On is a slickly realised mid-tempo foot tapper. However, shorn of the novelty factor, such middle-of-the-road material remains better suited to balmy summer nights and drivetime radio than to repeated home listening.

Seething with anxiety and frontman Jesse Lacey’s trademark sarcastic self‑flagellation, and with a gorgeous production that gives the music space to breathe, it’s an emotional, intelligent work of grace and beauty.

Unlike the mostly acoustic-led Lighthouse, Sky Trails finds him in full band mode, engaging in a nuanced blend of folk, soul and jazz that echoes vintage triumphs like Guinnevere and Déjà Vu.

This is feeble stuff, more Benny Hill than Russell Brand. When they hit the target, The Darkness are untouchable, but too much of Pinewood Smile feels like a half-hearted wank when it should have been a mighty ear-shafting.

None of this is especially groundbreaking or radical, but the sound of a veteran in fine voice, making music with his pals (McGuinn and David Crosby are also along for the ride), is very persuasive indeed.

All the albums, and the odds-and-sods presented on this 11-CD collection are remastered, but only Lodger, in a move approved by Bowie before his death, is given a Tony Visconti 2017 remix. This new mix illuminates the giddy mood of experimentalism abroad, a contrast to the intensity of its precursor’s, and a band fresh from the tour captured on the exemplary Stage (also here), in fine, resourceful fettle.

With a dash of peacenik politics the heritage is clear, but Dhani does more than enough to establish his own terrain.

The overall result is both sparse yet overflowing, in a fashion in keeping with the band’s reputation.

Thomas might have this new album down as the James Gang teaming up with Tangerine Dream, but PU exist in a world their own, one that bears only passing resemblance to reality.

It’s not all hits--there’s the borderline derivative glam-metal of Two Birds, and the wholly less arresting pop-punk of Side Effects--but this is loud, proficient punk rock which should leave even the most curmudgeonly listener fist-punching with glee.

There’s little ground they haven’t covered before, whether that’s the old school Steve Harris gallop of The Seductiveness Of Decay or the choral interlude of Achingly Beautiful, but no one does it quite like them.

His words and sentiments are left deliberately smudged and indefinite in places; sardonic Dylan phrasing sticks to some words, double-tracked Lennon wails on others.

There’s a demo version of The Ramones’ Rockaway Beach included here, which is as scratchy and worn as you might imagine and, remarkably, lacks any of that patented, and much missed, Motörhead kick. Much better is their gnarly version of Metallica’s Whiplash; if you didn’t know any better you’d swear it was one of their own. Ditto Twisted Sister’s Shoot ‘Em Down.

You can hear it in the creepy, lovelorn surrealism of Filter Me Through You’s hazy dream-pop. Then the eleven minute title track, with its ruefully fated protagonist, spidery keyboards, jaggedly interlocked parts and mantric end, proves decisively that this Dream isn’t over.

This white-hot furnace of a black-rock milestone shows Living Colour more scathingly relevant (and desperately needed) than ever.

V combines expansive arena-rock sonics with a heavy dose of lush electronics. Indeed, the stern synths and metal-bashing percussion of Hologram sound like vintage Tubeway Army, while the robo-riffing thunder of Machine falls between Suede and the Sisters Of Mercy.

It’s not often anyone has the (albeit heartbreaking) luxury of being able to map out their own memorial, and Allman leaves us with his head held high and a record of rare beauty.

Predictably, there are strong shades of Buck’s old band too, not least amid the arpeggios of Any Kind Of Crowd (an R.E.M. track in all but Stipe). Elsewhere the greasy chug of Come Back Shelley carries fuzz-filled echoes of T.Rex in their prime.

Nadine Shah has deftly channelled her fury and disbelief at it all into a record that’s both fiercely intelligent and, with its tense Krautrock rhythms, deliciously dark, gothic melodies and gorgeous, strident vocals, moreishly listenable.

They’re on more familiar ground, with an emotional take on alternative indie rock inspired by the frontman’s new experiences in fatherhood.

The finished product is actually more like AC/DC having a crack at making their White Album, in that it’s as varied, expansive and crammed with drug-crusted invention as a band embedded in blues and hard rock can get. For a record relatively light on pop-rock stadium slayers, it’s also easily the Foos’ most elemental album yet.

The combination of Chuck D and B-Real’s wholly different vocal deliveries is a revelation throughout: the former’s commanding baritone and preacher’s power contrasting beautifully with the latter’s nasal sneer and street-smart menace. Similarly, the chemistry between Morello, drummer Brad Wilk and bassist Tim Commerford has never been in doubt, and here, while generally less aggressive than they were in their youthful pomp, that effortless ensemble groove ensures that none of these tracks will fail to free minds and asses.

Inevitably they’re not reinventing the wheel, yet it’s still good to hear Ringo’s non-voice (heavily treated), and his drumming skills are undiminished.

Hard to find fault with, and much to find pleasure with.

A break from the band’s soundtrack work, ironically, Every Country’s Sun sounds, like a brilliant soundtrack in its own right. To what is up to you.

Clever, articulate and big dumb and sparkly, the Mael brothers are still pulsating, foot to the floor, full throttle.

From storming opener Die By The Sword to rabble-rousing anthem Analog Man, will tear your face clean off.

This is tender and meditative music that contemplates the complex tapestry of existence.

We’re hanging on to them by our fingernails, but this is impressive stuff.

Plenty of pallid indie math-rock imitators--from Godspeed! downwards--have attempted to do what Boris do here, and all have failed. Boris abide.

As mood music it’s a stunner, the perfect complement to a lost weekend plotting your next Ubermensch moves in a haze of opium. But you can’t dance to it, that much is for sure.

To The Bone is arguably his best and most complete solo album yet.

Villains, this deep and danceable delight, ends with two searing six minute tracks: the razor-blade blues of the White Stripes-ish The Evil Has Landed, and a sunrise-of-the-ancients pop finalé called Villains Of Circumstance.

For all his apocalyptic bleakness, Moby’s electropopulist instincts remain active, lending a euphoric rush even to suicidally glum Joy Division-style confessionals like Silence and All The Hurts We Made.

It’s a bewildering collection, but one that becomes increasingly compelling with each listen. Just don’t settle into it expecting an easy ride.

There are 55 unreleased tracks here to tempt owners of the many previous Fairport box sets, and 2010’s Sandy Denny monument. What becomes clear, as Denny wanders in and out of the picture, is how she and Fairport defined each other.

The winners prove to be the moments where the participants hold back on the bombast to groove. ... Alas, Stevie Wonder’s Higher Ground suffers from heavy-handedness, a fate that awaits I Just Want To Make Love To You. Not quite a harvest for the world but no spoilt crops either.

From Metal Box faves Public Image and Socialist to themes from Midnight Cowboy and Get Carter, it’s an utter cheek-tonguing joy from start to finish.

Taken as a whole, it’s a pretty patchwork affair, but so are all Alice Cooper albums, even the great ones. And while this isn’t one of the great ones, it also doesn’t sound like the work of a washed-up has-been who’s out of time and ideas.

Rather than straying too far from the path, Robinson returns with his usual stew of blues, country, warm psychedelia and rock’n’roll. But within that template, they’ve left a trail of surprises to uncover, and the band have built themselves a playground and given themselves the time and space to thoroughly explore every corner.

The gentle acoustic strums and electric licks, all wrapped in lush melodies and driven by Pete Fij’s worn yet honeyed voice, both mask and enhance the ennui here.

From the ‘na-na-na’s of Telegraph Avenue to the fist-in-the-air anthem Make It Out Alive and the arena-sized chorus of Farewell Lola Blue, this album is a solid reminder of what Rancid are capable of.

Inevitably, some of the bonus tracks are duds. The Dance Electric is the kind of boxy, Huey Lewis-style synth-funk jam that Prince could churn out in his sleep, while Velvet Kitty Cat and Katrina’s Paper Dolls are twee, lightweight sketches. But overall, the extra material makes Purple Rain a richer, deeper, stranger and ruder album.

This collection falls between the stools of being too normal for the serious fan and too niche for the floating voter. Nevertheless, it’s a refreshing change from the bog-standard hits compendium that usually surfs into the shops when the sun comes out.

Certainly no nostalgic fad celebration, this epic collection is more like a stellar overview of the last century’s more vibrant and often overlooked darker-hued rock, cast among a hell-spawned panoply of lesser-known pranksters.

Uber-producer Youth adds a sleaze-funk swagger to a valedictory Nine Lives, while standouts Losing Sleep and Money Burns could almost be outtakes from the Mondays’ commercial peak Pills ’n’ Thrills And Bellyaches. Lyrically, Ryder remains in a league of his own.

Sure, there are standout, radio-ready moments, with Song #3 and Fabuless, while the bounce-along Friday Knights propels your arms into the air, but the grit has been sandblasted away and the edges polished. And with 15 tracks, it’s a bit of a slog. Still, when it hits, they know how to hit hard.

Punk can be a relative term, especially when applied to California. In comparison to The Pogues, Flogging Molly sound more like The Nolans. In fact, the Saw Doctors are nearer the mark. But all their rousing expat energy, best heard on The Hand Of John L Sullivan, can’t disguise a controlled finesse.

hile its takes on classic swing, psych country and postpunk pop are understandably fragile and lacking wallop--an inevitable consequence of age and getting your kids in your backing band--How The West Was Won is shot through with a wonderfully wry reinvigoration.

Melvins have made exactly the album they wanted to. The result? This is one for dedicated followers only.

All three [previously unreleased tracks] are worthy additions to the Radiohead canon, enhancing and enriching an all time classic album rather than diluting it.

If you’re a fan of the more raucous, high-octane twang-stompers this band are best known for, you might find this a strangely sedate, mid-tempo affair.

Witness a contemporary twist on the classic R&B revival. Hallelujah.

They’re aiming for a rockier sound--Walking The Wire has a guitar solo that could conceivably be influenced by U2 if you stick your head under a pillow before hitting play – but, as one listen to opener I Don’t Know Why amply demonstrates, it just comes off like Michael Bolton dad-dancing to Justin Timberlake at a family wedding. Pop deserves better. Rock deserves better. We all deserve better.

If all the album achieves is to serve as a playful reminder of the ramshackle brilliance of Stinson’s old band, so be it. But it deserves better. It’s joyous. And Paul Westerberg is nowhere to be seen.

Apologists will see it as a paranoic update of the doom-rock blueprint laid down by King Crimson and Amon Düül. Anyone else will be reaching for the paracetamol.

As evidenced here, experimental doesn’t mean inaccessible. This is music from the past that, while only looking forward, is still daring the present to catch up.

There are no glib solutions on offer, no political polemic, just the realisation that America is now a deeply divided nation and that this issue needs to be addressed. Elsewhere, the deep soul that Haynes has been mining on some of his solo albums has been brought into the Mule paddock with The Man I Want To Be and Easy Times, along with the more sprightly Sarah Surrender, which has, dare one say it, a Hall & Oates feel.

Their seventh album doesn’t stint on the Wagnerian bombast, from the Ritalin-powered kick drum assault of Astral Empire to the epic Guitar Hero duels of, well, pretty much everything on here. But there are pop smarts amid the silliness.

The energy levels are astounding too, with producer Julian Raymond extracting a sonic attack that makes Rick Nielsen, Robin Zander, Tom Petersson and Daxx Nielsen sound like they’ve been locked in an industrial hangar with a bunch of AK-47s.

They’re presented raw, ragged and (if you wanna believe the hype) completely unrehearsed. It’s kind of a mess, but that’s pretty much the point.

Together, they’ve produced an album of cracking Mac-esque pop, most notably the clipped, catchy Feel About You and the tightly constructed first single In My World.

The gravel-voiced 62-year-old coasts along on foot-stomping jukebox cliché at times, but his howling murder ballad Fixin’ To Die burns with an agreeably ragged fury, while plaintive finger-picking story songs such as News From Colorado are welcome reminders that he can sometimes out-Springsteen The Boss himself in the heart-stirring Americana stakes.

This record pumps Royal Blood forward without diluting their strengths. They might have to tweak something next time around, but by then they could well be the biggest young rock band in the world. Two boys making true noise. It’s in their veins.

Their strength is in their inclusivity--yes, they’re from a punk background, but this is melodic hardcore with killer choruses to stir the hardest of hearts, bursting with a positive energy that channels your adrenaline until passive listening becomes all but impossible.

As with most of Anathema’s records, this is one that fans of Elbow and Radiohead would love every bit as much as fans of Opeth or Marillion.

Chuck is Berry’s last inimitable flare, delivered in the nick of time.

Sacred picks up where they left off with 1994’s The Church Within, ramping up the grinding riffs and Wino’s tortured Ozzy-esque wail.

Sections within Things Buried In Water 1 and The Stranger’s House suggesting melody, the rest an offbeat, thrumming sound collage.

Recorded in various locations during a 28-day tour in March/April 2016, this album represents the finest work from the Jean Hervé- Péron/Zappi Diermaier version of Faust in years.

According to Paul, the new mix is intended to reflect the original mono mix, in that all the voices and drums are in the middle, while also being a stereo mix. The result is, as it sounds, a compromise, where everything is not so much in stereo as on steroids. ... The real excitement for fans is of course in the extra tracks. Here there are no massive surprises (I expect--I was sent the double CD, not the full six pack), just some interesting spoken bits and a lot of Anthology-style backing tracks

The songs are less varied, however, tending to chug along morosely, based around similar clusters of chords to David Bowie’s Five Years, which suits the apocalyptic foreboding but can make you long for a brightly coiffed alien androgyne to come along and break the monotone gloom. ... Still, for all its solemnity, Waters is clearly in his element, even if his Indian summer might coincide with our nuclear winter.

Baird’s weary, almost impassive croon and deadpan humour across both records can’t hide his serious resistance to our self-deceiving, digitally distanced lives.

Rundgren tricks abound in the sonics--he’s a master of the synth and the Beach Boys chorus, but the overall mood is on point.

The most focused, challenging singer-songwriter record in some years.