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.