'Recordings…' might lack the obvious brilliance of his movie making, but it's more than just the dabblings of an enthusiastic amateur.

In this slim volume of three-chord thrashing there's proof that while punk may reside in middle age, in some quarters its vital signs have never shown more strongly.

Overall, SY fail to get into their groove between twisted, brutalised melody and spastic six-string experimentalism.

A glossy, well-produced album of populist anthems with a gangsta undertow that expands his worldview and celebrates success.

Is much, much better than a record made by chronically drunk middle-aged men has any right to be.

'Masquerade' is a mighty, ego-free album that doesn't need to shout to be heard.

No post-nu-metal. No nu-post-hardcore. Just a solid, honest, rock album.

James' big thing was anthems, and here they do every single anthem they ever thought of. The crowd think it's brilliant, and they cheer when Tim Booth talks about God. The crowd are plainly mad.

'Untouchables' is a record that grows spikes with each listen and is by turns exhilarating, confusing, inspiring, embarrassing and astonishing.

Even at his most self-referential, Bowie is still a zillion times more inventive, brave and rocket-to-Mars brilliant than anyone who's been prodded by the ubiquitous genius stick, like, ever.

The finest line here is the one between effortless thrash-pop and Slowdive's arse, and My Vitriol just tripped over it.

'Storytelling' is the first indication that Stuart Murdoch has finally got some decent red meat down his gob and he's no longer resigned to wallowing in his dank indie mire until The Pastels come home.

Imagine 'Lost Souls' injected with Prozac and a huge dose of weird guitar noises that give you goosebumps from head to toe. That's 'The Last Broadcast'. It's one of those rare albums that makes sense first thing in the morning but you can still yell along to when your head's exploding.

'The Private Press' isn't a remarkable record - it lacks that startling and instinctive excitement capable of pushing music into the realm of the era-defining.

So contagious is their enthusiasm, you could start thinking that black-clad nihilism has kept music to itself for way too long.

But wait - is that the ghost of a melody on 'Lover's Leap'? Alas, no: it's merely the desultory whoosh of a once-promising career as it plummets, irretrievably, down the art-pop pan.

It's a third album that avoids all the pitfalls of third albums: introspective without being self-pitying, expansive in scope without being pompous, exploring new directions without disappearing up its own arse.

It's the sound of experimentation working, it's what what the second Elastica album should have sounded like, and it's a compelling story unfolding, with many more interesting twists still to come.

The lead single, the excellent, Bowie-ish wibbler 'We Are All Made Of Stars' is a total red herring. The other 67 minutes and 17 tracks are 'Play' Redux; familiar-sounding "oh-lord-my-dog's-just-died" samples over shopworn pianos and strings, straining to be epic but lacking the crucial element of surprise that made 'Play' sound so innovative.

If 'The Green Album' was the charming bouquet to apologise for not calling for five years, 'Maladroit' is the rigorous porking in the back of a second-hand Fiesta we've been gagging for since 1996. It's almost as if Rivers cares about music again.

What's most promising is that GVSB's often melodic noise now, thanks to emo, exists less in weird isolation than it did, and the band seem to be headed dangerously close to getting what they deserve. If this means they must intermittently sound like Feeder, so be it.

It’s a shimmering, mournful gem.

A cacophonous, fearsome and shadowy delight.

A little more emotional chaos, a dash of the dark stuff, might make such avuncular campfire grooves more worthy of our time and money.

Ambition, imagination, charm and grace - by any measure, 'About A Boy' hits the heights.

It's no classic, but there are reassuringly unhealthy signs of life.

It's a gripping darkness that doesn't often lift. It's hard going, but it's worth it, and that is undoubtedly their point.

This is happy music for hard times, a ray of warm and righteous sunshine just when it was needed most.