42 minutes of rewarding new music for those who still believe.

“I’ve got nothing left to say but that’s alright,” he sings in Sunday Morning Feeling, but the 13 intense, joyous tracks here suggest otherwise.

2017 could be the perfect time for Alabama 3 to bust out of their long-surviving cult status. This is the LP to do it.

In short, this compact collection is all quite interesting, and the Rashad Becker mastering makes it sound appropriately big, but it’s essentially one for the black turtleneck crowd, and sports soberly black artwork in order to ram the point home.

Hook-laden choruses and seismic riffs don’t feature heavily in the Fufanu sound--and nor should they. Like The Rapture before them, their sound is one of influences absorbed subtly.

This isn’t folk-rock, it’s folk-rock’n’roll.

Hardwired is a slightly less gripping version of the same, as is Moth Into Flame. There’s some sweet doom in the form of Dream No More, an obvious Sabbath homage, and a nod to their late mentor Lemmy with Murder One. In between, we’re treated to a lot of mid-tempo plodding.

She was a frontwoman, but with a sound that was markedly different to anything that had come before. Tourist In This Town sees a continuation of this exploration, with album opener Broad Daylight shifting from a cappella into an alt.rock crescendo with underlying electronics.

In the best possible way, their songs feel like being trapped for over a quarter of an hour within the mind of the person whose bathroom is the filthiest you’ve ever seen, but if you want a better picture you should attend one of their gigs gigs gigs gigs gigs gigs gigs.

Strike A Match runs the risk of becoming a little too chaotic as Aggs and Rodgers throw everything in at once; their flair for reflective lyricism sadly becomes a little lost in the crowd.

The real magic on 50 doesn’t come from the coterie of younger tyros, but the great buck himself. The frailty of the 75-year-old’s voice (he’ll be 76 when this album comes out) can render homespun parables as biblical portents, in much the same way that Rick Rubin reinvented Johnny Cash as a latter-day Nostradamus.

Half Japanese albums are like the proverbial buses, and this is their third album in as many years, after nothing for the previous decade-plus. Jad Fair’s art-punk outsider unit return with an album that reflects their early days while taking the Half Japanese story into a new chapter.

Despite a couple of bland sections--St Martha’s in particular--The Starless Room is worthy of many repeat, and extended, visits.

Long-term fans will be delighted, the uninitiated might just find themselves falling for his grouchy charms.

In its tales of life in mountain towns, of love declared and not returned, of hard decisions made, it has an honesty and a sense of wildness and isolation. It’s all quite beautiful.

We’re in science fiction territory here; the dystopian synths that glide over the track’s foundations are bleak, yet comforting in their filmic familiarity. The album has its share of pacy moments, too.

Some tracks fare better than others, and it would certainly be a stronger album without the insistent disco party beats of SSD or Elle Ne T’Aime Pas.

From the beatless flicker of opening track The Journey, through the 808 kick drum weave of Fall Into Water to the radioactive skeletons of Oracle and the bottomless Paradise, Hunn treats tracks like living sculptures, adding microscopic brush strokes and his trademark deep space strings.

Baldi certainly has a knack for crafting a chorus but once he finds the structure, he tends to hold on to it for a little too long, meaning that the charming hooks on Life Without Sound can often become idle repetition.

Not Even Happiness is intent on taking us back to the garden and in these cynical times, perhaps there’s a vacuum across the ocean for artists that are warmer, purer, less needy than the careerist indie-rock that has gone before. Long may this Morning Dove not Tweet.

It’s a master-stroke on a landmark record of staggering intelligence, depth and musicality.

What’s also not documented here are The Doors’ performances of Light My Fire and The End, from a second set. Sadly, Peña’s second reel remains buried in a box somewhere, robbing us of fascinating early glimpses of two songs which would grow to gargantuan proportions in the years to come. It’s doubtless as much a frustration for the band as it will be for fans.

Much of what stems from his bands’ 15th standalone album never really gets past that “nothing of a track” phase. In fact, often the mood music Coyne and the gang have striven to make – as much about beats and textures as it is melody--is frustrating.

Hang can delight and frustrate in equal measure, but it is an indulgent album that tempts the listener into just one more, wafer-thin listen.

The overall feel is accomplished and often catchy, but it’s not as intriguingly esoteric as some material in this vein.

At once nostalgic and forward thinking, mournful and celebratory, it’s a multihued album with a sharp intelligence. In what will be their final work--the band have announced they won’t continue without Phife--Tribe have retaken their throne as hip-hop’s greatest band.

I See You may represent a sonic shift towards the light, but The Xx are still singing dark songs concerned with introspection, heartache and regret. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Good.

Try the delectably thick-eared Shadow by The Lurkers, the uneasy Violence Grows by Fatal Microbes (with Honey Bane’s vocal a clarion warning from history), the insouciant Kicks In Style by The Users and, impregnable in its perfection, New Rose by The Damned --the opening salvo, the vital spark.

Motion Set has songs--channelling Blue Cheer, Crazy Horse and Velvet Underground by proxy--but they just seem like context provision for Rogers who, even this deep into his career, keeps jettisoning the most luminescent, surging six-string gymnastics since Paul Leary’s psych-pimping turns on Butthole Surfer’s exquisite Hairway To Steven.

Thankfully, in collaboration with his original arranger Anne Dudley and some very fine musicians, Fry has managed to hook a whopper and haul it into his fishing boat.

It’s a shame that they can’t quite reach that level consistently throughout the entire record, but those glimmers of greatness nevertheless establish The Wharves as charmingly talented songwriters worthy of investigation, especially if you have a penchant for the faded but still-beautiful glories of decades past.

Fans of ST’s metal era (basically everything from the late 80s on) will appreciate Lombardo’s solid presence, though there’s a feeling that the master is slightly under-utilised here, more of his Cuban influences would have freshened up the slightly over-familiar sound a bit.

The later efforts are more like dry runs, and we might have benefitted more from a mixture of these and some key remixes from over the years, but really, what’s not to like?

Young is classically trained, but beholden to the values of punk rock and for this collection he has decided to throw technical competence out of the window by basing each song around the strumming of a single chord. These tunes can thus, in theory, be covered by anyone within hours of picking up a guitar.

While some might contend that Freedom Jazz Dance’s exposure of Miles’ working methods divests him of his all-important mystique, rather, the project actually enhances rather than diminishes our appreciation and understanding of him. And that can only be a good thing.

The Early Years 1965-1972 is the sonic equivalent to background reading and extensive footnotes for their remarkable body of recorded work.

Bamboo Diner Rag is a gentle, almost jolly piece of contrapuntal country picking, while Hot Little Hand doffs its cap towards Muscle Shoals.

No 6 is the sound of bluegrass artisans at work, playing up a storm while demonstrating that their chosen genre is not only alive and well, but that its traditional songwriting tenets and instrumental framework can support vital new music.

As with Newman and Spigel’s previous output, most of it is far too restless to be dismissed as merely “ambient.”

There’s a fair amount of whimsy, sure (and at points you feel a lava lamp and joss sticks might appear), but this focused, emotional side to Hanson is a welcome addition to this body of work.

Nine-minute meanders and sub-standard I Am The Walrus clones aside, Third World Pyramid furthers and spreads out the BJM sound.

Expanding the boundaries of hip-hop and soul, it’s outstanding stuff which should further enhance the careers and reputations of both.

Some of the sisters’ rippling Kate Bush worship is so high up in the ether (or vocal register) that the listener feels a little queasy when glancing down to the ground below, but this nausea is only short-lived and sporadic. Most of the album is in fact rather comfy and well thought-out, lightly jazzy in places and often soaked in reverb seemingly inherited from Dead Can Dance.

Papa M is back. His best album? No. A self-proclaimed “weird ass record” of diary sketches and fragments that beam with refound passion and optimism? Hell yeah.

He shifts back to the modern world, with the excellent trio of Who To Love?, Come Close To Me and My Last Affair adding deep house backing to snippets of disembodied piano, guitar and soulful vocals.

Listening now, it’s easier to understand. Buffed to perfection by Scott Litt and John Keane, Out Of Time is a proudly pop album that demands new audiences. ... For hardcore fans, the extra material is a full but mixed bag.

Just like Iceage’s output however, Telling It Like It Is doesn’t always convince.

As a unit, Eternally Even misfires every now and then, and the impact is integral to the structure of the whole.

He’s on top notch form; sparking, soaring and grinding through five spirited new instrumentals and three from his back catalogue.

It’s a pleasingly consistent collection of songs, but special mention goes to the raunchy Relevant (complete with solos for Reinhardt-like guitar and swaggering piano) and May You Never Fall In Love’s wordly advice. All said, it’s a good look on him.

Produced by Kate herself, this live set sounds incredible.

There doesn’t appear to be much of a connection between any of the songs, and you’ll have to be fairly willing to wander through the wreckage to find much of any delight.

There’s enough previously unissued material, alongside superb liner notes, to make this entertaining collection a boon for Ra’s growing number of disciples.

Blue & Lonesome is as defiant a statement in its own way as any earlier landmark. Stones co-founder Ian Stewart should be beaming wherever he is, as his boys finally realise the potential he spotted at those first rehearsals 54 years ago.

With Bovell subjecting the nimble Pure Ones to his spacy, Channel One-esque trickery and City Of Eyes’ monster groove capable of electrifying the most torpid dancefloor, Honeymoon On Mars is never in danger of getting lost in space.

Over the 20 tracks spread over two discs, Steve lives every subtle nuance he wrings out of his voice or guitar. Now one of our most articulate links to a vanishing past, he deserves to be treasured.

As with previous records, this album features an array of guest musicians, including Rufus Wainwright, Mary Margaret O’Hara, Feist, Ron Sexsmith and the Pet Shop Boys’ Neil Tennant, but these songs remain Gibbs’ from start to end, and reveal his incredible ability to explore different styles while always sounding like himself.

No sanitary in-concert “best of” is this, for The Notwist have the knack of performing their pieces in a pretty faithful manner before all politeness is forgotten as they swerve into yet another freshly fleshed-out reinterpretation.

The new exclusive material for this Late Night Tales is quite superb; the cover of I’m Not In Love by Song Sung; Holmes & Steve Jones’ The Reiki Healer From County Down shows why he’s in such demand as a film composer. Best of all is the most amazing tribute by writer BP Fallon to the late guitar legend Henry McCullough.

On transferring the original tapes band archivist Cliph Schurlock realised that the original mastering had shaved off the mid-range frequencies, which he promptly restored, along with previously edited intros. So what we have here is a much warmer-sounding, fuller album, along with the contemporary B-sides, revealing demos and a raucous live set from Phoenix festival. It’s a psych-dipped, surreal set of infectious, concise pop gems.

Even in these bare-bones arrangements, the songs are fully formed, particularly the likes of Pleasant Street and Once I Was: as captivating as anything Buckley put to tape.

A fitting tribute and a welcome opportunity to hear Miller’s unreleased songs and performances.

Like Gainsbourg’s music as a whole, there’s too much going on here to do justice to the collection’s many layers.

While the visual presentation is a bit workaday and some of the chosen musical styles already outmoded (dubstep already being ancient history), the tracks work just fine, bristling with multi-layered mystical gibbering.

It isn't always the easiest of listens, but persistence pays off: XAM Duo is ultimately very rewarding.

It’s very much a full-band sound, yet the detail in the arrangements proves to be vital.

Movies are the best comparisons as Faun Fables’ dark yet beautiful songs are utterly cinematic.

Some of these quiet reworks are extremely good indeed; all highlight Burchill’s prowess with an acoustic guitar.

Some tracks don’t develop as much as you might hope, and as a whole The Deaner Album is a bit of a mixed bag, albeit with some winning flavours.

More songs like the atmospheric Walking At Midnight would make the album a more rounded listen. If they step outside the box next time out, they may be onto something a bit special.

The most exciting thing about them--their knack with a tune and fanfare--is buried beneath what could be considered unnecessary flourishes. Strip it back guys, chill out. You’re still young.

Prepare to be taken on a journey around the pair’s sonic universe that touches on everything from US R&B, Nilsson-esque singer-songwriter numbers and back again, all under a heady sheen of studio shimmer that can feel woozy, psychedelic or just 110 per cent odd at any one point.

This is primal, bluesy and as in-your-face as the clenched fist on the sleeve. At 65, it’s a brave change of direction.

They’re not as overwrought as the earliest Bright Eyes records--recorded when he was in his teens and early 20s--but they’re just as pure and open-hearted, albeit with the (jaded) wisdom that comes with age, making it arguably his best solo effort yet.

Another career highpoint for Wagner and co.

Become Zero is an affecting and profound work that inspires great empathy.

Otis and his touring band rip it up and the excitable singer thrills, with what now reads like a greatest hits.

There’s an intriguing mix of self-penned tunes (Something Familiar with its country-soul undertones), cool covers (Jackson C Frank’s Milk & Honey), and historic reinventions, from lute ballad to World War One elegy.

The intention is to capture music and make it sound as if the listener is in the same room as the musicians and certainly, producers and label owners, David and Norman Chesky, achieve that effect with this wonderful album, which finds the quirky Ohio-born singer backed by a jazz quartet that includes guitarist Russell Malone and trumpeter Wallace Roney.

At times, this record can come across as little more than a variation on one of those CDs of new age music designed for meditation and spiritual well-being--Marim, for example, is a collage of pan-pipe-like sounds and water noises, and Omar could feasily belong to the type of compilation called Rainforest Colours--but there are some treats here.

While some may sneer at the glitches and production tricks that pepper the record, thinking them mere gimmicks, those who stick around long enough will be rewarded by a string of mature, thoughtful songs emerging from their concealment, gradually revealing a little more of themselves with each play.

It’s as strong a collection as any of his in recent times and tied together of course by that voice--deeply authoritative, unfathomably evocative and really quite irreplaceable.

Lighthouse sees Crosby at his most stripped-back; rather than attempting to update his sound to suit the times it feels as if he has distilled it, leaving something akin to Essence Of Crosby, despite being crafted in cahoots with Michael League of Snarky Puppy.

While this doesn’t mark a new beginning for the band, it nevertheless represents a step down a different path that they’ll hopefully continue to follow.

The music exceeds expectation and while this understandably isn’t her best album, it looks at the current trend for reformations and reduces them to ash.

Clean, sophisticated and with nary a bushy beard in sight, it turns raditional ballads into something that could be chart-friendly today, sitting them alongside a couple of self-penned numbers.

The long-awaited Music Must Destroy is Ruts DC’s first fully-fledged rock LP since Animal Now and it doesn’t disappoint.

A sequence of aural art installations carved out of sound, a Tate Modern exhibition mounted on a shiny disc, spacious and sparse, repetitive and insistent, haunting and inspired. That makes it disjointed perhaps, but that’s just the diverse nature of its multiple outlooks.

The cloistered and unwilling girls’ father’s attempts to get them to do a Herman’s Hermits left them more in line with enjoyably sloppy garage rock. In fact, they went so far out as to prefigure post-punk’s plangency and jittery inclusivity: they were essentially The Raincoats, a decade ahead of time.

The Ramones unwittingly started one of the biggest upheavals music will ever see. Finally we get to find out why, in the most well-realised form yet. It’s heartbreaking that none of the original band are here to see it.

This might be a bit noisier than their newer fans are used to, but they won’t do much better than starting at Numero uno.

The band’s writing and performance is so tight it’s actually become uptight and as one accessible masher follows another, Only Ghosts reveals itself to be regrettably one-dimensional.

COW makes massive gains from having been created quickly, much of the source material being recorded on the road, and the samples and titles provide pleasing echoes of the group’s earlier work. Despite the nostalgia, those samples manage to sound fresher than those of more recent projects.

A true gem that deserves the attention that famous episode received all those years ago.

An alternate version of Young Americans named after it’s working title, The Gouster, is compiled here officially for the first time, and works an absolute treat as an album in its own right. ... Still, Bowie completists will own everything here.

Iit’s actually every bit as tantalising, sumptuous and fully-realised as its illustrious predecessor.

As she breezes past 70, the mood of Dolly’s songs is inevitably nostalgic and retrospective.

75 Dollar Bill are blending elements from the past to create a stunning future.