Subtly and unobtrusively produced by Fugazi’s Guy Picciotto (as Goats was), Black Peak then finds the envelope pushed further still. If the concept sounds impenetrable at first--off- putting even--keep at it.

Songs like Fire Burn and Close The Door show the band still have a passionately political edge, and Bounce is a worthy addition to their canon.

Winter has a distorted, almost industrial grind, fitting incongruously with an uplifting chorus, but saving the best for last, closer After Something is a rather beautiful ballad.

Torres apparently took five years out of recording between his debut and this album, and it feels like he’s matured, honed himself in that time, producing a most considered beauty.

Shimmering industrial dance pulses seem so back in vogue that it’s almost as if no-one ever laughed at Nitzer Ebb. Hence, Wrangler’s second studio album, generally much less brutal than Nitz, but featuring a few lyrics undercooked enough to have featured in the latter’s back-catalogue, may be ploofing about at just the right time.

A really gorgeous record, and well worth seeking out.

Braver Than We Are knows its audience and plays to it perfectly.

The misty, murky sound he strives for, regardless of its influences or genre, works best when a voice or idea makes itself known clearly, and though those moments are few, their inclusion just about justifies the whole project.

The sassy European and fraught, fatalistic Bilbao also have their moments, though there’s too great a reliance on mid-tempo numbers and the proto-punk aggression hinted at sadly fails to materialise.

Smash The System is another complex smorgasbord that fans of Haines’ music and sense of humour will lap up. And that non-concept thing might just be another arch attack.

It’s the beautifully resigned sound of a failed search for redemption.

It’s fine for the moment and could even earn Krell the spotlight he craves, but when that fad ends, only the smart will survive and graduate to longer term success. Expect to see his mortarboard first and highest up in the air.

The feeling you’re left with after listening is one of calm. So, mission accomplished on all counts.

On the whole Ape is a chilled listen. It’s glorious that Banhart has found this high watermark plateau so far into his career, especially when you remember he was once in danger of becoming the one-time token hippy at the party.

The pairing works, and although there are two, even three tracks that verge on the forgettable, the likes of the utterly sublime The Morning Stars, and the way Sick As A Dog builds to its rousing climax of “I use the same voice I always have,” more than compensate.

On the whole, Sorceress is a decent album, but Opeth are capable of more.

Slower, heavier and maybe a little bit more messed up than before, while not stabbing at the same loud/quiet buttons, AYHL is a most welcome, if mildly unhinged continuation.

Dusk goes nowhere, basically. It ambles, seems happy to hide behind the sofa, but is charming, feels totally complete and when it ends you feel the urge to hit repeat. Again.

The tracks drift by like soporific imitations of past glories--for the most part there’s nothing especially wrong with the songs, they just sound as if they could have been composed using a Van Morrison Song Generator.

Evocative and enriching, Tiersen’s Eusa is a faultless work.

Dieter Meier’s vocals are a little grizzled but retain their dark chocolate vibes. He’s the bohemian who’s seen it all but can’t stop partying, reflecting this in the lyrics. He does however need a few disco naps, these being filled adequately by party guests.

Loose but not chaotic, Set Fire To The Stars has a poetic grace more than worthy of its subject.

Bursting with in-the-moment vitality, it applies a neon topcoat to Gong’s long-established ley lines.

A casting off of the shackles of self-consciousness has borne exquisite fruit here, with any accusations of novelty or fetishism negated by the brilliance of musicianship, attention to detail and sheer fun of the thing.

It’s a given that Keith is never short of rhymes, but Feature Magnetic, perhaps in a nod to its title, sees him pass the mic to a lengthy roll call of guests--almost as if he’s the absent heart of his own record. Regardless, it’s undeniably his show.

An official release of lost song Sunshine Woman will please completists, but it’s difficult to escape the niggling doubt that this is little more than a cash-in opportunity, with lost versions tacked on the end of what was a perfectly good record first time around.

Melodically reminiscent of Portishead’s Mysterons in its early stages, The Gathering sees a rueful violin-led melody spill over into a distorted and sorrowful mass many times its original size. Some Were Saved, Some Drowned has melancholy violins hang in the air as a doom laden riff cuts despondent, bluesy grooves deep into the piece’s core.

As Keaton forcefully exclaims in The Pugilist, “I’m an artist, and I still have songs in me yet”, a sentiment he has demonstrated perfectly with Kindly Now.

As flawed as this album is, pop will be a finer place with AlunaGeorge’s presence.

It isn’t easy to love, that detached remoteness permeates throughout, but it is a well-crafted collection of songs.

Presley is a powerhouse, prolific and ever changing. But as with all churn, sometimes unwanted bodies float to the surface. The Wink does not suffer from such issues, and with Le Bon’s help, Presley’s created something magically timeless.

It’s an absorbing mix of spooky comedown synthtronics, night-time traffic ambience, electro glitches and animals scratching at the door, over which Hval sings, whispers, talks and pants her feelings and philosophies.

It contains some stupendous playing from both men, whose repertoire covers old bop numbers and several original tunes.

Cool Ghouls have a very thorough grasp of how psych should be repackaged for today. Animal Races offer harmony-laden 60s folk-rock with a slight slacker feel, not unlike Quilt.

It’s never quite clear whether the album is an arch exercise throughout which Berry keeps an unimaginably straight face, or if any comic leanings are the fault of the listener, projecting “funny” on to what is a wholly accomplished work.

Though played out across a potentially draining 75 minutes, Going Going... throws a few pleasant curves as it’s presaged by four unexpectedly evocative, scene-setting instrumentals, including the atypically delicate Marblehead.

It’s a dark folk contemplation, austere acoustics from abrasive, angular strumming, but it feels connected, like it’s part of the earth, part of that elemental, ritualistic essence of being in tune with natural forces.

Zomby’s excellent recent single with grime touchstone Wiley obviously had an influence on the direction, peppering the collection’s R’n’B cut-ups and dubstep-powered techno. Some pieces here, as on previous selections, are miniatures, or riddles filled with strange edits.

Wilco could have settled into being a comfortable, unchallenging arena-filling rock band, instead they’re knocking out marvels like this every year, constantly defying expectations and embracing change.

Above all, Los Niños Sin Miedo is an album made to soundtrack youthful exuberance--knowingly dumb in places, chaotically enthusiastic all over.

Knee deep in dashing, erudite pop, the band’s 13th LP Cosmonaut will hardly sully their reputation.

After the more immediate pop-metal of Epicloud and Sky Blue, Transcendence is a spine-tingling return to something more substantial. Also managing to advance the DTP sound, the breadth and quality of the material is simply astonishing.

Get past the familiar jangle of the opening four songs, and there are far subtler nuances to contemplate.

The result is an album that feels a long way from the ragged, Replacements-meets-Arcade-Fire alt.rock of The Stage Names or the sleep-deprived folk of Black Sheep Boy. The majority of Away sees Sheff’s winning wordplay married to a skewed take on classic country-rock.

Amazingly, this all hangs together brilliantly to form a restless, thoughtful and constantly engaging collection that deserves to be heard by many.

Anderson seems content to allow the songs to unveil themselves like never before; it’s by far his most band-driven, expansive work.

Despite all the cosmic Englishness on display, Furfour also boasts a deeper side that offsets the saccharine.

Though Acoustic Recordings doesn’t quite offer a parallel discography, it is a reminder of some easily overlooked moments in White’s ever expanding discography.

This particular release has all the textures, tinkles and poise the listener craves from Moss, while often arming them with some pretty hefty, distorted kicks and bass.

The result is that each side cancels the other out, rendering it somewhat ineffective.

Their sound is now more stark and metronomic than ever before.

It all combines to create an album that, even all these years later, finds them back on top form.

A record that takes the blues-rock of 2013 debut Sistrionix, rases it to the ground and rebuilds something for which the phrase “new and improved” would be an understatement.

Boys Forever goes some way to making things alright, under or above ground.

Anything But Words is the sound of two worlds colliding and finding a golden middle ground.

My Woman is an odd, somewhat mismatched collection of good and then great songs that could have been more ghostly.

Though You Can’t Live In The Past beautifully sums up his attitude and ethos, Fingers Crossed will be a worthy cherry to top the colossal, career-encompassing Stranded In Reality set when it lands soon.

Live... never drags, remaining furious throughout.

It’s experimental in a kitchen sink (including Chris Isaak) way rather than studied and arty à la Everything Everything. Too often, the results are a bit of a mess.

Producer Youth has described the record as Wobble’s “Miles Davis opus” and while that’s maybe a mite fanciful, it’s certainly a courageous contemporary fusion of afro-beat, jazz and polyrhythmic funk.

It’s arguably The Veils’ most complete and satisfying work to date.

The feel that McCombs as an “artist at work”, given carte blanche, is prevalent. Dreaded jams are not cut back, verses sprawling and unpruned. And despite this, his usual delicious chaos seems absent.

They remained off all save the hippest of radars, yet this exhaustive 80-track anthology incorporating their complete studio recordings and an exuberant bonus live set shows that they nonetheless amassed a fearsome catalogue.

Patience and resolve are required, for there are truly baffling abstractions. ... Yet when Davies knuckles down and crafts glorious, idiosyncratic pop such as Needle & Thread, the slow-burning Chills and vulnerable, Television Personalities-esque Beauty Queen Of Watts, he and his ad hoc Moles can burrow into the very deepest recesses of your heart.

One Day All Of This Won’t Matter Anymore is the perfect example of a band still moving forward, without losing themselves in the process.

Looking beyond the harsh aesthetic, Walker has created a score that is rich in texture and highly innovative.

The pretence of mental struggle can be artifice too and Bugger Me might be nothing more worrying than an eccentric art project. Either way, it’s a fascinating glimpse into an unusual mind.

Delt’s high voice and pretty 60s-harking melodies make even Phase Zero’s fastest-tempo track feel decidedly chilled. It’s not always clear what message these melodies intend to impart as many of them remain clouded in a fog of heady effects.

Sadly, Exploded View’s admirable commitment to spontaneity has resulted in a muggily-recorded LP which fails to match the usual high-quality post-punk output of the esteemed Sacred Bones label.

While Vulnicura Live may not cut quite as deep as Vulnicura proper, rest assured that it is every bit as breathtaking.

The songs don’t sink under any weight; they’re light and spacey, though even the scat Rainy Days has real substance. It’s a swinging saloon.

While Dâm-Funk’s singles and albums have established him as funk’s most forward thinking artist, his DJ sets have concentrated on classic 80s boogie gems. His entry into DJ Kick’s long-running mix series is less rigidly formatted.

With a voice that sits somewhere between Bill Withers and Dr John (a neat trick), this is soulful, raw and rasping stuff.

He lends his delicate, soulful voice to just one track--a delightful cover of Paul Simon’s American Tune--and the rest of the time is heard on piano. There are several unaccompanied solo pieces, including his own composition, Delores Boyfriend, which is rendered in an ornate style that encapsulates the New Orleans sound.

Neatly produced and performed to sound slick and punchy, Far From Home remains true to the calypso traditions of reportage, wit and joy.

So the album remains a solo project, despite the welcome input from Robyn on Hang Me Out To Dry. The duet hints at how human Metronomy can sound when more life is squirted onto their palette.

Command Your Weather is like a 40-minute bear hug from a band that peddle heaviness with heart and soul. Hurry up and get yours.

The 11 tracks, all originals penned or co-penned by Neville or Krasno, get to Neville’s very heart, placing his sweet voice in a gritty R&B setting.

With the forensic detail one would expect from the Elvis reissue programme, Way Down In The Jungle Room is the most complete and comprehensive collection of Presley’s final studio recordings ever assembled in one anthology; and very necessary it is too.

For connoisseurs of the form, there is so much to recommend, from previously unreleased, grime-caked demos (including Street Walking Woman by The Phoenix and Trust by Hellmet) to ringers that somehow managed to claw their way into the light of mass acceptance (Race With The Devil by The Gun, Gypsy by Uriah Heep).

There is perhaps a great album here. But amid this 17-track sprawl, it’s hard to find.

Hypercaffium Spazzin is a great collection of their trademark short and snappy songs.

Boy King is too one-dimensional to be effective. It’s as if the band have taken their sound to army college to beef it up, but in the process forgot all the books they’d read, the ugly facets that made them such interesting wallflowers.

Overflowing with gnarled pop melodies and stuttering beats, Sweatbox Dynasty may be decidedly askew, but the manipulations and distortions simply add character to what is in fact a very listenable album.

This time round Walker has brought influences from his native Chicago scene to the forefront of his music, loosening up and expanding his sound with frankly blinding results.

That this is a good album should surprise no one; that she managed to make it at all is another matter.

He has certainly struck gold. This is out-and-out the best pop release so far this year.

In My Hour is a gorgeous prayer with gently plucked violin, and there are gospel and jazz tinges too, with rock adding bite to tracks like Lorelei. Indeed, one could wish for a little more of the latter, and some songs do sag a little under their own weight, but generally speaking, Carolina is a lovely thing.

Bismillah and Karam add gentle layers of spiritual jazz and afrobeat to the mix. Best though are the tracks which plot a less quiet path; Indefinite Leave To Remain begins with intermittent, raindrop-like piano flourishes over recorded vocal snatches before guitar and drums build into a monsoon-like barrage.

The arrangements for all 11 songs are exquisite; much has been said about the proliferation of vintage echo and reverb machines used during recordings but much more central is the orchestration and use of instruments, with Tom Moth’s diaphanous but pulsating harp particularly notable.

This is a remarkably confident, intimate and rocking debut. Grunge fans need not necessarily apply.

Konnichiwa isn’t just the sound of young Britain, but a bar-raising example of just how creative UK music can be.

As a whole it’s all rather wearing; it’s a space oddity that doesn’t quite have lift-off.

On this latest effort, Edwards conjures echoes of various esteemed mongers of sweet-melodied sadness but never manages to equal their miserable majesty. At the same time, he fails to stamp much of his own individuality on the collection.

Fellow musos will stroke their beards over this uncompromising pop compromise and devotees of the group’s collaborators will dig it up as a surprising bit of deep catalogue.

After the lengthy wait, at over 20 tracks and about an hour long, Wildflower doesn’t skimp on quantity even if it does resemble a pent-up outpouring of everything The Avalanches have completed (or at least legally cleared), rather than a meticulously curated collection.

At times it’s like the aural equivalent of wandering round a sparsely-attended fairground; there are echoes of a pop melody drifting alongside an eerie waltz, or the frenzy of a whispered lyric that cuts through somehow, despite its subtlety.

There’s feisty attitude in abundance here but significantly, also substance and sincerity behind the rhetoric. Sensational stuff.