McCombs’ work can be a stylistic patchwork, charming and sparkling in its variety. But across what it’s fair to call just 10 tracks, and with an over-arching theme, it feels constrained, perhaps waiting in the station.

There is plenty here to remind you of their previous triumphs, as well as those of similar labels such as Estrus and Crypt.

Musically, TROUBLE grows more assured as it goes on.

While most tracks capture the hell-for-leather energy and countrified cruises of the Waco Brothers’ renowned live shows, the album also enjoys diversions such as the early Rod Stewart-like ballad Orphan Song and an unlikely but spirited cover of the Small Faces’ All Or Nothing.

The sum of these parts is utterly energising.

With Silent Earthling, TTT present a nuanced and more muscular version of their sound.

The lyrics are--as ever--a highlight.

The change of scenery manifests in the album’s wider sonic palette as the trio embrace classic pop (Down Down), garage-rock (Had Enough), surf punk (Watch Your Back) and even resemble a grunged-up Heart on Perfume.

The blend of half-real and fake bodies, the beautiful and grotesque, sum up what makes this such a fun listen.

It’s messy and, true to its title, chock-full of distortion and fuzz but it’s an organised mess with great instrument placements and wide spaces between the players that allow them to revel in dynamically roaming around these songs.

Indeed, incessantly nattering samples are The Field’s trademark, as acquired a taste as a falsetto vocal or an electric bouzouki, the long pieces sometimes leaving you floating through the Land Of Nod and other times walking through treacle.

A joyful, spirited album that also stands to teach whoever listens to it some vital life lessons.

Opener Jump Into The New World is a bubbly 60s-style pop workout with lush girl-group backing vocals, Dog Fight and Hawaii are in the same vein, but a little more subdued, Rock ’N’ Roll T-Shirt swaggers like ZZ Top, and the band continue their food obsession on Wasabi, Green Tangerine, and the Beatle-esque Cotton Candy Clouds.

Although there’s nothing as lyrically sharp as Content Nausea, as raucous as Sunbathing Animal or as brash as Light Up Gold, Human Performance hits all the right notes for a band with a lot of ground to cover.

Often it’s Himeno’s drums alone which provide any sense of conventional structure, adding hypnotic rhythms to the cicada chatter and guitar feedback of #2 before Zaikawa’s heartbeat-like bassline belatedly joins in.

Containing 10 songs and with a running time of 30 minutes, it’s tantalisingly brief but never short of quality.

Compassion is the trio’s second album, and its eight songs straddle the line between the past and the present, between melancholy gloom and euphoric dance music.

Gibson does occasionally fall into the trap of sounding a little mannered, and this can take away from the well-written songs and from lyrics informed by an interesting back-story.

Overall then: heavy, strong and not that long… but not really designed for dabblers.

The songs here appear to be fragments sewn together so looking to find any cohesive narrative is beside the point, nor is there any pressure for there to be any obvious hits on the album. The effect is that the focus is shifted to Lamar’s vocal performance and serves as more evidence that he’s not only the foremost rapper of his generation, but is fast becoming one of the most effective vocalists full-stop.

With Lost Themes II, John Carpenter and band have delivered an album that not only stands up to its predecessor, but surpasses it. In addition to eerie atmospherics, the album is laden with addictive grooves, and feels sharper.

Hyped as the final batch of unissued material assembled during his lifetime, like most mythical artefacts, the reality proves a little disappointing. Not that there isn’t decent stuff to enjoy here. The Introduction and the Gary Numan-sampling Trucks are both capable head-nodders while The Ex features prime production work by Pete Rock and a brilliant vocal turn by Bilal.

Neptune may be swampier, but as side projects go, this is hardly an excuse for a great departure, more of an exercise in indulgence.

When it hits it really hits, as on the loved-up Target and the delicately hewn Myself At Last. But when it misses it really misses.

Frequently time-stopping as feeling triumphs over technique, Jones has a rarely-found natural way of displaying dazzling virtuosity. Mum would have been proud.

A matured yet playful execution, Kline takes the struggles of being a young woman in the modern world and transforms them into stripped-back offerings that--despite the scarcity of instrumentation and simple song structures--leave a strong impression.

The scruffy Scots have taken a more polite approach with this one, but Hutchison’s ability to touch the listener’s nerves hasn’t suffered and the result is musically uplifting; a well-crafted testament to the band’s song-writing abilities.

These nine largely piano-based songs are sumptuous yet graceful compositions that re-establish Bachmann as a truly exceptional songwriter.

Bang Zoom Crazy… Hello, their 17th album and first since 2009, is the latest in a number of stillborn attempts to recapture those glory days.

Bird changed up the backing group from his previous three records and picked a producer he worked with during 2005 solo breakthrough, The Mysterious Production Of Eggs. The result of all this makes Are You Serious arguably his best, at least since Eggs.

With fire and fury in their bellies, September Girls manage to keep their balance and keep pushing on into ever darker territory.

The results, mixed by Foster, are a broken, heady collage of cracked reflection and ramshackle cabin confessional. Acoustic ballads such as Soy Un Hombre are draped in luminous opiated frazzle, while The Whores Above recalls the most melancholy Alex Chilton psyche-trawl, reaching a desolate low on funereal closer The Knife.

The results are some of the most affecting works of his career, spun through with deep meanings and political sentiment.

The names here deliver so much that this compilation wins the bloody bout on points.

Though pieced together on a shoestring with Aves playing most of the instruments, it’s a charmingly idiosyncratic, roots-flavoured record.

III has a highly melodic crossover feel that is somewhat different to many of the players’ other, grittier projects, although the beats remain a little itchy. Songs about crowd mentality and medieval jesters are novel in theme but overthought and bombastically dramatic in their lyrical phrasing.

Crab Day looks set to achieve that rarely achieved goal of raising the game while keeping the faithful happy.

It’s challenging, occasionally difficult stuff, but in a modern world ever more tailored to undemanding audiences and reduced attention spans, that makes it all the more important.

It’s undeniably darker than its predecessor and it’s largely dominated by dense, guitar-heavy workouts such as the mournfully expansive Delicat (sic), the sombre, hymnal Good Word’s Gone and the acid-flecked freak-out of Crystal Sky.

It has been five years since their last studio album proper, and with The Wilderness, Explosions In The Sky have created something very special indeed.

More of the same then, maybe, but if it sounds this rich, just keep ’em coming Charles. Dues paid.

The result, unsurprisingly, is a record that’s both maudlin and wistful.

It all makes for a fascinating, moving collection of songs. No, they’re not the best band in America, but they are worthy of your time and attention.

Numero have sifted through its cremains and found many precious relics.

Willie’s battered old voice too often sounds strained and strangled on the higher notes. What should soar barely scrabbles to the right pitch.

Gorgeously sepulchral pieces such as Beste Freunde and Glasterlenspiel are perfectly suited to the church where they were recorded as longer improvisations to be edited down, suspending time as they hang in hauntingly contemplative reverie, which is still breaking boundaries. But, in a perfect world, it might even mark Roedelius’ commercial breakthrough.

A great record that proves her writing remains as vital as ever.

Distilled and refined, they remain experimental and temperamental, faltering at times, but ready too to soar beyond National boundaries.

While there’s no doubting the siblings’ talent, at times the polish of the production does reduce the impact of the songs slightly.

The vocals float ethereally over the airy atmosphere, feeling wistful yet majestic. A dreamy ambience permeates the entire album, but each track has something different to offer.

Never mind that his soulful balladeering doesn’t manage to inhabit all the covers (the buoyant funk of Everyday People in particular), this is a glittering display of a powerful talent lost too soon. Hallelujah for its release.

This extremely brief, fidgety album follows last year’s skronky first outing on DFA, the soon-to-be-reissued Flood Dosed EP, and consistently brings to mind hints of prolific New York underground band God Is My Co-Pilot, or Big Flame if Nanette Blatt from …And The Native Hipsters had been on vocal duties.

Cut down to a mini-album, We Can Do Anything would have been better worth the wait.

The forceful pace and commanding lyric-mangling that originally brought them to the public’s attention are still very much in place.

Merzbow’s creations add a new dimension to Boris’ material, so the whole thing sounds apocalyptic and huge.

The album itself feels like a lost Oldham classic, it’s a joy to hear him tackling some of the more obscure corners of his repertoire in such an intimate fashion.

It’s a hypnotic, jam-heavy set that really benefits from the double vinyl treatment; its pleasures are a little too much to take in one continuous sitting.

Arguably the darkest of the Merge albums thus far, Patch the Sky is a consuming album of blazing chords, heavenly melody and personal torment. No-one does intelligent, meaningful rock like Bob Mould.

The wait is worth it. IV consists of 10 expansive and eclectic songs that straddle genres and push boundaries.

Writing to script, the Scottish post-rockers have produced a powerful and fitting score, though as an album in its own right, it lacks the cohesion of their previous soundtrack, to French drama Les Revenants. It’s no cause for dread, but it’s one that doesn’t quite live up to its promise.

The weakest tracks on the album somehow resemble Kings Of Leon B-sides echoing up from the bottom of a bottomless dark well. But taken all together, the sun-kissed synths and woozily inventive guitar work on Pennied Days does just enough for Night Moves to win the day.

On this album, Harvey is again sweeping up sonic history and weaving it into a pattern of her own making, but it’s more relaxed and more raucous, its reference points less, appropriately, English. It’s a deeply melodic record.

When this is good, it’s properly great.

We Disappear is the brashest, most mainstream-sounding alt-rock record The Thermals have pulled off to date. It rarely pauses in its pursuit of hook-laced, punk-pop anthems such as The Walls and the bittersweet Thinking Of You, but it sounds especially jubilant on the best of its Grim Reaper-related numbers, Hey You.

It’s a bracing listen then, and one that forces you to suspend belief as it whips past. But just as with each and every White Denim record, it’s wholly rewarding, repaying repeated listens, letting you check off things you hadn’t heard in it before.

Thoroughly enjoyable from beginning to end, the band have stuck to their formula and produced another decent if less-than-outstanding record.

Architecture Of Language manages to redeem itself with its final disc, Architectural Salvage. Though an apparently randomly sequenced grab-bag of rarities and outtakes, it’s actually a pleasantly consistent experience.

The music is played with laidback precision, immaculately arranged and produced with a consistently warm vibe.

A mixed bag, but when they’re good, they’re great.

One forgives most of Booth’s excesses and there are plenty on the oddball chanson tracks Alvin and Waking. It’s an anything-goes approach.

Luneworks works best when the Rhodes, laptop and ennui work in harmony, seemingly unguided, providing moments of pure blissed-out release.

Palomino is by no means a bad album--the songs are well constructed, everyone plays well, the harmonies are tight and accurate, it’s delivered with heart--though it does sound slightly as though it has been recorded in a box. The trouble is, it does not bring much new or original to the party.

Ideas reaches out rather more, while French Drop is a sleight-of-hand piece that works on several levels.

Toxic synths and an undeniable sense of occasion pervade, the record sounds appropriately big and it just about steers clear of unwanted pomposity.

Third album Abbar El Hamada continues that [broad musical] path, though it eschews the largely acoustic nature of Soutak for a more electrified outing.

The significance of the LP title is never apparent--this is the most land-locked album imaginable. Still, here’s an invigorating enough noise to ward off the demons.

The songs aren’t always resolved and have an element of hit-or-miss jam around the edges, but they are thrilling at times.

Beautifully played, arranged to perfection, crystal clear recording and production with the vocals to the fore, but cushioned by immaculate musicianship. A classic of the genre.

He cites everyone from Shellac to Boredoms to Kate Bush as influences, while quoting feminist psychoanalyst Nancy Chodorow and Russian director Andrei Tarkovsky. It takes big balls or hilarious self-delusion to do this, but Grapefruit, pitched somewhere between those two states, just about justifies the aplomb.

It’s the real deal, the meat of his canon and bearing rewards for fans old and new.

Distance Inbetween may not sound entirely like they are back on top form yet, but that’s not to suggest they’re far off.

The gamut of textures and patterns he produces might be surprising, even off-putting, unless you’ve heard Bourne’s treatments of piano and cello on his beguiling debut studio effort, 2011’s Montauk Variations.

The mild and tepid Swirling soon becomes rather repetitive, and Like A Moth gets stuck in its own saccharine, twee groove, but the majority of these eleven tracks find the band back on the right, fizzy, fuzzy, frazzled track.

The overall impression is of vintage music given a modern snap and kept short and simple for maximum effect.

The unorthodox means of composition ensures that the material on ATGCLVLSSCAP feels alive; blessed with some formidable grooves it retains a freshness and zeal that might have proved elusive if it had been recorded as a conventional studio album.

Enjoyable to the core, but not to be taken too seriously as there are so many other bands doing exactly--exactly--the same thing.

The follow-up to 2014’s Get To Hell sees the band further exploring the country element which has always underpinned their music, resulting in a compelling set which effortlessly tramples many of the more buffed-up new bands pulling from the same well.

Singer Julia Cummings’ saccharine vocals overpower as they search for meaning and purpose. Sadly, they end up being somewhat more tepid and irritating.

The element of smoothness cloaking the emotions could either impress the listener with its beauty or wash over them completely. The hit rate here perhaps isn’t quite high enough for the former, but the album deserves some attention for illustrating the exuberant joy of the black dog turning away from one’s door and walking on down the street.

There are elements of anti-folk here, too, but as deliberately unpolished as these songs are, Kempner and band ensure that her songwriting talents aren’t muddied or obscured by it. Rather, they add to its realness, making these songs all the more powerful.

A well-drilled exercise in slick, sumptuous songwriting.

Originally envisioned as a nod to doo-wop, the album soon blossomed thanks to the involvement of various aides-de-camp, including Peter Buck, kd Lang and Neko Case. Yet their contributions are subtle, adding gentle harmonies and instrumental prowess to tiny, emotional epics.

A record that struggles to catch fire.

There is nothing revolutionary about Cayamo but as an example of what world class performers can knock out on their holiday it can’t be beaten.

Headbangers will be pleased to hear that Scott Ian’s crunchy riffs and Joey Belladonna’s banshee wails are at front and centre, athough--continuing a theme that has endured since the mid-90s--truly warp-speed thrash beats are, disappointingly, largely absent here.

Weirdly though, on his first solo record in nearly six years, it’s when everything is piled up together, when all the faders sound as if they are turned up, that the record is at its best.

[Phoenixes is] given layers of treated guitar and robotic backing vocals, creating a stillness that ramps up the emotional effect of the song. It’s indicative of the qualities of the album as a whole; potent stuff.

While the cynical may snigger behind their hands at this degree of conceptualisation, it makes for a suprisingly tight, focused release.