It’s true that Quilt have tightened their sound and clearly production values are high across the whole of Plaza. But sadly, in lieu of a more unified sound or approach, their music might be doomed to be like an actual quilt--with all the filling annoyingly on one side.

Other highlights, such as the Ngoni-driven Kenia, the desert blues of Tu Voles and an atmospheric take on Nina Simone’s haunting lament Strange Fruit confirm that she is an artist still very much at the top of her game.

Yet, while neo does hark back to the logger-heavy, plaid-clad revolution from the Pacific North-West, it rarely sounds wearily derivative.

Despite its noir inflections, it’s a lighter, at times impish, and vibrantly melodic, album. Wherever it takes us, we’re likely to enjoy the ride.

Helmed by ex-Primal Scream and My Bloody Valentine producer Brian O’Shaughnessy, the band’s second release, Everybody’s Dying To Meet You is a shade more confident and fully-realised.

Despite its sheen and icy edge, the album proves that Dan Sartain is one of music’s great personalities; a little unhinged maybe, talented definitely, but never dull and never treading water.

A sparse recreation of her hymnal Second Sight from a previous album, This Coming Gladness, sums up the sound: unorthodox, riveting. Fantástico.

There’s a time and place for material this demanding of the listeners’ attention, and it does take repeated listens for the album to really make sense, but when the mood fits, Painting Is hits the spot like only they can.

The band doesn’t come off sounding as distinctive as Gane’s most praised ensemble, but there’s certainly potential in abundance.

It’s a consistent and intermittently inspired set but while it flows seamlessly throughout, the strident Roll It and intricate, Before Hollywood-esque Don’t Be Right are arguably the keepers here.

The album doesn’t stray far from the pop template established by early single Chinatown; only now there’s a more self-assured swagger, backed with clear and confident production.

It certainly sounds like an album collaged over five years in various places around the world. But there are no contemporaries for this sound, and they hit their mark often, that moment where all the dried pasta shapes, buttons and string turn into a surprisingly lucid portrait of a band happy to try everything at once.

Emotional Mugger might be the very first glimmer of repetition in Segall’s collector-boggling discography. Enjoyable, chaotic, but occasionally lumpen and familiar.

While it isn’t without its moments, that is not enough to forgive the sub-standard R’&’B and lumpy rock crossovers.

While the musical performances are expert, the real appeal of the record lies with Friedberger.

Throughout, this is the sound of three world-class talents raising their respective games, as if trying to keep up with each other, creating something far greater even than the sum of their world-class parts.

A definite return to form, it’s not 24-carat gold all the way through but there are more than enough nuggets to keep old fans happy and attract some new ones.

The album does have its moodier moments, Hate on--easily the best track on the album--features a strong meditative groove, oddball sax, razor-sharp guitar chords and luscious harmonies. Along with the final track, it hints at a depth that is sadly not fully explored. Nevertheless, this album is a lot of fun.

With seamless storytelling through its 34 songs, magical moments of intricate instrumental interplay abound, magnified by an orchestra and massed choirs, while a template for the staging of a musical production sees the principals realising a grandiose next-step in their creative development.

Bonnie’s smoky take of the INXS funker Need You Tonight and a rollicking version of Los Lobos’s Shakin’ Shakin’ Shakes. Another Grammy on the way? That would almost certainly seem to be the case.

Only the hushed Living Lux, which closes the album in delicate velvet drifts, escapes unscathed. It is, sadly, not enough to give Bloc Party redemption.

A couple of duds: No Monsters telegraphs its Lennon-esque references, while England & America is pointless dad-rock. Everything else works.

There are moments of genius here and there, so do investigate if you find yourself humming Lil’ Devil from time to time.

By the time The Morning Is Waiting appears, all glorious awakenings in pianos and strings, the album begins to feel triumphant. The elation continues to the end, with the funk returning in spades for Same Name, before closer Stay Awake warms you up to start over.

Without You, Death To The Lovers and We Are The Flames--showcase Skin’s still-gobsmacking voice and will be welcomed by fans of earlier, underrated heartstring- pluckers like Infidelity (Only You) from the 1996 album Stoosh. The rest of the album is much rowdier, powered by Cass Lewis’s immense, distorted bass and punk-indebted riffs from unsurnamed guitarist Ace.

At times, there is an element of either hesitance or a deliberately low-key style at work here, but one feels that upon picking up the requisite fans, this could combine with the music’s welling elements to translate into some quite emotional concerts.

While it’s certainly soundtrack material, anyone with good taste would, for instance, go for the original Strauss and Ligeti over this album’s Hollywood light music take on Hal… and dare we say it, anyone with good taste should know not to attempt the latter.

Although at times it underwhelms, at its best this album absolutely convinces and leaves no doubt as to the ability of its creator.

His most cohesive effort yet.

While there’s a compelling dark energy to the stark, fuzz-riffed uptempo tracks (the bass-driven God Song oddly recalling U2 when they strip things down), the telepathic power of the ensemble is best realised on spectral slowies such as I’m In Love Tonight, featuring deeply resonant viola from Bad Seed Warren Ellis, and epic Never Feel This Young.

His high, husky voice recounts tales of hope and desperation over immaculate production that combines the staples of guitar, bass and drums with restrained washes of strings--about as far from the stifling, mainstream Nashville Sound as imaginable.

What becomes apparent with them is that with The E Street Band backing him, Springsteen seemed incapable of writing a clunker. At this point they were on fire and could have turned just about anything into a grandstanding rave-up or stirring anthem, as required.

While the studio album underwhelms, the concept takes off on the live versions available on the four-disc edition.

Richly garnished by fiddles, bottleneck and accordion, the rejuvenated Slim Chance may conjure echoes of Lane’s The Passing Show, but ultimately seem to be emerging with a rough-shod, rollicking sound of their own. On this form, they can be sure their old mate would be leaning at the bar, nodding approval.

The angular but ambling instrumental Fauster can arguably be glossed over and there’s nothing here with the cliff-hanger intensity of Mend’s best track Cathkin Braes, but with the slow-burning Spectres and the churning, dirge-like The Mute, De Rosa have nonetheless book-ended Weem with a pair of their most bewitching power plays to date.

Tortoise may have become a little less cutting-edge in their old age, but within an area of the musical landscape which owes much to their enduring influence, they remain perennially relevant.

As has been noted about some of their previous work, the sonic characteristics, though very seductive, can become slightly repetitive and it could be argued this does not serve the base material to best advantage--there are interesting ideas floating around and it might be worth allowing some of them a little more clarity.

There’s less of the superficial swagger, more mature contemplation and reflection.

The robotic, new wave sheen of Quiet Americans fares slightly better, but on the whole, this record falls somewhat short of Shearwater’s usually excellent capabilities.

The original record’s improvisational nature is still here but hidden, its minimalist touches are scant.

His music admittedly feels a little more battle-scarred nowadays, but this world-weariness fits the LP’s resigned, roots-tinged ballads Good Enough and There It Goes like a glove.

The bleak lyrics are countered by a perky tempo, setting up an interesting tension. If much of the album runs on familiar, well-oiled tracks, The Waves shows what Villagers can achieve when they stretch themselves.

It’s competent, and some of the songs are good, but it’s just so much old hat.

The influences are certainly varied, and harsher critics might suggest a lack of editorial control--a perfect example being Blood Red Balloon, which manages to recall both Grizzly Bear and Toto. Only Saturnine manages to resist the temptation to explode, and is the freshest track as a result (albeit with a guitar break that evokes Brian May). Regardless of such artistic concerns, it sounds like it may be the album to propel Mystery Jets to commercial success.

The Bowie that his fans love most--the unpredictable, courageous and cutting-edge enthusiast-- is properly back, and while this kind of intense listening experience might not trouble the current crop of massive-selling rock stars, he’s somehow a damn sight more vital than the lot of them.

While this 12-track set clearly comes from a Hoxton state of mind, there’s a liberated imagination running riot here.

Sadly, it’s a plodding, semi-acoustic dirge of little note, while When Shipman Decides--about homicidal doctor Harold--also fails to live up to the shock factor of its title. It makes for a mostly meretricious, self-important record with delusions of grandeur.

On the whole, it all helps to convey the peripatetic atmosphere that flows through these two dozen tunes. At the same time, it means the album feels less complete and whole than most ...Trail Of Dead records, but there are moments, such as closer Before The Swim, where it shines bold and bright.

With the cleaner production (and techno wizard Trentemøller’s post-production) serving to highlight rather than smooth its bristling urgency and naked emotion, it seems destined to win hearts and minds.

Wryly observant character studies are linked by wistfully understated instrumental interludes, with harpsichord, vibes, nylon-strung guitar and single-finger organ tumbling contentedly against each other like smalls in a twin-tub.

This disc represents a decent, very listenable attempt at updating that picture. It is however, a relatively small album, overlooked both by predecessors from the new wave era and by more recent, lofty stadium takes on the sound.

He’s been compared to Damien Jurado and while the stylistic link is accurate, Knight is more defined by an urge to experiment. This may be too enigmatic for some but perseverance is repaid during the extrovert moments on The Arp.

While The Waiting Room is not Tindersticks’ greatest album, it might be the one that best signifies how this project is an ongoing one, that the sum of all the band’s work is greater than any individual passages. That they’re playing the long game; waiting.

It’s that kind of affair: fine in parts but far too eclectic for its own good. Collins remains in fine fettle, though, and the choices are fair enough given her Broadway pedigree and eye for a standard.

The lines are blurred, but there’s no court ruling on whether this is cynical appropriation or genuine homage.

An instrumental, Pecket’s Well, highlights the beauty and lyricism of his solo guitar, but the real worth here lies in lyrics that offer listeners clear descriptors of Tilston’s concerns, such as the warnings for mankind encompassed in Running Out Of Road.

The whole caboodle comes to an interesting end with Neil Young’s Cortez The Killer. An unexpected change of pace, its seven minutes of mid-tempo atmospheric desert rock is wholly at odds with everything that preceded it.

The joy of this collaboration lies in Wells’ music. It’s a more varied affair than its predecessor.

Snatches of fuzzy guitar, banjo and fiddle drift through, but the main thrust is in the singing, Carthy providing the lucid top notes while her partner is adept at shadowing her with huskier harmony.

The claims these guys make of being an “anti-band” are redundant in light of how clean and complex Early Risers is, but, on the whole, it’s oddly unmemorable.

The opening song Love Is, which he sings with a touch of the Gaelic, could almost be a track by The Waterboys and might easily soundbed one of those ghastly Irish cider ads where implausibly airbrushed Hibernians flaunt their trendy facial hair. He recovers from this false start to concentrate on some ex-pat musings with a side order of standard US FM rock punctuated with bursts of mariachi on Please.

This new compilation focuses on projects she released under her own name plus sundry collaborations, remixes and assorted feature spots. Above all else, this 34-track assemblage highlights the fact that Thorn’s trajectory has been an unpredictable and surprising one.

Chorus collects Lush’s entire back catalogue and presents it bound in a beautiful hardback book. Its contents remain highly desirable too.

For while it’s hard to begrudge any quality new release by a band of Beach House’s eminence, for a fan base still attuning itself to the subtle charms of Depression Cherry, this flawed follow-up might have been better served up refined and polished at a later date.

Whether all this is owing to a slight change in line-up (on bass and violin) or just increased confidence, it’s impossible to tell, but whatever the reason, Lanterns On The Lake are shining more brightly.

With BJ Cole on pedal steel, backing vocals by Gillian Welch and Bernie Leadon alongside numerous other top notch contributors, there is no doubting the quality of the music on offer.

Angels & Ghosts won’t draw you in immediately and it does contain several lumbering, repetitive tracks that neither move nor entertain. But after a few listens, you may begin to see the light.

This is an exquisite interpretation of an exceptional album.

West Kirby County Primary sounds like it was recorded anywhere but. It’s a beautifully performed and produced record, tender, intimate and close, yet with moments of real physical power.

With just a couple of standout tracks, this isn’t earth-shattering stuff--but it will resonate with existing Warpaint admirers, introducing Lindberg’s intoxicating siren call and reminding of the unique potency of her pin-sharp bass playing.

The cumulative effect is one of a dizzy America, and one that would make even less sense if ever unpicked. Much like the Americana of McCombs; gloriously messy.

While some will still view the album as a 30-minute intro to a track that never starts, others will want to pull this cacophonous duvet up to their chins and luxuriate in what might just be the most sumptuous, atmospheric and varied SunnO))) album to date.

While the music is frequently revelatory, capturing the post-Cale line-up chilled and stretching out, as on the 40-minute Sister Ray with Lou’s guitar on overdrive, most tracks have appeared before; on 1974’s 1969 Live, 2001’s The Quine Tapes and the third album reissue.

Live In Paris 2014 is a superb introduction for the uninitiated, as well as a welcome souvenir for the experienced. Warm, potent, invigorating and liberating--it’s difficult to imagine a better live band existing this side of the Sahara.

It’s certainly a series of striking and original composites, if a slightly meta one.

It’s A Holiday Soul Party is both celebratory and socially astute, comprising originals and traditional songs.

This reissue fails to add much to entice fans other than packaging.... Anybody hoping for a dramatic discovery of a high-quality version of this long-bootlegged show [ Live At Second Fret, Philadelphia, 1970] will be disappointed; it’s hard to discern any real improvement from the frustratingly bad quality of the circulated boot.

It’s only when the tracks pass all-too quickly in a live-sounding, bass heavy blur that Modern Dancing feels anything less than exhilarating.

Despite the addition in places of cello, e-bow guitar, banjo and synthetic choirs, little has really changed in Eric’s sound or style of delivery, but that’s no bad thing, and the songs are as exquisitely quirky and personal as ever.

The inclusion here of iconic tracks such as the aforementioned Little Johnny Jewel and Richard Hell’s Blank Generation shows that their label was indeed instrumental in documenting the birth of NYC punk, but elsewhere Chris Stamey & The dB’s Big Star-esque power-pop and The Student Teachers’ quirky, synth-driven art-pop prove that Ork and Ball were equally comfortable promoting bands who had little truck with the three-chord revolution.

A couple of the tracks may catch Tom in booming mode but there’s a pleasing variety of delivery, plenty of sensitivity and a whole load of rocking. Quality control is top notch throughout and the backing musicians are never less than superb.

The addition of Hammond, fiddle and nicely understated guitar make So Familiar one of the strongest tracks with Edie Brickell reining in the often drawly mannerisms of her singing style to accompany with great effect. Other songs are not so successful in marrying the feel of bluegrass with the sweep of a big song.

Lament For Nepal is one of three love letters to the earthquake-ravaged Kathmandu Valley. A stark Nepali bell opens and closes this haunting piece, though as is so often the case with Chapman, the English pastoral qualities of the composition are equally compelling.

While his delivery remains pleasingly rough roud the edges, Lewis has come a long way since initially finding recognition as part of the “antifolk” scene. Pleasing aspects of Manhattan are the lengthy likes of Back To Manhattan.

A no-frills, 10-track set that’s almost permanently cranked to the max.

Unusually for the average album (which this is decidedly not), every track here is distinctive; a cinematic, mind-scramblingly complex yet cohesive mini-epic.

Second LP Seems Unfair offers the kind of melodic prowess, lyrical wit, sensitivity and social awareness that harks back to the days of Felt, Hefner and The Smiths with the band capable of effervescent, wonky guitar attacks more in keeping with the early material of Stateside benchmarks Weezer, Pavement and more recently, Waxahatchee.

They’ve now created an album which towers above the nostalgia market which could easily have been their fate.

Fittingly, Central Belters ends on the monstrous My Father My King, the band at their most uncompromising and vital.

Divers is another meticulous masterpiece from one of the songwriters of her time, an album that’ll still be spellbinding generations from now.

Pylon is propulsive, girder-heavy and demands to be played loud. But like the best of their oeuvre, from early single Requiem to last album MMXII, it features chord progressions of intense melodic beauty like glimmers of the divine shining through the depths of hell.

Like all Los Lobos albums this owes little to anything else, the band single-mindedly going their own way--and getting away with an extraordinary collection.

Across nine one-word titled songs, Barlow finds a kind of peace while dabbling in self-loathing, alongside domesticity and redemption.

Happily, it’s been worth the wait as Silver Bullets is fresh, exhilarating and the most essential Chills LP since the critically acclaimed Submarine Bells.

The predictability of Alone In The Universe is its strongest suit, these are all cast-iron songs that will sit on an ELO retrospective beamed down from that spaceship in 10538 and nobody would imagine they were released 40 years after their golden age.

It is a salve, and a beautiful, mysterious thing, which doesn’t necesarily need to be anything more than a beautiful, mysterious thing, however many hours of labour and technical nous have been spent crafting it.

Hayman’s lyrics, vocals and musicianship add up to a frequently touching whole. One wonders though if the presence of others has previously helped smooth out any little wrinkles.

Respectful, then, but not set in aspic.