If this is Rose Windows’ final farewell, it’s damned, and it’s good.

Matador is a multi-part opus of gothic indie via The Stranglers in smacked-out mode, and Walking Home’s classic early 60s feel is enhanced by a splendid end-of-the-pier Hammond organ swell, before falling into wimoweh silliness.

It doesn’t always work: Lonely At The Top is a minimalist, spoken-word piece set to odd clicking noises that doesn’t really bear repeated listens. For the most part, however, this is a brave, forward-thinking collection that will be required listening for any fans of electronica.

One concern is that the real country stuff takes time to arrive. When it does, on the pedal-steel-powered Just Pleasing You and the Western swinging If You Lived Here, You’d Be Home Now, The Traveling Kind delivers on its title.

It’s her inability to comfortably fit into those convenient boxes that makes her so great.

Add curveballs such as From The Dead, a plangent alt. country anthem, and it all adds up to the logical follow-up to 1997’s Album Of The Year. It’s like they’ve never been away.

The album manages to transcend genre, but never once feels disjointed. Any mis-steps are quickly developed into something bigger, and no single noise ever outstays its welcome.

She has lost none of her power in the interim.

It’s easy to like but, ultimately, easy to forget too.

The album may not provoke the US Spring the band hopes for but, as an expression of rancour and frustration, it’s a teeth-baring smasher.

This isn’t quite the monumental album it strives to be--a consistent whole being achieved by sacrificing full immersion in any of the styles touched upon--but why stop now when they’re heading down such a promising path?

A few of its 15 songs could have been omitted--not least the seemingly half-finished closer Forever And Always--but there’s certainly more to enjoy than not.

Non-Believers offers up a more fragile, exposed side of the songwriter. While the catchy, jangly hooks that have defined Superchunk for so long are present on these 10 tracks, they feel more tentative, gentle--even slightly unsure of themselves.

Peanut Butter’s 10 songs fizz by in no time at all. A livid onslaught of pop suss.

Such a willingness to experiment is often claimed to be the secret of his longevity, and if that throws up the odd clunker now and again, the other results more than make up for them.

Essentially cinematic in scope and deliciously varied, the main man is somewhat reminiscent of Robert Hunter in that he digs up nuggets from a wealth of sources.

The entire programme is executed with credibility and verve.

Why Make Sense? is a record painted in broad strokes. There are optimistic bangers – that lead single has a scintillating build, taking the listener ever upwards, with Alexis Taylor’s falsetto laced over it; even for Hot Chip, it immediately sounds like a floor-filler. But there are also slow jams.

Though it may take several listens before you realise how comprehensively it’s seeped into your pores. It’s a subtly fetching, minor-chorded, soft-pop sepulchre, conveyed with stealth and tranquilly defocused implication, as opposed to sturm und drang.

Despite the crossroads much of The Waterfall suggests, the band and their leader seem wholly, spiritually aligned--thrillingly so, in fact.

Dr Robert does, admittedly, provocatively parade his influences on the celebratory, Electric Warrior-style The Sound Of Your Laughter and the Jean Genie-esque strut of The Guessing Game. Yet If Not Now, When? still exudes enough contemporary pizzazz to convince on its own terms

Taken at a meditative, reflective pace, it’s a dense, magisterial record, but there’s always space for Fay’s humble, declamatory “alternative gospel” ruminations.

MG fits nicely with some of those minimal wave releases, though, and DM fans will of course be in heaven.

Global is as pastiche-y as the album’s cartoon-styled portrait sleeve, but no less enjoyable for that.

Touchstones are many and include Delia Derbyshire (last year they collaborated with the BBC Radiophonic Workshop on an original score to the 70s sci-fi film Le Planete Sauvage) Can, Grace Jones, Moondog, John Carpenter and Grayson Perry’s pop folk art. But, once again, their sound is their own.

Despite his heavy pedigree, the poppier songs are some of the best here, the only blot being an honourable but lacklustre run through 20th Century Boy.

By track 11, Let Love Lead, you feel you’ve jogged along the cliché-rich, emotion-free AOR road for longer than its 43 minutes and 57 seconds.

The band’s signature slow riffs and brutal, unison forces are all present, while it’s between these chord changes that the interplay of feedback, overtones, drones and whistles play, against and with, in and out of the bludgeoning drive of the enormous, portentous menhirs of minor melody.

As expected, these 13 tracks live up to Fairport’s high musicianship, and are greatly helped by their rich variety, the maturity in song choices and the breadth of moods they evoke.

While Vast Aire and Vordul Mega rarely hit the heights of their former lyrical ingenuity, their stream-of-consciousness rapping style remains one of the most potent forces in hip-hop.

No Pier Pressure is another patchy collection that includes some of his best recent work alongside his most risible.

If there’s a sense that some of Kouyate’s charm has been lost through his newfound worldliness, the experiments bear exquisite fruit on Ayé Sira Bla.

The Swedish-Malawian duo of Johan Hugo and Esau Mwamwaya decamped to a rented house on the shores of Lake Malawi for album number three. That apposite choice of location has paid off with a warmer, more pointedly African sound as insects provide environmental chatter and local villagers add laughs, jokes and musical accompaniment.

It crackles with a credible contemporary energy and parades a succession of brutally accessible would-be hits courtesy of Still Hurt, Insecurity and the soaring, Hüsker Dü-ish Tides.

Yet, for all its superficial obliqueness, Wire is an unashamed pop record at heart.

Some of the music is at the most extreme end of Jenkinson’s output, yet remains zanily accessible.

Howard’s voice is at its best when doing that kind of Arethra/Irma Thomas-ish stuff, and where the band uses simple dynamics, rather than density, to showcase the song.

It doesn’t always gel entirely (the false-ending-blighted Look At Your Life quickly grates; Change simply feels forced) but Who Am I’s blissful harmonies are second to none and both the celebratory Relief and chugging, metallic The Times subject the Hackneys’ patented, hard-driving Detroit rock’n’roll sound to a strikingly contemporary overhaul.

There is heart here, despite the often airless production, deliberately claustrophobic, like the city that inspired it. Repeated listens make the gems shine brighter.... Yet other moments weather less well, sounding exactly like what they are: raw material worked up in just five days.

Across the 28 tracks, never once does it seem Everett is playing for anyone but himself, avoiding potential cliché throughout.

The aching titular song and the pre-Raphaelite-esque beauty of The First Song Of Spring compete with the best of the band’s balmy canon, while the dark, dulcimer-assisted A Cat On The Longwave supplies this otherwise life-affirming comeback with an unexpectedly downhearted conclusion.

Album highlight Cumbia De Donde, featuring Spanish guitarist Amparo Sanchez, is a goofy Mariachi riot that manages to incorporate odd, cartoonish electronic elements to great effect. The flipside is their increased tendency towards clichéd, characterless attempts at straight-down-the-line MOR.

Throughout the album there’s no doubt that this is a band that knows what it’s doing, whether fiddling about with feedback and distant-thunder drumbeats, or taking the rock blueprint and rearranging it as the group pleases.

One of the most remarkable albums of an inimitable career.

Mostly, this is same ol’ same ol’ JSBX: maybe no bad thing, but it won’t grab you by the collar.

Lovely touches of deep soul back up the outstanding Nothing Feels The Same Anymore (reminiscent of Phoebe Snow singing Sam Cooke), and there’s a percussive and piano-driven backdrop throughout that makes this Sexsmith’s most rhythmic disc.

There’s effortless and effortless, and this is an album that verges on the predictable.

With repeated listens, though, the insistent aural assault actually reveals some good ideas, but it’s hard to imagine anyone frequently listening to The Ark Work for pleasure.

Fantasy Empire, with its discernible riffs, moments of relative calm--and even, dare it be said, choruses--is the best entry point for anyone curious about a powerhouse which has, up to this point at least, operated on the blustery, splattered neon fringes of noise rock.

At times the full band arrangements bring more muscle than we’re used to hearing from her, but songs such as Divine and the closing Worship Me are certainly in the vein of what’s come before.

While slightly inconsistent--perhaps the result of having four different singers – overall, this is a record full of hope and sadness and all the space that lies in between.

A new collection of previously unreleased tracks from the original members, Lost & Found compiles studio tracks that never quite made it onto the original album, interspersed with delightful live recordings from the various musicians.

He peppers the album with very evocative, specific references that often sound like childhood memories (“The man who taught me to swim couldn’t quite say my first name”), creating an intimacy that many of his previous records have lacked.

Like its precursor, this sophomore release is deeply rooted in the musical traditions of the late 60s, but while it would be hard to accuse him of pushing too many boundaries, the influences are both tastefully chosen and utilised with consummate skill.

Plenty for 80s collectors to appreciate, then, but this deserves a wider hearing.

The acid test for long-term fans is how good the two bonus discs are. They shouldn’t be disappointed.

Most of the album is sterling work, with the bass alternately throbbing and growling and the beats crisp and sometimes technoid. The pair’s global influences add extra spice, only meandering into average territory on an ambient dub breather at the halfway point.

Hearteningly, much of it sounds enviably fresh, and its 12 tracks crackle with contemporary energy even if a few of the riffs are a mite grungier these days. It is, however, a little south of perfect.

Quite possibly their most essential waxing since 1982’s irresistibly suave Eligible Bachelors.

Its 10 short, serrated and occasionally anthemic songs are visceral and idealistic, though the trio’s increasingly keen sense of melody keeps the existential angst in check throughout.

So, it’s a mini album, of no fixed musical style, with a far from comprehensible but usually hilarious narrative.

The group are at their best when melding reverb-soaked, crunchy multiple guitar layers, playing with dynamics atop a kind of jungle-drum thump.

This is a great country album to boot: full of great craft and guile, no small bitterness and a cracking production from Ray Kennedy.

Citizen Zombie is more disciplined and linear than its epochal predecessors, yet it also reveals that its creators remain a force to be reckoned with.

While this is a project of inherently limited appeal, many of its 14 tracks certainly work better than one might otherwise expect.

Aureate Gloom continues in this vein but, while Sylvianbriar was Barnes’ most mellow offering yet, this album is more aggressive and troubled.

Shadow Of The Sun expands their palette, mushes those hues over one another and deliberately, deliciously, paints them outside the lines in a glorious mash of fuzz.

The album proper finds an omnipotent Led Zep still within hailing distance of the top of their game.

They’ve fashioned a rich and powerfully diverse record.

On the whole, Fresh Blood is an often difficult journey that’s still worth taking.

There’s a light, electronic dusting to many of these songs, but on tracks such as The Pain Of Never, Marc’s distinctive vocals have rarely sounded richer and warmer.

This one challenges in its immediacy, with an emphasis on melody that twists into more muscular signatures so that listeners are never quite sure of the ground they’re on. Meanwhile, in the words and music, there is spellbinding poignancy and aching beauty.

Best here are the former Free/Sharks bassist Andy Fraser uncurling his immortal taut funk on Shock Treatment and New York’s Robert Gordon crooning I Still Love You with quivering pathos.

Adamski’s productions have moved with the times, while keeping references to the piano-rave era (though inviting us to Pump Up The Waltz might trigger less happy flashbacks). If there is a key weakness, however, it’s Adamski’s soft spot for a shaky cover.

The band’s full-length debut has spent a long time in the works, but it’s nonetheless an impressive statement of intent.

Great Big Flamingo Burning Moon is another collection that showcases the band’s strengths: Dave Tattersall’s winning way with a pithy short-story of a lyric, and hook-laden songs punctuated by bursts of savage lead guitar.

Brooks, though, stands out by dint of a nimble melodic touch, compositional sophistication and a broader historical frame of references. This makes From Out Here both satisfying and hard to pin down.

If you like your house served tartare then this is an uncommon delight: 15 brutally raw tracks to smack, jack, bump, pump, pop and drop your way through.

Hayman may fall short of fully embracing the Victorian utopian dreams of his source material, yet a communitarian spirit of which Morris would have approved pervades.

For the most part, this album of amiable desert blues lacks the fire that lit up its predecessor.

Certainly, Childish should never be making laptop beats or recruiting choirs from the DRC, but there might be a sense that his sound needs fresh vigour.

Hold On It’s Easy is in fact one of Cornershop’s most difficult works, for all the wrong reasons.

It all adds up to reaffirm that The Unthanks are among the most quietly accomplished groups around.

Roberts’ latest work is full of sonic space and warmth: an intimate and classically manifested set of tracks in which his melodic arpeggio fingerwork on the guitar is reflected by a soft and expressive voice.

Hexadisc is, for the most part, a difficult listen that doesn’t really seem particularly groundbreaking.

The old sarcasm and spite that made the first few records such evil fun is still here--in particular on Long Haired Punks and Grinding Teeth--and while speedy thrash beats aren’t present, miserably filthy and heavy drone riffs are--a step forward.

No Cities To Love is Sleater- Kinney’s most focused, accessible and often furious work.

It’s not the second coming of Ironman, but tracks such as Love Don’t Live Here No More, Emergency Procedure, Homicide and Blood On The Streets make this one of the best Wu-related releases of recent years, confirming Ghostface as its most consistently engaging member.

It’s a bold and vibrant experiment that, over its beguiling 40 minutes, realigns the piece’s hypnotic power to the trance-inducing qualities inherent in Malian music.

Chhom Nimol's twisting, beguiling vocals tell a hypnotic story without reliance on lyrical narrative; they seamlessly blend into the lushness of the group’s confidently exotic music.

The finest album of Tillman’s career to date, it should have the staying power to make the end-of-year lists.

Shackles Gift reveals a tougher, more concise group than before; though, on the likes of opener Rigid Man and I Want You To Know, they appear to have morphed into--to these ears at least--a less interesting proposition: a relatively straightforward rock band.

Constant throughout is the storytelling flair that sets them apart from peers such as The Smiths and The Cure; there’s an introverted literary stand-offishness to The Go-Betweens’ lyrics.... Meanwhile the four CDs’ worth of rarities and live cuts contain as many riches as the albums proper: a testimony to the strength of the material here. Roll on Volume 2.

His ever more exaggerated diction adds an unexpectedly acrimonious character to some lyrics so that while Modern Blues is far from disagreeable musically, the words will have long-time followers speculating where he’s at.

It’s a solid, sturdy listen, with flourishes of electronics that bring sparkle, but much less of the pop sheen that was evident on Here Come The Bombs.

Not only a remarkable return, but also a songwriting master-class that will hopefully see BC Camplight embark upon a second act worthy of his talents.

The laidback intimacy of the recording reaps especially rich rewards on the heartbreaking Sad Songs And Waltzes, further enhanced by Mickey Raphael’s harmonica. It’s the sibling bond that’s strongest, though: a whole history of great American music coursing through the Nelson blood.

Belle & Sebastian--now much more of a unit than ever before--have found their stride, turning in one of the most satisfying, complete and cinematic albums of their 19-year career.