While Steve’s fingerprints continue to leave a few smudges, six albums in, Justin looks like he’s better equipped than ever to step out of the shadow--and he’s apparently done so by exorcising a few ghosts.

It’s a sumptuous package of an excellent album that’s made even more essential by the gorgeous packaging of the very limited triple-vinyl edition.

Blixa Bargeld and his consequential cohorts present a scrupulous, literate and multi-layered assemblage which subtly encompasses the enormity, the futility, the obsidian humour, the stark terror and the warnings from history (that, wouldn’t you know it, remain unheeded).

The 16th studio album by the former singer of punk band The Adverts sees a typically fierce set of lyrics set to a bunch of poppy tracks to excellent effect.

Blessed with a raw, punchy sound, however, Black Beauty is far superior, more eclectic and fully-realised [than Reel To Real].

Standards, therefore, is gloriously, pertinently verbose, slurping like a horse from the wellspring of inspiration.

The emotion is so directly delivered, one is jolted by the sensation that Ms Simmons is hiding in the corridor. A wonderful record.

Words To The Blind doesn’t really stand for anything. Nor are its interludes or passages particularly interesting or exciting. Perhaps that’s the most Dada thing about it.

A classic compilation of a well-kept-secret of a band.

Shrigley’s work is not for everyone, and Middleton has only a cult following; while Words And Music won’t change either of those facts, the prospect of someone stumbling across this record by mistake makes it more than a worthwhile endeavour.

This album is pleasant, but not of similar stature. It is, however, an alternative and illuminating vantage point on his music.

Doolittle 25 fleshes out the original album with a disc of B-sides and contemporaneous Peel Sessions, plus a disc of demos (both of which are also available as a double-LP on gravid 180g vinyl), and armfuls of the aforementioned demos receive their first official release herein.

The Velvet Underground features some of Reed’s strongest work; few will need reminders of the melancholy bliss of Candy Says and Pale Blue Eyes.... The two discs of different mixes of the record here (including the legendary mono “Closet mix” from the original pressing) are refreshing reminders of the quality of an album that’s often underrated in comparison to its predecessors.

Painful itself remains essential listening. The extra tracks add context and plenty of magical moments; fans will be beside themselves.

This is no modest return, either. It’s produced by Rick Rubin, rock’s very own St Jude, and features Richard Thompson, Charlie Musselwhite, Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy and Tinariwen, so it all sounds rather lovely despite the variety of styles.

It’s disjointed--clumsy, even--with only glimmers of consistency, but the hardcore will appreciate that this is the way the band works: nothing comes easy and rewards are hard-won. Those listening out for singalongs, heartbreak and any solidity are better directed to the best of.

An astonishingly talented family, most of them have made records of note on their own over the last year or so, but this union is something very special indeed.

Storytone’s deluxe edition carries an extra disc of solo takes: mostly Young and ukulele. It’s more palatable, but perhaps doesn’t reveal any more depth to the material.

Though a snapshot of a still-embryonic Fugazi, First Demo remains a formidable statement of intent.

For the most part, though, Bette breezes through the 60s.

You become mesmerised by Der Kaffee Kocht, its contagious rhythm produced by the rasp of a file, or the clanging Sur Le Ventre, with Peron exhorting in French.

Extra tracks aside, the three parent albums are all remarkable realisations of the Captain’s fertile imagination.

Different Every Time joins the dots between those songs (the questing, experimental Moon In June and wise, heartbreaking Just As You Are) to stunning effect on Disc One, while a second CD collates some of the wildly sociable Wyatt’s best extra-curricular work.

It’s wholly recommended.

A triumphant return for one of pop’s most charismatic figures, who has lost none of his ability to make us dance and smile.

Far from lifting the veil, its live performance further deepens the album’s mystery.

This is the first new Simple Minds album in recent memory that you’ll want to keep returning to.

A classic and classy Browne album that draws on his full repertoire of styles.

Singer’s Grave works as a great record in its own right and--perhaps surprisingly, considering its gestation--could be the best starting point for those yet to explore his work.

The attendant singles, EPs and B-sides distil their career into manageable chunks that tell the surface story, but the real gems lie in the albums themselves--each of which is also being reissued singly.

It’s hard not to hear these songs and think of a hollowed-out Echo & The Bunnymen, devoid of the magic, mystery or the passion that made that band so vital.

Purists may regard the project as a desecration, but the Flips could have pushed it even further with no complaints from this jury.

This is a beautiful way to remember--and relive--their purity, their passion and their power.

He and Alexander have also stayed mostly away from the slap-bass and funk drums that made Primus’ early hits so compelling, so don’t expect the usual extravagant workouts. Instead, this album is best viewed as the point where Claypool’s interests in film and music meet at a sort of psychedelic flashpoint.

This reckless abandon practically screams out of La Isla Bonita, but the record falls short of total reinvention.

A fantastic and powerful rock album, Idol’s return commands attention.

If ever an album begs repeated listening, it’s this one, which manages to surprise and reassure at the same time; you’ll want to return to it more than any other post-’83 Floyd album.

The songs sound more muscular than on record, swollen by live strings; Cripple & The Starfish, from his debut, is a standout.

Kind of like almost any Dylan covers album, really, you just wish the man himself were doing this.

The jaunty simplicity of First Time and cod calypso of Sunny Disposition are a tad MOR-by-numbers, perfectly well executed but lacking any real spark. The innate drama in Diamond’s powerful and resonant voice is much better served by the more eloquent and layered In Better Days and the Orbisonesque slow burn, Nothing But A Heartache.

True, it’s rarely a subtle listen, continually more light than shade, but almost 20 years after its release, … Morning Glory can still excite. Some Might Say remains an awful drudge of a lead single, but the rest, pretty much in its entirety, is surprisingly refreshing to revisit.

It’s an edgy, spirited 12-track affair, and it feels like the logical successor to the band’s recently reissued Dung 4, rather than a belated follow-up to Devil Hopping.

The result is a vibrant wall of sound veering between the fierce and hauntingly sensitive.

This is the distilled, finely crafted essence of Bunyan: a hushed, reflective meditation of an album that seems to have the welcome effect of cancelling out the world around the listener.

Every track pulses with a live feel, but they’re all underpinned with the best elements of house, live jazz and even ambient music.

There are likeable enough moments: Cuomo has such an instinctive way with melody that he won’t ever release an album without some saving graces. But, for the most part, this is no improvement on Weezer’s medicore output of the past decade.

Jammed out and demonstrating real chemistry, Time To Die is perhaps best appreciated as one piece of music and proves both atmospheric and immersive in the extreme. The band have lost none of their twisted genius in the four years since their last full-length.

Vocally, Williams experiments more than ever before, almost to the point of jazzy improvisation; she drawls, mutters and often leaves phrases hanging in the air, at times reminiscent of Mary Margaret O’Hara. It’s a welcome development and helps to make the album feel like her most accomplished in many years.

While La Costa Perdida was worth the wait, El Camino Real leaves the listener having enjoyed the trip, but glad to be getting home.

The album improves halfway through, settling into a spacier late-night feel: retro electronic drums sprinkled over better tunes, with chunky bass and the twin male and female vocals more relaxed.

There’s nothing here as inventive as the ambient electro, hip-hop, psych, and string-orchestra versions made by the amateurs and semi-pros who embraced the project 18 months ago. There are, however, some very good takes indeed.

This record is a composite piece blessed with a vision and singularity that repeatedly surprises and invigorates.

Listening to mid-period Wilco was, admittedly, never instantaneous, but you feel a more savage edit would do wonders with Sukierae.

Commune, the collective’s second studio album, is a pulsating sex globule of groovy chants and invocations.

Much of the album refuses to stick, drifting from one similar-sounding song to another.

It’s an ethereal, atmospheric set, though the busyness of the band has the occasional tendency to swamp the songs, the singer’s emotive power at its most affecting on the stripped-bare stately piano ballad A Stolen Kiss.

Aided and abetted by some magnificent backing by the Helios, using the requisite analog set up, the album has the verve and feel of a classic West African long-player, but with enough subtle updates to prevent a slide into reverent pastiche.

Lateness Of Dancers has the unmistakable aura of a deep classic. It is a US masterpiece. A wonderful thing, for sure.

The ways in which Overjoyed thrill are as endless as the band are absurd and implausible. Overjoyed is literally amazing.

A surprisingly natural addition to the band’s discography--and a thoroughly enjoyable one.

Though not as earth-shattering as their live shows, it’s a short, sharp shock nonetheless.

It contains some of the band’s most ambitious and thought-provoking songs.

It’s loud, crunchy, cacophonous, and a subtlety-free zone--and sometimes that’s more than enough.

Unchallenging it may be, but 13 time-honoured blues classics played the Winter way is not an unattractive listen.

It’s this feeling of moving on from traditional folk at the same time as she pays tasteful respect to what’s come before that marks Tricca apart from many of her more celebrated contemporaries.

Musically, Heaven And Earth is (generally) concise and catchy.

As with all their post-Y2K output, Carnival Of Souls sometimes threatens to buckle under the weight of Ubu’s history. Overall, however, it scrapes up enough sporadic excellence to justify David Thomas’ perseverance in the 21st-century scheme of things.

Seeger has rarely been in better voice, imbuing folk melodies with jazz phrasing on the tender tale of innocence lost, When Fairy Stories End, and the smoky You Don’t Know How Lucky You Are.

The main event could have been bloody genius. It isn’t, but it remains fascinating.

I’m Not Bossy, I’m The Boss is the work of neither dominatrix nor diva. It is, however, Sinéad O’Connor’s most emotive, accessible work in years and could well thrust her back into the limelight all over again.

At this stage, it’s almost impossible to grasp that Opeth were once a bona fide death metal band, though more aggressive songs such as Voice Of Treason remind you that they’ve never lost their edge.

The likes of Mark Lanegan and Nick Cave have a new rival in the practising of dark musical arts.

It’s Yorkston’s most accomplished work yet and the best album by a British singer-songwriter so far this year.

Musik, Die Schwer Zu Twerk rarely comes down from the krautrock klouds over the course of its 30-minute running time.

Though billed as a salute to Armstrong, Ske-Dat-De- Dat… could more accurately be described as a celebration of Crescent City, the magic and wonder of the burg embraced to the max on a gloriously heartwarming That’s My Home.

The band have expanded this time round, welcoming in new permanent members Tony Drummond and Walker Teret, and it’s had the effect of creating a much rawer, live-sounding album than its predecessors.

Fans will have all these recordings already, but it’s nonetheless fascinating to chart the band’s shift in sound over this time period.

The arrangements may never veer too far from recognisable country templates, but Shaver imbues everything with great charm and wit.

An absolute joy of a debut.

Robyn brings an affecting vulnerability to all the performances. Whimsicality is turned down a couple of notches and the tenderness that has always underpinned his best material shines through.

Some will rhapsodise about the songs of angels, while others will feel that the most dangerous and angry superbug mutations are still found in the filthiest, most chaotic places.

This is a smash-up-the-house, get drunk, pull faces kind of record. And most probably his best.

Subtle and understated, yet brimming with raw passion, this is songwriting at its cathartic, confessional best.

Larry Williams, Johnny ‘Guitar’ Watson and The Kaleidoscope hook up for some psychedelic sitar grooves you thought you’d never hear; Jim Ford’s Rising Sign is a fuzzy swamp-funk-rock beast that pummels you into submission.

[I’ll Be Killing You This Christmas is] a rare misstep that might return to haunt him, and detract from the less raw protests on another solid album of satirical sideswipes.

It’s a testament to the quality of the music on this reissue of a private press obscurity that it manages to live up to, if not transcend, its captivating backstory.

Far more than background music, this is a reasonably static, and yet moving, listen.

While a far from conventional listen, this may still be Presley’s most accessible album to date.

Not every track is brilliant, but Petty’s intention to make a rock album has been realised for the most part.

This welcome vinyl salutation probably won’t introduce the group to a wider audience, but it deserves to--these are lost treasures from a lost treasure.

For the most part, though, it’s a hugely enjoyable and very welcome return.

A must for fans, but a little bit of between-song banter and audience reaction wouldn’t have gone amiss.

By and large, the more substantial the lyric the more layered and complex the musical arrangement.

Where the music shimmers with earnest, well-intentioned conviction, it’s often let down by some terrible lyrics that make the album more throwaway than it otherwise might have been.

Four decades on, the enduring tales of ego clashes and drug-fuelled disarray have overshadowed the shows themselves, yet this painstakingly compiled set comes as something of a revelation.

Drenched in all manner of trademark effects and sonic inspiration, this Chrome hasn’t lost its shine.

Disc One harbours new material, and the second some of their gems from the last few years; the quality is generally very high and there is much creativity, leaving the mind racing to catch up.

The depth and breadth of this astonishing career compendium, comprising a colossal 189 tracks, will certainly surprise the uninitiated, but for long-time fans it’s a beautifully realised monument to a versatile musician whose genius is largely unsung.