His tongue may be in his cheek at least some of the time, but parts of this album feel like the worst excesses of rock opera as applied to dance music.

It’s an easy-on-the-ear, hard-on-the-shoe-leather set.

While III is certainly weird, it’s also rather wonderful.

Liam inhabits a range of oddball characters throughout, making it tricky to determine which are closest to his real self, but that hardly seems to matter when the results are as dreamy and diverse as this.

There’s densely polyrhythmic music of texture and tone, frequently pierced with fragments of melody and hymnal chords emerging like shafts of sunlight through the trees, rewarding listeners willing to concentrate with moments of cerebral rapture.

Futurology is a much more polished and decidedly odd record featuring some of the band’s most enjoyably gonzo work since debut Generation Terrorists, as well as their most forwardthinking music to date.

There’s nothing here as radical as Young’s brazen take on God Save The Queen, for his far more engaging 2012 covers set, Americana, and the performances are decidedly tossed-off, even by Young’s capture-the-moment standards.

Where Simpson truly scores is in the ease with which he ponders life’s bigger questions while couching them in familiar country language and sounds.

All in all, a stellar mix of tracks, performed exquisitely and, in light of their split in 2011, now with added poignancy.

Another mix of sloppy slacker-pop, warped, indie jangles and insolent post-punk expressionism, Sunbathing Animal nevertheless feels more assured of itself than its acclaimed predecessor.

Trouble & Love is perhaps her most thoughtprovoking set since 2005’s Mercy Now, full of literate musings and believable characters.

Taken as a whole, the album recalls the literate elegance of 1993’s Kindness Of The World, albeit with more sharply observed snapshots of the nuts and bolts of romantic relationships.

Sure, there’s a mildly preposterous, posturing axe-warrior in there, but it’s tempered, often joyously, with a self-mocking feminine side here, and makes for some of his most carefree but considered music in a very long time.

[Opening track Low Season is] a bizarre blip on an album that fans will lap up.

While you can’t draw a direct line from PT to Anathema, Steven Wilson’s hand is in some of the mixes, but, by standing on the shoulders of giants, bands such as this one have themselves become gargantuan.

Await Barbarians largely sounds like a sketchbook, or even an EP, with Taylor working through ideas.

Another big step for Silberman and required listening for any Americana aficionados.

The radio-friendly gene appears to be lacking entirely from their approach, and as a result the album is among the most immersive listens in some time.

Considered and ambitious, Tincian fittingly sounds like it comes from no time at all.

In one sitting, Dudeblood might seem wilfully esoteric, with recording levels and musical styles as scattered as they’ll be in Sartain’s 45 box. But that’s always been his style, and it’s ultimately the greater part of his charm.

The Reckoning sees Johns sounding comfortable in his own skin and making a quietly accomplished record.

On occasion, the bare bones, stripped-back effects don’t serve the songs quite as well... Still, this should delight the distorted ears of Melvins followers, though they may need to get used to turning the volume up, rather than down.

A master craftsman at work, saluting the sounds that have stirred his muse down the years.

On the whole, Woods have produced an inviting, communal listen seemingly designed to soundtrack lazy summer afternoons.

With a smooth, olde worlde sound, appealing melodies and impressionistic imagery, the album, at best, conjures up affecting vignettes and, at worst--Giant’s Rolling Pin, about the NSA/Edward Snowden affair--borders on the twee.

Packaged with some afterthe-event boisterousness courtesy of Neil McCormick’s sleevenotes and a sprinkling of mythologising, Definitely Maybe remains classic enough.

The music simultaneously remains as era-defining, self-effacing, future-thinking and retro as it ever did.

Nightclubbing still sounds like nothing else released during the 80s, though its colossal influence repeatedly reveals itself.

The GOASTT wig out like shamen throughout Midnight Sun.

10,000 Maniacs fans may yearn for the simpler music of old but, sad to say, given the effort involved, uncommitted listeners will simply shrug their shoulders.

Much of the material is by-the-numbers mainstream pop-rock, which is why the mesmeric Latin jazz groove, Yo Soy La Luz, featuring saxophonist Wayne Shorter and Santana’s drummer wife, Cindy Blackman, stands out.

The lack of personality is most strikingly felt in Kim Deal’s absence.

The lack of a decent thread means that, while Revelation has some undoubted tunes, it remains an awkward overall listen.

While it believes it’s a storm of Ocean Rain-esque majesty, Meteorites fizzles out like it’s just another shower.

The quality of the songs is uniformly excellent, the performances electric and, moreso than ever, Holland’s vocals are a drawling, tightrope-walking treat as she veers between lust and heartbreak with real abandon.

On the whole, for an artist so spectral and kaleidoscopic, Upside Down Mountain is a pretty sweet ride.

A richly rewarding set from a songwriter growing with each release.

His finest achievement yet.

New York… is a pitch perfect and regularly beautiful homage to the likes of Suicide and the Velvets.

While we should never compare a solo artist with their band’s work, when the template they’ve already set over the years is so very strong, and when they don’t at any juncture try to reset it, the feeling of missed opportunity is perhaps potent and hard to escape.

Wrangler make vibrant, organic electronic music that respects the genre’s history while turning a fresh page.

It’s powerful stuff, still wholly worthy of “10 fucking stars”.

Crowell continues to stake his claim as one of the genre’s most learned and accomplished performers, and if there is a gripe it’s that, at 11 tracks, the party’s over way too soon.

There’s a fine college-rock jangle to The Beat’s Save It For Later and some fab California-kissed harmonies on XTC’s Towers Of London.

Mixing up the correct dosage proved tricky, but, to Berry’s credit, Music For Insomniacs reclines on a perfect plateau: chewier than your workaday (workanight?) ambient dribble, but not so rich with incident that you’ll sit bolt upright.

A long overdue return, and well worth the wait.

The works of a mature band with a confident mix of musical hooks, earworm choruses and a direct beat.

While not quite equal to its predecessor, Divide And Exit offers plenty to get your teeth into.

There’s a gleefully brash use of whatever’s at hand that recalls the one-man-band approach to his solo debut, Yr Atal Genhedlaeth, but American Interior is also a far better exploration of Americana than Super Furry Animals’ Love Kraft turned out to be.

Producer Glyn Johns captures a laconic, organic vibe throughout, aided by such top-notch players as Ryan Adams, Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, on an album that oozes good taste and effortless class.

PUP’s ability to enliven a tired genre with an abundance of ideas and exuberance is a small but exceptional feat.

To put it bluntly, it’s the sound of REM album tracks circa 2001-2008, only with a less interesting frontman and a lyrical conceit that can often exclude the listener.

Throughout, they’ve remained a surprising and, more importantly, single-minded unit.

Occasionally, the rhinestone pop of Carter’s earlier records sneaks into the mix, but for the most part this is a cheery celebration of the old timey tunes she remembers from when she was knee-high to a sharecropper’s shin.

The first [half] sees Adams’ spectral vocals go up against a furious string section, while the second is reminiscent of Joanna Newsom’s work with Van Dyke Parks. It’s all interesting stuff--albeit with a predilection for the twee--but may be a little much for some listeners to take in one go.

A great record in short and well worth hunting out.

A solidly satisfying set.

At just 10 songs Do To The Beast is concise and enjoyable, but doesn’t have the cohesive energy and poetry of its predecessor.

It all makes for a low-key effort, which sometimes showcases the band’s skill at crafting neat, 21st-century pop, but all too often fails to spark into life.

Hacke and Picciotto narrate with unwholesome relish.

Despite highly effective stabs at afro-jazz (Kingdom Come), highlife (One Life To Live) and salsa (the fiery Agoya), it’s on the spiritual jazz numbers that the band really come into their own.

This is a master craftsman at work, without bells, whistles or any other gimmicks. True country classicism.

The whole thing is delightful, as compelling as the artists celebrated by Flint’s finest

It’s easy to be cynical or apprehensive about “lost” tracks resurfacing years later, but there’s enough A-grade material on Out Among The Stars to make its belated arrival something to celebrate.

The pace rarely drops and, at points, the noise and structure is, indeed, messy, but the whole is punka focused collection with a bloody-minded, if also bloody-nosed, vision throughout.

Goodbye Weekend sees DeMarco take issue with his critics, particularly the way his sometimes bizarre live shows have been reported. On this evidence, his talent should be celebrated. Salad Days, indeed.

Indentations is the pleasing exception. A slowed down, emotionally visceral tune, it demonstrates that Manchester Orchestra have a real breadth in their songwriting.

Back in 1970, this must have sounded like music from the future--over 40 year later, it still does.

Well worth the extended wait.

Atlas sees a further distillation of their sound; where once appealingly fuzzy, guitars now chime with crystalline clarity.

Strangers feels as if it’s trying to fit into a radio-friendly country narrative that’s surely already passed.

Fans of any of the artists involved will be satisfied.

It all gives the sense of a fun, messy but inspired recording session conducted in a fug of weed smoke.

It’s difficult to imagine many better rock albums being released this year; it’s the record Springsteen fans wish he had in him.

It’s not all spot-on pop perfection: Return The Favor feels as if it’s been included just to fill the quota for an emotional, heart-wrenching ballad. However, this is a minor black mark against an album that ticks all the boxes for those who love cleverly constructed, 80s-esque indie with a pop twist.

Packed with motifs and allusions to cinema, it’s also a subtle commentary on the singer’s stratospheric rise to superstardom, lyricist Bernie Taupin retrospectively suggesting disillusionment was a recurring theme.

A peculiar cove, Wareham is also a viciously acute lyricist with a love for tremolo, and has invented what might be described as quiet heavy metal, or rock’n’roll noir.

The overall effect is dizzying--a revolving door of treatments and narrators--but usually hits the spot.

There’s good songwriting in places, but with the artist’s idiosyncrasies effectively airbrushed out by a bloated production, the result is a dull, vapid collection of songs desperate to please.

Perhaps their most impressive, consistent and varied offering to date.

The album’s immediacy is impossible to escape.

Anyone feeling the mildest desire to get on with their day may reach for the volume control and reduce the endless drone to background level – hardly the point of the exercise.

The guitar solos are the album’s single saving grace.

Melodically bewitching throughout, Nadler’s vocals are as nuanced and strong as Dunn’s production.

This is a one-joke album, but the joke is a good one, and more than a few bona fide country fans will be convinced.

From the opening refrain of Whistleblowers, Spectre is an astounding work.

Shonna Tucker may have left the fold for a solo career, but in Hood and Cooley the Truckers still have two of the most eloquent songwriters working in Americana.

All in all though, a fair return.

Pritchard is at his self-deprecatory best on the witty but barbed break-up song Yeah Yeah Girl, while producer/guitarist Tim Bradshaw deserves credit for so fearlessly jettisoning the indie comfort blanket on the stylish, Chris Isaak-esque noir of Posters.

Acoustic At The Ryman is an unplugged album done right. A live record that’s not just for hardcore fans, it’s a must for all lovers of alt.country.

No Squeeze fan is going to feel short-changed.

Their best--and most radical-sounding--LP to date.

Reader’s own explanatory notes enrich these universal songs with a personal edge, completing a particularly satisfying package.

All in all, another envelope-pushing opus from a pathfinding musician whose talent doesn’t recognise boundaries.

High on ambition, musicianship and charm the end result is a set of well-meaning if often uninspiring afro-rock.

Deceptively simple, Morning Phase rewards repeated immersion.

The overall sense of experimentation arguably makes Dizzy Heights Finn’s most surprising and accomplished release since Crowded House’s Together Alone, the work of confident tunesmith daring to stretch himself.

Making up for lost time, Strut have produced a collection that’s broad in scope, detailed in its sleevenotes and packed with a raft of outstanding music.