This tribute has been a long timing coming, but it doesn’t quite do justice to an artist whose integrity ultimately saw him turn his back on fame.

If you want to hear the emphasis of some of Callahan’s most satisfyingly minimalist lyrics shift slightly in this foreign landscape, this is a keeper. Otherwise, it’s merely a cool, respectful diversion that’s way better in practice than it looks on paper.

A bygone feel permeates a few of the songs; the joyful saloon rock of Frankie Fell In Love takes listeners back to The River, and Down In The Hole recalls the more reflective Bruce of Born In The USA and Tunnel Of Love.

Its return is to be celebrated, not just for the bonus disc of a previously unavailable live show, but because it illustrates the formation of a blueprint (tough country-rock, literate confessional lyrics) that would serve Williams well for the next quarter century.

Strutting arrogance is his game, and it’s sometimes an uneasy mix with the ghosts of those whose spirit he aims to evoke.

Everything is despatched with verve and attitude, respectful of country music traditions but filtered through a broader, more urbane worldview.

She steps gingerly out of her comfort zone again on I Never Wear White, its harsh guitars veering towards garage rock, and the banjo-led angry man blues of Song Of The Stoic. If any of this proves too much for less adventurous fans, the literate whimsy of Crack In The Wall and Silver Bridge trek across more familiar terrain.

It’s a relatively muted return, and we can only hope it’s a casual curtain-raiser to something fresher and more tangible to come.

A rare example of an eponymous album where the title feels wholly appropriate.

There’s no doubting Howe’s immense talent but, though each album stands alone individually, bundled together here the material becomes slightly indistinct.

The result is one marvellously gloomy overview of this aspect of Lanegan’s career.

It’s a record that her late father would have been enormously proud of, and the first essential country album of 2014.

With minimal instrumental backing, the pair confidently locate the essence and atmosphere of the original album.

What really sets Total Strife Forever apart is Doyle’s vocal ability.

Unexpectedly enjoyable, the only real misfire comes with If God Made Everyone, which starts off like a Quadrophenia outtake before verging into unpalatable mid-90s U2 territory.

It’s a fascinating and most worthy archival release.

Dear River finds the Australian and her all-female band flexing bigger muscles, producing a much fuller sound that’s closer to the powerful noise they make on stage.

It's apparent that a lot of work has gone into paring these jams down into a focused and always interesting collection.

It gets gnarlier elsewhere.

What began as a series of bold experimentations dressed in a warm fuzzy melding of genres feels half-baked second time around.

For the most part, however, [Bob Dylan's] contributions feel like a step down from the level of those of his former bandmates, emphasising just how far they had come.

It’s certainly fun, and a charming period piece. However, the most revelatory moments are the solo Pop Profile interviews, two at the end of each CD.

There’s much to pore over here, including two full live sets from 1984 and the experimental patchwork collection Gasoline In Your Eye. Get ready to have your earth shaken.

As a Bad Religion record, it’s certainly not gold and you won’t be demanding myrrh.

As it stands, Reflektor is Arcade Fire’s most diverse and sonically interesting work to date.

Produced by Daniel Lanois and newly mixed by Glyn Johns, there’s a more soulful side to Griffin on the shuffling lament Sooner Or Later, while One More Girl veers towards the folky introspection of early Joni Mitchell.

Ultimately, it may not include anything that will endure as long as some of his Wings classics, let alone the Fabs’, but it’s a powerful and persuasive album from a man whose innate knack for melody is still firing.

The list of the era’s top head acts is impressive--everyone from Tim Hardin and Canned Heat to Jefferson Airplane and Creedence Clearwater Revival. Trouble is, the roll call doesn’t make much logical sense.

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds release a live album recorded for the radio station in an intimate venue. It must have been something for the lucky few present, but this document doesn’t quite do the job.

Live At The Cellar door could have been a consolidation of the year’s achievements for Neil, instead it’s proof that he couldn’t stay still.

Once more riotous than riot grrrl, Luscious Jackson return as a welcome blast of old school New York grit, happily still brandishing their smouldering, idiosyncratic magic.

It would have been good to have a wider selection of their work here. Surely such an enduring and eclectic band deserve more than a single disc for their admirable milestone anniversary.

Mug Museum emerges as another low-key intelligent pop gem from Le Bon.

Later songs Bear and Cleaning Out The Rooms are rewoven to even more emotional effect than in their previous guises, on the Zeus EP and Valhalla Dancehall long-player respectively.

He’s painstakingly conceived a uniquely personal concept which, for the first time, includes creating new music for the project.

As a writer, Dave has always inevitably been overshadowed by Ray, but the album features some of his most articulate and inspired songs to date.

A riot of synth squelches, bleeps and wibbles threaten to derail the music yet never quite do; indeed, repeated listens to the likes of Love Is Blind reveal a wealth of riches hidden among the dense patchwork of sounds.

Thirty years on from its relief, in seeking a wider truth for contemporary times, NMA plumb paganism and tribalism with a powerful resonance.

Askew executes sad back-parlour arpeggios on a Hdusty, reverberant piano and his distinctive 10-stringed Martin tiple, his antediluvian voice as tremulous as Willie Nelson on a toning table.

The uncharacteristically tonguein- cheek, Bowie-esque Japan To Jupiter is arguably the record’s apex, but quality and contemporary relevance abound, ensuring Folly is a comeback that equates with anything but the absurdity suggested by its title.

Surgical Steel is both muscular and accessible enough to appeal to metal fans of almost all stripes.

Truly, this is the gift that keeps on giving. Aural aphrodisia.

An innovative release in the style of the recent Kate Bush and Tracey Thorn seasonal offerings, Snow Globe is a very welcome, wistful and idiosyncratic addition to the festive market.

It’s worth reminding yourself that the swarming deeps, lo-fi thumbprints and careworn erudition of Bowler Hat Soup--released in a limited run of 500 vinyl copies--would represent a career-best achievement for a preternatural craftsman of any age.

The Coincidentalist, recorded by M Ward and Sonic Youth’s Steve Shelley, often sounds inauthentic and contrived.

You may variously be reminded of The Left Banke, The Byrds, The Mystery Trend, the Face To Face-era Kinks with their oft-tinkled harpsichord and even--in a recurrent, snakily-phrased vocal tic--Beck circa 1996 and The New Pollution.

Parker’s rarely been in better voice, buoyed by the presence of old friends intuitive to his innermost thoughts and intentions.

No one’s taking anything too seriously, but if this were a DVD it wouldn’t be a surprise to see Ry flashing the biggest grin in the room.

Separate--one of a few songs (along with the slightly annoying sludge march of Beat, the frenetic whimsy of Inquiries and the juddering instrumental Once) that falls just short of those huge expectations. But when this record hits the mark, it’s very good indeed.

It feels self-centred and bored, and is reflected by much of the album’s music.

Covers of songs by Nick Cave, Chelsea Wolfe and Lanegan’s Gutter Twins bandmate, Greg Dulli, bring this collection slightly more up to date, but nothing sounds out of place. Rather, in Lanegan’s hands, they coalesce to form a record of timeless, typically morose joy.

Factory Floor have achieved a pure distillation of their live experience: this is as direct, exciting and thrillingly minimal a dance record as you’ll hear this year.

Torrini and collaborator Dan Carey envisioned the record as a chance to explore the possibilities of the studio, and it does sound lovely, in a New Age kind of way. It seems, however, that this has come at the expense of strong songwriting.

If the quality flags on Spanish Eyes or Girl Of Mine, that’s down to oversentimental material. And when the completed versions kick in with Raised On Rock, it ain’t hard to see why Elvis was still scoring hits amid glam, metal and Philly soul; class wins out.

A high watermark in the canons of all involved.

It may be too reserved for excitable fans hoping for I’m Still Standing sequels, but the purity and simplicity of this unadorned balladry (Can’t Stay Alone Tonight, The New Fever Waltz) may bring many who fell by the wayside back into the fold.

Fans of Sonic Youth at their most experimental will know what to expect, anybody coming to this with fresh ears should try before they buy.

Either titled as a lark, or a worrying admission that, as the 70s dawned, Dylan had run out of ideas and was content to waste everyone’s time with tepid cover recordings.... If anything, it further muddies the waters.

A deft, balanced and measured record.

A backhanded triumph.

Sequel To The Prequel’s catchy riffs also induce a sense of familiarity, making it addictive from the off.

Musically speaking it’s a marvel.

Across Six Leap Years serves the weirdest of purposes, pleasing (presumably) both band and fans. Many of these reworks are so slightly different as to possibly only truly satisfy the former, but no matter.

Whether this album will find the charismatic Syrian expanding his audience beyond a cult concern remains to be seen, but such well-crafted high-energy dance exotica as the title track and Yagbuni should ensure that Souleyman’s star continues to shine.

This experiment has worked better than fans could have hoped and, given the Mule’s current state of songwriting and performance, elevates this jam band to a whole new level. File under: inspired.

The innate beauty of The Beta Band [is] unfulfilled potential aligned to a stubbornness that would never betray artistic ideals; a punch in the guts followed by a raspberry in the face.

Crimson/Red is self-referencing précis of his career to date, with the melodic elegance and lyrical insight we’ve come to expect but have been denied for so long.

This is solid, satisfying modern metal for the kids, and maybe even some wizened oldies too.

Across Six Leap Years serves the weirdest of purposes, pleasing (presumably) both band and fans. Many of these reworks are so slightly different as to possibly only truly satisfy the former, but no matter.

If you want a more detailed account of each album, you’ll have to check our Reissue Of The Month review in RC 335. Limited, expanded editions of Sly & The Family Stone’s first seven long-players, from 1967’s A Whole New Thing to 1974’s Small Talk, were reissued in 2007 and are now out of print. This box set sort of plugs that gap.

The set ends with a trio of songs from a 1964 BBC session; the sound quality may be poor but those voices shine through, utterly peerless nearly 50 years on.

Hardcore fans will own it all already, and newcomers will find it too daunting.

Savages is a feisty record that returns to the familiar blend of hardcore, thrash and groove metal.

It still shows signs of the snotty punk remnants that Nevermind had buffed from its paintwork. And yet here it is, neatly repackaged and served up with memorabilia shots in a bid to get us on board once more.

These 17 discs comprise every Island studio album, each with generous extras, plus standalone discs of genuine historical worth.

Kicking off with I Am Dust, it hangs together marvellously as an album.

A fine addition to a weighty catalogue already packed with duets.

It sounds like a lost album that should have come out after 1979’s I Am: a very shrewd approximation of the EWF we know and love, it’s crammed with sophisticated R&B, gossamer-light jazz and powerful, soulful vocals with a positive message.

While his guitar-playing remains robust and his vocal range undiminished, it’s the characteristically immersed, impassioned songwriting that most vividly illustrates his ongoing vigour.

It’s successful, on the whole, and fans of this ever-refreshing Britpop behemoth will find plenty to cheer.

Yes, It’s True starts out along a rather pedestrian path of nod-along rock-by-numbers.

Thankfully, the three-part harmonies and irresistible melodies that lit up the debut remain ever present, exemplified here on both Memoirs Of Grey and Sweet Salvation.

This reissue’s seven bonus tracks will excite completists and include Waco, initially slated for inclusion on the album’s 2002 release before being given away online. But, in truth, the original album’s heartfelt, immediate and tape-hissing guitars and cutely executed melodies excite the most.

It’s edgy, but civil, and it looks like the war will rage on for the time being at least, regardless of the outcome of each emotional battle.

Moore’s Nashville-based father Bob played bass for everyone from Dylan and Elvis to Sammy Davis Jr and Quincy Jones, and his influence is clear; all of pop music is here.

All this is a must-have for fans, and a relatively inexpensive way of accessing an erratic but always intriguing body of work.

Recorded last year at Bestival on the Isle Of Wight, the band are as tight as ever; they’re clearly having a ball.

All very highbrow and ambitious for sure, yet despite portentous advance warnings of material involving fallen angels, the Garden Of Eden and Dante-ish visions of Hell, songs such as the plaintive Morningstar and the Buddy Holly-aping rattle of Letting Me Out quickly prove Hart’s still more than capable of channelling his lofty ideals through good ol’ verse-chorus-verse.

[Heroes is] an immediately striking highlight of the album but, in all truth, most of the remaining 10 songs are up there with his very best.

New versions of Wichita Lineman and Gentle On My Mind are sparser than the originals, if no less affecting, but pale in comparison to the impossibly tender reading of By The Time I Get To Phoenix.

At its weakest, Sleeper can come across like Beady Eye--and if there weren’t a US voice behind it, it might well be laughed out of town. However, Segall’s motives seem authentic.

[Superchunk] crafted an album of effervescent ebullience, fusing joy and sadness with a skill that built on their two decades of existence.

Largely, Right Thoughts is business as usual--a steady, reliable and often invigorating business, but one that constantly, frustratingly hints that it’s capable of more.

It’s not all doom and gloom--though it is mostly chopped-and-twisted electro paranoia.

Feels Like A New Morning is an apt title, because verve and a freshly recovered confidence seep from the Blow Monkeys’ eighth studio set.

“The past is a foreign country,” sings a defiant Peters on the reliably impassioned opener In A Broken Promise Land, while both the ensuing title track and the chest-beating Return are powered by the sort of Ben Nevis-sized, heartstring-tugging Celtic guitar figures that made The Crossing such a compelling debut. It does, admittedly, fall short elsewhere.

All Fired Up, though, is a touch too generic to have Young and his new cohorts making too many changes to the live setlist.

The result is a bizarre, dark album that slowly builds and improves with extending listening.