[The] process of sonic expansion is continued apace on this latest effort.

All told, a rebel-rousing cut above today’s sludge.

Electric Trim is a missed opportunity. The emphasis on meandering acoustic balladry is a real shame.

Old sweetens the deal, with tracks as good as anything from previous releases. However it’s New that intrigues, confuses, saddens and ultimately tempts you back with its sheer vulnerability--this is far deeper than the cash grab landfill this reunion could’ve spawned.

There’s not a sound out of place or misstep, just swooning narcotic allure and bad attitude throughout what will be one of the year’s major debuts.

The duo’s drone-driven proclivities loosen these tunes from their secular shackles, freeing them from the earthly confines of time and place.

Whatever’s ailing him, he cuts through the murk for his most confident, affecting and clear-sighted album yet here.

How Do You Spell Heaven channels GBV of old.

Vol 2’s serrated guitars, sawdust vocals, tipsy piano and sardonic wit are a scalping delight, while still tapping reserves of tender beauty for Jumpstarting and Pulse.

Through its folksy acoustic front, Vol 1 brims with passion.

La Dee Da has a welcome edge, with a slightly sarcastic feel reminiscent of Grohl’s stint a few years back with Queens Of The Stone Age, and Dirty Water is a competent bit of mid-tempo, mid-intensity, mid-everything stadium rock, as indeed is pretty much the rest of this polished album.

Tendencies toward pop existentialism (song called Nihilist Abyss? Check) and sonic repetition are the cost of this querulous consistency, but her flair for sparely dramatic intensity compels.

Divorced from the times, though, it’s always the torpedo-damning oddballs who really stand out in any self-respecting compilation and here C88 comes up trumps in digging out Scottish proto-shoegazers Prayers’ gritty Sister Goodbye and cranky Mancunians King Of The Slums’ (literally) bile-soaked The Pennine Spitter.

The six songs that make up Terminal hit the sweet spot between glorious pomposity and roughshod urgency, all underpinned by the sheer delight in maximalist sonic attack.

It’s that signature weather-battered baritone that provides the most goosebumping moments however, crooning into the sunset about love, loss and failure.

Ultimately, the highlights here are those where Deerhoof are left to their own devices, as on the perky pop of Con Sordino or Kokoye, a scintillating blast of garage rock that might just be the best thing they’ve put to tape in years.

If the album’s remainder veers from hit to ho-hum, the Death In Vegas-ish bass pulse and deep-immersion dream-techno of Me Swimming offer clear hits of hypnotic electronica.

A superlative album that finds them back to their ethereal best.

Listen with dad for maximum uneasy, immersive and moving effect.

Yello (Glue Head), Cluster (Caramel) and even Factory label signatories Minny Pops (Son) also make the cut, but the most effective entries tend to be the unfriendliest ones: PIE (Versión) by Esplendor Geométrico, redolent of filthy concrete blast walls and quasar radiation; Sexual Discipline by Die Form, robot-blank and remorseless; and Krematorien by Universalanschluss, a strobing migraine of dots and squiggles.

All in all, it’s an exhaustive trawl through this proud provincial stronghold’s extraordinary creative archive and arguably the definitive guide to our trends in the north.

Overall Sleep Well Beast is a more subdued record that shows evidence of their solo side projects having shaped their new direction. Those who know that a new National album often requires multiple listens to fully grow and reveal its charms and nuances will have their patience rewarded, as this is a beautiful piece of work.

Raw and unfiltered, Invitation oozes with the exuberant energy of an 18 year-old, but shines with their collective experience, delivering heavy strikes to both the head and heart in the process.

A fairly decent substitute for those who can’t snag tickets.

Between concept and clamorous noise, Exile is the sound of an unflinching, old-school, outsider-punk voice rising to modern challenges.

While no new territory is broken on Orc, none needs to be. The expanding Oh Sees fanbase laps up the band’s highs and lows, of which there are both here.

Every Country’s Sun feels honed, and passages of ponderous string-picking now flow serenely into the bursts of noise (1,000 Foot Face, Old Poisons) that make them such an imposing force live.

Hippopotamus is exactly what you’d expect and more besides.