A soulful set of tunes that includes a lush, laid back version of Georgia On My Mind that oozes a languorous eroticism.

Rather than damaging their genre-shaping legacy (influencing the birth of thrash and the wider scene in general), they’ve embellished it with a series of albums that could have followed Russian Roulette (1986), with The Rise of Chaos possibly their strongest reunion-era release so far.

Childhood don’t want for exploratory instincts, but focused tunes prove more elusive. Without them, this long hot summer of an album risks passing you by.

There are strong post-rock and metal overtones throughout the record, but it doesn’t pigeonhole itself; the influence of minimalist music can be detected in Stetson’s playing, and the album is not short of rhythmic swagger.

Willowy, wiry, windswept, it’s a haunting, hardly immediate but certainly growing, collection of songs that speak from deep inside. Intriguing stuff.

Trouble Maker is up there with their best.

Power Of Peace is exactly what it is; people old enough to have long packed up this business, getting down to it, having enormous enjoyment doing it. No one would expect it to touch either artists’ greatest work, but at times, it certainly comes close.

A mere 36 minutes in length, it’s an all-killer no-filler triumph.

Paced beautifully, a little funny, sonically on point, and with a wealth of new material for the hardcore, it continually rewards.

For the most part, it’s hard to deny that Granduciel has succeeded in pimping his wheels for bigger journeys.

The collection is likely to be remembered as a curious transitional chapter rather than placed on a pedestal alongside 2006’s meisterwerk Drum’s Not Dead. Even at its patchiest though, the sound of Andrew re-finding his feet offers greater rewards than most groups’ fully realised records of derivative blues-rock mating calls.

Murry reaches their greatest heights on Wrong Man, which treats a relationship’s death as a foregone conclusion to gorgeously unfiltered effect. It’s little wonder the evocatively scraped strings and precarious piano of When God Walks In barely hold themselves together, though Murry’s capacity for clarity is equally pronounced.

Here is a warm, kind album that may sag a little on the second side but has songs up there with Beam’s best. Think Teenage Fanclub’s recent Here for a similar bittersweet reunion. Mellow doubt indeed.

You’re left feeling that much of Painted Ruins could be a slow-burn grower, if those studiously painted collages were more emotionally inviting.

Brewed in DIY charm and classic pop nous, Earl Grey works best when it pairs tight, Abba-esque melodies and singer-songwriter pop with the lo-fi spirit of C86.

Almanack was captured in a week on analogue tape by studio vets Ken Scott and Matt Andrews. It shows on the result, a sprightly blast of rootsy playfulness carried with Rawlings’ effortless control of mood and musicianship.

Benefiting from Deradoorian’s ghostly vocals and Eyvand King’s orchestrations, Eucalyptus offers rich blooms wherever it roams.

While not entirely lacking new ideas (the louche, second version of Infinite Content would make Wilco proud), Everything Now feels like a brainstorming idea with one too many executives in the boardroom.

Barely any light gets in during nine tracks that all sprawl over five minutes, titles such as DTM. (Dead To Me), Screamin’ Jesus and the racism-savaging Duke’s God Bar harnessing the rage Vega called an energy into seething walls of multi-tiered electronic cacophony, wailing guitars and jackhammer beats, although the closing Stars carries the underlying optimism that was also a crucial element in his work.

As Light Return pushes The Telescopes’ sound to newer, often much darker places. It’s a bracing and occasionally totally disarming listen, but utterly compelling throughout.

Spirit Reflection entrances with its delicate, gossamer vocals drizzled over dreamy, summery soundscapes.

As befitting a band who met studying music at Toronto’s Humber College, this Late Night Tales is akin to capturing a conversation by friends bursting with excitement, sharing their latest musical finds.

Most of these songs (with the exception of the spooked, slow burner Hawaii--featuring a fantastically creepy snigger on the intro--and the yearning, melodically twisting beauty of Give Me Strength) would find their way onto various Young albums of various vintages over the years, but there’s an accumulative effect in hearing performances of songs as powerful as Pocahontas, Powderfinger and Campaigner unadorned and fresh in their authors mind.

Finally, this disturbing masterwork’s moment in the sun. Phoebus be praised.

There’s an easy charm about the whole project that lends it a robust confidence.

Opener If You’re Here is a perfect encapsulation of his art. Languorous, gentle, slightly off beat, its discordancy is offset by gorgeous harmonies sung with customary fragility by Oyamada. The rest of the album rides his well-established line between indie and electronica, with the quirk-heavy Sometime/Someplace and Helix/Spiral--a neat take on krautrock by way of Stereolab – providing the highlights.

He’s still doing his thing but goes deeper when he digs (It’s A Jungle Out There’s litany of modernity’s failings), he’s more wicked when he picks a target (white privilege on Brothers), and is still pushing the boundaries of his craft (all of it).

Cooper ventures further out, navigating abstract naval routes plotted by lonely hearts and plagued by daydreams, his tides of burbling static and deftly deployed lap-steel influenced by the solitary missions of real-life sea salts such as Vital Alsar and William Willis, their adventures a certain metaphor for Cooper’s own singular musical path.