Album highlight Cumbia De Donde, featuring Spanish guitarist Amparo Sanchez, is a goofy Mariachi riot that manages to incorporate odd, cartoonish electronic elements to great effect. The flipside is their increased tendency towards clichéd, characterless attempts at straight-down-the-line MOR.

Throughout the album there’s no doubt that this is a band that knows what it’s doing, whether fiddling about with feedback and distant-thunder drumbeats, or taking the rock blueprint and rearranging it as the group pleases.

One of the most remarkable albums of an inimitable career.

Mostly, this is same ol’ same ol’ JSBX: maybe no bad thing, but it won’t grab you by the collar.

Lovely touches of deep soul back up the outstanding Nothing Feels The Same Anymore (reminiscent of Phoebe Snow singing Sam Cooke), and there’s a percussive and piano-driven backdrop throughout that makes this Sexsmith’s most rhythmic disc.

There’s effortless and effortless, and this is an album that verges on the predictable.

With repeated listens, though, the insistent aural assault actually reveals some good ideas, but it’s hard to imagine anyone frequently listening to The Ark Work for pleasure.

Fantasy Empire, with its discernible riffs, moments of relative calm--and even, dare it be said, choruses--is the best entry point for anyone curious about a powerhouse which has, up to this point at least, operated on the blustery, splattered neon fringes of noise rock.

At times the full band arrangements bring more muscle than we’re used to hearing from her, but songs such as Divine and the closing Worship Me are certainly in the vein of what’s come before.

While slightly inconsistent--perhaps the result of having four different singers – overall, this is a record full of hope and sadness and all the space that lies in between.

A new collection of previously unreleased tracks from the original members, Lost & Found compiles studio tracks that never quite made it onto the original album, interspersed with delightful live recordings from the various musicians.

He peppers the album with very evocative, specific references that often sound like childhood memories (“The man who taught me to swim couldn’t quite say my first name”), creating an intimacy that many of his previous records have lacked.

Like its precursor, this sophomore release is deeply rooted in the musical traditions of the late 60s, but while it would be hard to accuse him of pushing too many boundaries, the influences are both tastefully chosen and utilised with consummate skill.

Plenty for 80s collectors to appreciate, then, but this deserves a wider hearing.

The acid test for long-term fans is how good the two bonus discs are. They shouldn’t be disappointed.

Most of the album is sterling work, with the bass alternately throbbing and growling and the beats crisp and sometimes technoid. The pair’s global influences add extra spice, only meandering into average territory on an ambient dub breather at the halfway point.

Hearteningly, much of it sounds enviably fresh, and its 12 tracks crackle with contemporary energy even if a few of the riffs are a mite grungier these days. It is, however, a little south of perfect.

Quite possibly their most essential waxing since 1982’s irresistibly suave Eligible Bachelors.

Its 10 short, serrated and occasionally anthemic songs are visceral and idealistic, though the trio’s increasingly keen sense of melody keeps the existential angst in check throughout.

So, it’s a mini album, of no fixed musical style, with a far from comprehensible but usually hilarious narrative.

The group are at their best when melding reverb-soaked, crunchy multiple guitar layers, playing with dynamics atop a kind of jungle-drum thump.

This is a great country album to boot: full of great craft and guile, no small bitterness and a cracking production from Ray Kennedy.

Citizen Zombie is more disciplined and linear than its epochal predecessors, yet it also reveals that its creators remain a force to be reckoned with.

While this is a project of inherently limited appeal, many of its 14 tracks certainly work better than one might otherwise expect.

Aureate Gloom continues in this vein but, while Sylvianbriar was Barnes’ most mellow offering yet, this album is more aggressive and troubled.

Shadow Of The Sun expands their palette, mushes those hues over one another and deliberately, deliciously, paints them outside the lines in a glorious mash of fuzz.

The album proper finds an omnipotent Led Zep still within hailing distance of the top of their game.

They’ve fashioned a rich and powerfully diverse record.