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.

The Other Life checks in at the expected redneck haunts, but with the lyrical verve of writers from further afield.

Fun, the track which is most obviously Booker T, is ordinary, and Feel Good is so-so; Can’t Wait, despite Estelle’s distinctive vocal, suffers from gimmickry and is the track with the least of Mr Jones on it.... The rest of the album, in which the veteran meets current talent, is mostly great.

Simpson’s gentle deliveries benefit from his wealth of experience and mature understanding of the work, making for a richness that imbues all the songs--never more so than on Come Down Jehovah.

[Shivers is] the only weak moment on an otherwise enjoyable release, it sounds phoney, purposely strung-out, as if self-consciously aping Neil Young’s wracked-out Tonight’s The Night.

It’s all grimly compelling, but you won’t be whacking it on at any dinner parties. Unless you’re Andy Kaufman.

This is effectively juxtaposed with ominous understatement, and the shifting moods, combined with varied instrumentation including harmonium, banjo and electric piano, make for an intriguing, satisfying listen.

The symphonies Fuck Buttons make remain as miasmic as ever: odd and unusual to hear for the first minute or so, before fully entrancing the listener. Beguiling stuff.

Both as a protest against subjugation and an affirmation of Mali’s world class musical heritage, it’s hard to imagine a more eloquent and powerful riposte.

While Knock Knock and The Signs admittedly veer close to theatrical, declamatory pastiche, Solstice--which laudably endeavours to track the journey from the shortest to the longest day-- is nine-and-a-half minutes of bona-fide neo-prog: a shimmering three-way between Camel, the Super Furries and David Gilmour.

Move on, there’s nothing to see here.

It’s unlikely to have the impact of their career-defining Lights... Camera... Revolution, but it’s hardly a folly akin to a Chinese Democracy either.

Rubin’s experiment has paid off handsomely, even though at times you’ll find yourself comparing the new songs to any number of familiar signature tunes from Sabbath’s catalogue.

Grey’s skills are undeniable, but this feels too all-encompassing to pass muster as a perfectly rounded album.

QOTSA can still devastate and his lyrics still tread that delicious line between romance and nihilism, but ...Like Clockwork either runs too slickly, or the mechanism feels forced.

Re-Mit sounds alive, funny even, as if Smith has made peace with something--possibly his own genius.

Give yourself over to what’s not only a 21st-century masterpiece, but also something timeless that will resonate whenever you find it.

An uninspiring audio fluff. Cruel, after having previously reached such satisfying heights.

While MVOTC doesn’t represent a seismic leap from their earlier material, the general feeling is of a much more considered collection, with greater emphasis on song craft.

Ultimately, you don’t quite get the sky-scraping, genre-blending bangers mustered in the past, nor the negative synergy and diminishing returns of many collaboration-heavy, late-career albums.

Monomania retains those same Deerhunter kernels if you’re willing to forage. You might get your fingers grubby, but the fruit, often deep inside the shell, is still delicious.