Finn senior’s prescient lyrics, sugarcoated with melody for ease of delivery, help make Dreamers Are Waiting both tart and timeless.

Their political agenda from this distance is not quaint, it remains entirely relevant.

Blue Elephant is like a soundtrack to a classic ITC TV programme, with lots of jumping into sleek jaguars and speeding along Chelsea Embankment. If that ticks your boxes, this is one of the best albums you’ll hear all year.

The poignant This Nearly Was Mine from South Pacific (“now, I’m alone, still dreaming of paradise”) and I Who Have Nothing, are both imbued with equal measures of yearning and malice. It’s almost as if In Translation has tied up all the strange, raw emotions of the past year and made some sense of them.

The signs were all there, even though Bowie briefly ignored them as he recorded the landmark Hunky Dory. But as The Width Of A Circle shows, everything he’d put in place would soon come around.

Sabbath leant towards greater sophistication without losing their elemental bent. The super deluxe treatment introduces plenty of live material from the same year’s North American tour.

Blue Weekend isn’t a perfect record, with the folky No Hard Feelings and Safe From Heartbreak (If You’ve Never Been In Love) a little whimsical next to everything else going on. It matters little, though. Rowsell’s rallying cry in Smile that “I ain’t afraid of the fact that I’m sensitive” is borne out in a wild and tender third album.

Overall, Source is a thing of wondrous beauty, revealing that the hyperbole accompanying Garcia patently isn't out of proportion to her talent. [Sep 2020, p.101]

(The CSNY versions of Young’s Sea Of Madness and Everybody’s Alone would’ve been nice for starters), but there’s still a huge amount here for fans. The demos include some absolute stunners: Young and Nash’s wonderfully languid take on the former’s Birds; a delicate and heady solo version of Crosby’s Laughing; and Nash’s reflective solo rendition of Sleep Song. The outtakes, meanwhile, reveal just how much control Stills took in the studio, with enough material here for a fine standalone solo album of gutsy, soul-steeped jams.

Mind-blowing on any level. Colossally vital.

Lean, precise and purposeful, its 12 tracks whistle by in little more than 35 minutes; its production, in keeping with the limitations of lockdown, is deliberately pared down. There are other flutters of experimentation – the title track is an unfastened groove that struts like Ian Dury on a mystical funk trip – but it’s the simple melodic strength that binds the songs together.

Historically The Who Sell Out hasn’t always been given the serious critical attention afforded its successors Tommy, Who’s Next and Quadrophenia. Yet, it’s just as significant a touchstone in the Who canon, a pointer to, in particular, Townshend’s desire for the band to test both themselves and their audience. It makes this extensive and richly textured ultimate edition a “ragbag” worth rooting through.

It’s a record that increasingly rewards with each play, the subtleties and subtext revealed slowly, teased into view by deceptively unobtrusive musical accompaniment. Ellis’ punctuations of the words serve a similar purpose to melodic hooks in traditional pop songs, setting the groundwork for the lyrical beauty of the source material to haunt our thoughts long after the album’s over.

At times they overstretch – the tail-end of Part One drifts like fish and chip wrapper in the breeze – but a visit to Coral Island elicits the intangible pull of a place in time etched forever in the mind. Roll up, roll up.

Endless Arcade represents the biggest demand on their followers the band have made for some time, with pensive contemplation underpinning an eclectic, experimental set of songs. But they have long earned the right to venture off in whichever direction takes their fancy. They are still growing, still evolving and still learning. Endless Arcade is a brave record by a brave band. There are few of Teenage Fanclub’s ilk.

It is an album, certainly, that carries the magic and surprise that belongs only to strange times, that belongs to this moment completely: a record of the way we saw the world, once, the way it sounded, the way it felt, as we all stood still and watched.

This most genuine version of herself is more than good enough to stand on its own.

Filthy, funny, affecting, Arab Strap sound like a band with a future again.

The Super Deluxe edition of Vol 4 supplements a crisp remaster of the original album with extra discs containing alternative takes and revelatory studio outtakes (“What’s it called?” “Bollocks”), plus an entire set’s worth of live tracks from their March 1973 UK tour, a poster and a booklet so hefty you could tether a bull to it.

As The Love Continues inevitably finds purchase on our tumultuous moment in its deftly summoned suggestions of sorrow and fear, resilience, and close-guarded hope.

This set, which has been remastered from the original analogue tapes, features sleevenotes by the unmatched Amanda Petrusich, as well as an interview with Sinatra and unseen photos from her personal collection. It’s nothing less than her supreme career warrants. Here’s to the queen of danger-pop, and to Light In The Attic for getting the belated celebrations started.

It’s hard to imagine a more prescient-sounding record than one that explores how nascent technologies affect our motivations as modern consumers at a time when we’re all frantically buying online to stave off the effects of lockdown. The songs dealing directly with this are The Future Bites’ most captivating. ... There’s no need for the buyer to be wary here. The Future Bites is guaranteed to weather the ravages of time.

For all its musical sophistication and all its lyrical heart, Ignorance is a confident, almost bolshy statement of intent.

Wainwright has returned with a generous and positive record that suggests a more mature, philosophical perspective, thankfully without losing his impish sense of humour and taste for lavish arrangements.

Earth To Dora re-establishes Everett as one of the finest and most distinctive songwriters today – one who can make sorrow sound joyful, but who also knows that, without sadness, happiness wouldn’t be the same experience.

Those wanting a more authentic experience (whatever that means) will be glad to know the band’s psychedelic groove is still very much present (see the swirling Gabi or Assadja) while those wanting less retroisms should head to Pour Toi with its insane disco trucker’s shift. But at its heart, Optimisme deals in the same joyous protest music Songhoy Blues are known for, only now bolstered with a grit that matches the multi-lingual lyrics.

It’s a stunning record – from the album artwork down to the perfectly-weighted running order, nothing is out of place and nothing jars. Matt Berninger didn’t want to write a solo record. But thank god he did.

More rewarding re-evaluation than celebration for long-termers, it all provides a mightily attractive artefact for Stones diehards.