Like most covers albums, though, this collection isn’t designed to bear serious analysis, so have some fun with God Save The Queen, Cat Scratch Fever and what have you. The real Motörhead is to found elsewhere.

The songs, all from Nelson’s pen, are what really sells this terrific record, knocked into shit-kicking shape by a drum-tight band who effortless play with delicacy or venom, and all points in-between.

Danilova’s most accessibly gothtastic numbers bear worrying resemblance to a pitch for a songwriting credit on the next Evanescence or Lorde album. Yet there’s no denying that tracks such as Veka and Wiseblood are bangerz of the highest, and indeed saddest, order.

Ultimately, The Source, offers indisputable proof that the man from Lagos is thriving in what are supposed to be his twilight years. Like a vintage bottle of Château Lafite, he just seems to improve with each passing year. Long may he continue to do so.

The ambition and scope of these 23 songs is undeniably impressive, Scott still with a firm grip on the country and folk-minded tropes of his best back pages, augmented by (mostly) successful detours into the arenas of soul, funk, even hip-hop.

With enough reference points for old heads to spot and enjoy, but enough invention and melody to stand entirely on its own two feet, To The Bone--with its tales of paranoia and love in the fake news era--is thoroughly recommended.

While it may not be the long overdue and richly deserved breakthrough to a mass global audience, it’s another reassuring set of solidly crafted, intelligent adult pop.

Spooky Action is all a bit like an ambitious sixth-form production--and I mean that in the absolute best way--the sheer excitement of experimentation with the requisite chutzpah to banish any gaucheness.

In 1983, OMD threatened to derail their career with the defiantly leftfield Dazzle Ships. A sense of that adventurous spirit permeates this 12-track collection but Andy and Paul’s flair for infectious melody actually steers this comfortably away from the chillier extremes of that earlier well-regarded but commercially-limited opus.

This is one holiday destination you really should explore.

[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.