More of the same then, maybe, but if it sounds this rich, just keep ’em coming Charles. Dues paid.

The result, unsurprisingly, is a record that’s both maudlin and wistful.

It all makes for a fascinating, moving collection of songs. No, they’re not the best band in America, but they are worthy of your time and attention.

Numero have sifted through its cremains and found many precious relics.

Willie’s battered old voice too often sounds strained and strangled on the higher notes. What should soar barely scrabbles to the right pitch.

Gorgeously sepulchral pieces such as Beste Freunde and Glasterlenspiel are perfectly suited to the church where they were recorded as longer improvisations to be edited down, suspending time as they hang in hauntingly contemplative reverie, which is still breaking boundaries. But, in a perfect world, it might even mark Roedelius’ commercial breakthrough.

A great record that proves her writing remains as vital as ever.

Distilled and refined, they remain experimental and temperamental, faltering at times, but ready too to soar beyond National boundaries.

While there’s no doubting the siblings’ talent, at times the polish of the production does reduce the impact of the songs slightly.

The vocals float ethereally over the airy atmosphere, feeling wistful yet majestic. A dreamy ambience permeates the entire album, but each track has something different to offer.

Never mind that his soulful balladeering doesn’t manage to inhabit all the covers (the buoyant funk of Everyday People in particular), this is a glittering display of a powerful talent lost too soon. Hallelujah for its release.

This extremely brief, fidgety album follows last year’s skronky first outing on DFA, the soon-to-be-reissued Flood Dosed EP, and consistently brings to mind hints of prolific New York underground band God Is My Co-Pilot, or Big Flame if Nanette Blatt from …And The Native Hipsters had been on vocal duties.

Cut down to a mini-album, We Can Do Anything would have been better worth the wait.

The forceful pace and commanding lyric-mangling that originally brought them to the public’s attention are still very much in place.

Merzbow’s creations add a new dimension to Boris’ material, so the whole thing sounds apocalyptic and huge.

The album itself feels like a lost Oldham classic, it’s a joy to hear him tackling some of the more obscure corners of his repertoire in such an intimate fashion.

It’s a hypnotic, jam-heavy set that really benefits from the double vinyl treatment; its pleasures are a little too much to take in one continuous sitting.

Arguably the darkest of the Merge albums thus far, Patch the Sky is a consuming album of blazing chords, heavenly melody and personal torment. No-one does intelligent, meaningful rock like Bob Mould.

The wait is worth it. IV consists of 10 expansive and eclectic songs that straddle genres and push boundaries.

Writing to script, the Scottish post-rockers have produced a powerful and fitting score, though as an album in its own right, it lacks the cohesion of their previous soundtrack, to French drama Les Revenants. It’s no cause for dread, but it’s one that doesn’t quite live up to its promise.

The weakest tracks on the album somehow resemble Kings Of Leon B-sides echoing up from the bottom of a bottomless dark well. But taken all together, the sun-kissed synths and woozily inventive guitar work on Pennied Days does just enough for Night Moves to win the day.

On this album, Harvey is again sweeping up sonic history and weaving it into a pattern of her own making, but it’s more relaxed and more raucous, its reference points less, appropriately, English. It’s a deeply melodic record.

When this is good, it’s properly great.

We Disappear is the brashest, most mainstream-sounding alt-rock record The Thermals have pulled off to date. It rarely pauses in its pursuit of hook-laced, punk-pop anthems such as The Walls and the bittersweet Thinking Of You, but it sounds especially jubilant on the best of its Grim Reaper-related numbers, Hey You.

It’s a bracing listen then, and one that forces you to suspend belief as it whips past. But just as with each and every White Denim record, it’s wholly rewarding, repaying repeated listens, letting you check off things you hadn’t heard in it before.

Thoroughly enjoyable from beginning to end, the band have stuck to their formula and produced another decent if less-than-outstanding record.

Architecture Of Language manages to redeem itself with its final disc, Architectural Salvage. Though an apparently randomly sequenced grab-bag of rarities and outtakes, it’s actually a pleasantly consistent experience.

The music is played with laidback precision, immaculately arranged and produced with a consistently warm vibe.