With fire and fury in their bellies, September Girls manage to keep their balance and keep pushing on into ever darker territory.

The results, mixed by Foster, are a broken, heady collage of cracked reflection and ramshackle cabin confessional. Acoustic ballads such as Soy Un Hombre are draped in luminous opiated frazzle, while The Whores Above recalls the most melancholy Alex Chilton psyche-trawl, reaching a desolate low on funereal closer The Knife.

The results are some of the most affecting works of his career, spun through with deep meanings and political sentiment.

The names here deliver so much that this compilation wins the bloody bout on points.

Though pieced together on a shoestring with Aves playing most of the instruments, it’s a charmingly idiosyncratic, roots-flavoured record.

III has a highly melodic crossover feel that is somewhat different to many of the players’ other, grittier projects, although the beats remain a little itchy. Songs about crowd mentality and medieval jesters are novel in theme but overthought and bombastically dramatic in their lyrical phrasing.

Crab Day looks set to achieve that rarely achieved goal of raising the game while keeping the faithful happy.

It’s challenging, occasionally difficult stuff, but in a modern world ever more tailored to undemanding audiences and reduced attention spans, that makes it all the more important.

It’s undeniably darker than its predecessor and it’s largely dominated by dense, guitar-heavy workouts such as the mournfully expansive Delicat (sic), the sombre, hymnal Good Word’s Gone and the acid-flecked freak-out of Crystal Sky.

It has been five years since their last studio album proper, and with The Wilderness, Explosions In The Sky have created something very special indeed.

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.