If there’s a sense that some of Kouyate’s charm has been lost through his newfound worldliness, the experiments bear exquisite fruit on Ayé Sira Bla.

The Swedish-Malawian duo of Johan Hugo and Esau Mwamwaya decamped to a rented house on the shores of Lake Malawi for album number three. That apposite choice of location has paid off with a warmer, more pointedly African sound as insects provide environmental chatter and local villagers add laughs, jokes and musical accompaniment.

It crackles with a credible contemporary energy and parades a succession of brutally accessible would-be hits courtesy of Still Hurt, Insecurity and the soaring, Hüsker Dü-ish Tides.

Yet, for all its superficial obliqueness, Wire is an unashamed pop record at heart.

Some of the music is at the most extreme end of Jenkinson’s output, yet remains zanily accessible.

Howard’s voice is at its best when doing that kind of Arethra/Irma Thomas-ish stuff, and where the band uses simple dynamics, rather than density, to showcase the song.

It doesn’t always gel entirely (the false-ending-blighted Look At Your Life quickly grates; Change simply feels forced) but Who Am I’s blissful harmonies are second to none and both the celebratory Relief and chugging, metallic The Times subject the Hackneys’ patented, hard-driving Detroit rock’n’roll sound to a strikingly contemporary overhaul.

There is heart here, despite the often airless production, deliberately claustrophobic, like the city that inspired it. Repeated listens make the gems shine brighter.... Yet other moments weather less well, sounding exactly like what they are: raw material worked up in just five days.

Across the 28 tracks, never once does it seem Everett is playing for anyone but himself, avoiding potential cliché throughout.

The aching titular song and the pre-Raphaelite-esque beauty of The First Song Of Spring compete with the best of the band’s balmy canon, while the dark, dulcimer-assisted A Cat On The Longwave supplies this otherwise life-affirming comeback with an unexpectedly downhearted conclusion.

Album highlight Cumbia De Donde, featuring Spanish guitarist Amparo Sanchez, is a goofy Mariachi riot that manages to incorporate odd, cartoonish electronic elements to great effect. The flipside is their increased tendency towards clichéd, characterless attempts at straight-down-the-line MOR.

Throughout the album there’s no doubt that this is a band that knows what it’s doing, whether fiddling about with feedback and distant-thunder drumbeats, or taking the rock blueprint and rearranging it as the group pleases.

One of the most remarkable albums of an inimitable career.

Mostly, this is same ol’ same ol’ JSBX: maybe no bad thing, but it won’t grab you by the collar.

Lovely touches of deep soul back up the outstanding Nothing Feels The Same Anymore (reminiscent of Phoebe Snow singing Sam Cooke), and there’s a percussive and piano-driven backdrop throughout that makes this Sexsmith’s most rhythmic disc.

There’s effortless and effortless, and this is an album that verges on the predictable.

With repeated listens, though, the insistent aural assault actually reveals some good ideas, but it’s hard to imagine anyone frequently listening to The Ark Work for pleasure.

Fantasy Empire, with its discernible riffs, moments of relative calm--and even, dare it be said, choruses--is the best entry point for anyone curious about a powerhouse which has, up to this point at least, operated on the blustery, splattered neon fringes of noise rock.

At times the full band arrangements bring more muscle than we’re used to hearing from her, but songs such as Divine and the closing Worship Me are certainly in the vein of what’s come before.

While slightly inconsistent--perhaps the result of having four different singers – overall, this is a record full of hope and sadness and all the space that lies in between.

A new collection of previously unreleased tracks from the original members, Lost & Found compiles studio tracks that never quite made it onto the original album, interspersed with delightful live recordings from the various musicians.

He peppers the album with very evocative, specific references that often sound like childhood memories (“The man who taught me to swim couldn’t quite say my first name”), creating an intimacy that many of his previous records have lacked.

Like its precursor, this sophomore release is deeply rooted in the musical traditions of the late 60s, but while it would be hard to accuse him of pushing too many boundaries, the influences are both tastefully chosen and utilised with consummate skill.

Plenty for 80s collectors to appreciate, then, but this deserves a wider hearing.

The acid test for long-term fans is how good the two bonus discs are. They shouldn’t be disappointed.

Most of the album is sterling work, with the bass alternately throbbing and growling and the beats crisp and sometimes technoid. The pair’s global influences add extra spice, only meandering into average territory on an ambient dub breather at the halfway point.

Hearteningly, much of it sounds enviably fresh, and its 12 tracks crackle with contemporary energy even if a few of the riffs are a mite grungier these days. It is, however, a little south of perfect.

Quite possibly their most essential waxing since 1982’s irresistibly suave Eligible Bachelors.