It contains some of the band’s most ambitious and thought-provoking songs.

It’s loud, crunchy, cacophonous, and a subtlety-free zone--and sometimes that’s more than enough.

Unchallenging it may be, but 13 time-honoured blues classics played the Winter way is not an unattractive listen.

It’s this feeling of moving on from traditional folk at the same time as she pays tasteful respect to what’s come before that marks Tricca apart from many of her more celebrated contemporaries.

Musically, Heaven And Earth is (generally) concise and catchy.

As with all their post-Y2K output, Carnival Of Souls sometimes threatens to buckle under the weight of Ubu’s history. Overall, however, it scrapes up enough sporadic excellence to justify David Thomas’ perseverance in the 21st-century scheme of things.

Seeger has rarely been in better voice, imbuing folk melodies with jazz phrasing on the tender tale of innocence lost, When Fairy Stories End, and the smoky You Don’t Know How Lucky You Are.

The main event could have been bloody genius. It isn’t, but it remains fascinating.

I’m Not Bossy, I’m The Boss is the work of neither dominatrix nor diva. It is, however, Sinéad O’Connor’s most emotive, accessible work in years and could well thrust her back into the limelight all over again.

At this stage, it’s almost impossible to grasp that Opeth were once a bona fide death metal band, though more aggressive songs such as Voice Of Treason remind you that they’ve never lost their edge.

The likes of Mark Lanegan and Nick Cave have a new rival in the practising of dark musical arts.

It’s Yorkston’s most accomplished work yet and the best album by a British singer-songwriter so far this year.

Musik, Die Schwer Zu Twerk rarely comes down from the krautrock klouds over the course of its 30-minute running time.

Though billed as a salute to Armstrong, Ske-Dat-De- Dat… could more accurately be described as a celebration of Crescent City, the magic and wonder of the burg embraced to the max on a gloriously heartwarming That’s My Home.

The band have expanded this time round, welcoming in new permanent members Tony Drummond and Walker Teret, and it’s had the effect of creating a much rawer, live-sounding album than its predecessors.

Fans will have all these recordings already, but it’s nonetheless fascinating to chart the band’s shift in sound over this time period.

The arrangements may never veer too far from recognisable country templates, but Shaver imbues everything with great charm and wit.

An absolute joy of a debut.

Robyn brings an affecting vulnerability to all the performances. Whimsicality is turned down a couple of notches and the tenderness that has always underpinned his best material shines through.

Some will rhapsodise about the songs of angels, while others will feel that the most dangerous and angry superbug mutations are still found in the filthiest, most chaotic places.

This is a smash-up-the-house, get drunk, pull faces kind of record. And most probably his best.

Subtle and understated, yet brimming with raw passion, this is songwriting at its cathartic, confessional best.

Larry Williams, Johnny ‘Guitar’ Watson and The Kaleidoscope hook up for some psychedelic sitar grooves you thought you’d never hear; Jim Ford’s Rising Sign is a fuzzy swamp-funk-rock beast that pummels you into submission.

[I’ll Be Killing You This Christmas is] a rare misstep that might return to haunt him, and detract from the less raw protests on another solid album of satirical sideswipes.

It’s a testament to the quality of the music on this reissue of a private press obscurity that it manages to live up to, if not transcend, its captivating backstory.

Far more than background music, this is a reasonably static, and yet moving, listen.

While a far from conventional listen, this may still be Presley’s most accessible album to date.

Not every track is brilliant, but Petty’s intention to make a rock album has been realised for the most part.