This record is a composite piece blessed with a vision and singularity that repeatedly surprises and invigorates.

Listening to mid-period Wilco was, admittedly, never instantaneous, but you feel a more savage edit would do wonders with Sukierae.

Commune, the collective’s second studio album, is a pulsating sex globule of groovy chants and invocations.

Much of the album refuses to stick, drifting from one similar-sounding song to another.

It’s an ethereal, atmospheric set, though the busyness of the band has the occasional tendency to swamp the songs, the singer’s emotive power at its most affecting on the stripped-bare stately piano ballad A Stolen Kiss.

Aided and abetted by some magnificent backing by the Helios, using the requisite analog set up, the album has the verve and feel of a classic West African long-player, but with enough subtle updates to prevent a slide into reverent pastiche.

Lateness Of Dancers has the unmistakable aura of a deep classic. It is a US masterpiece. A wonderful thing, for sure.

The ways in which Overjoyed thrill are as endless as the band are absurd and implausible. Overjoyed is literally amazing.

A surprisingly natural addition to the band’s discography--and a thoroughly enjoyable one.

Though not as earth-shattering as their live shows, it’s a short, sharp shock nonetheless.

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.