Nineteen eighty-nine. Manchester was in the ascendant, indie bands were being collected like trinkets by major labels, and The Fall were the subject of an improbable bidding war. Ever unpredictable, Mark E Smith rewarded the courageous victors, Fontana, with what many would have least expected from him: three albums of The Fall at their most economical and accessible. This month's Fall compilation, The War Against Intelligence, showcases a fine run of agitated almost-hits ("Telephone Thing", "Free Range", the unjustly forgotten "Ed's Babe") and some ballads, notably "Bill Is Dead", where Smith ceases with the surrealist hectoring and reveals a more vulnerable side. A reminder that The Fall can be a great pop group when the mood takes Smith.

Exactly why The Bunnymen never went on to do what their spectacularly gobby, Pre-Raphaelite punk buccaneer of a singer promised (namely: to become the world's biggest band) remains one of modern music's knottiest conundrums, though the answer has always been stark-staring obvious all along; simply, they lost momentum when they most needed to maintain it. They hit the ground running with 1980's Crocodiles which, with its chimerical splice of low-tech psychedelia, Velvets-reminiscent otherness and punk stroppiness, pretty much nailed the post-punk ethos to the mast. A generation on, and its reputation as one of the most remarkable rock debuts is undented. A hard act to follow, for sure, but they trumped it with their undoubted high watermark. Torn between anthemic mysticism and knife-edged irony, between romantic grandeur and scathing Scouse cynicism, Heaven Up Here sounded like a landmark album back then, and time has sapped not a drop of its rare beauty. Number 184 with a bullet in the States, then straight back to oblivion. The Bunnymen were obviously deeply in love with their own mythology, but the rest of the world wasn't so willing to be smitten. Extending the scope of their ambition, 1983's Porcupine contained both their purest pop moment ("The Back Of Love") and their most fabulously self-aggrandising ("My White Devil"). Felt to be a step back at the time of its release, now sounding like a bona fide masterpiece of creative exhaustion. Then the start of the slide. Ocean Rain (1984), despite transcendent turns like "Silver" and "Killing Moon", too resplendently grandiose for its own good, all livid possibilities drowned deep in aquatic strings and over-sheened production. Lamely pursued by their eponymous fifth (the so-called Grey album) which, since the band themselves have practically disowned it, merits little comment. Except to say that, unlike the other four reissues and their entirely needless bonus selections, Echo And The Bunnymen is slightly improved with the inclusion of an acoustic demo of "The Game" and a highly primitive version of "Dancing Horses". Remember them at their best, for their first three enthralling adventures into the otherworldly swamps of Bunnydom, a run of near-flawless albums that was, in its way, as breathtaking as anything heard since The Stones in Bleed-Fingers-Exile form or Bowie circa-Diamond-Americans-Station. Do it clean, know what I mean?

The best of compilation: a time to reflect upon a career, including even the early mishaps that eventually shape one's body of work. That's how it should be, anyway. It's telling reflection on the control freakery and uptight nature of Primal Screen that they've chosen, like some pampered footballer or insecure soap star, to relate a sanitised autobiography with Dirty Hits, ignoring their early but substantial first recordings as both fey indie janglers and one-dimensional rockers. It's equally telling that they find this the embarrassing chapter of their career and not, say, the recent ludicrous collaboration with Kate Moss on "Some Velvet Morning" Any artist so governed by self-imposed notions of cool is always going to look a bit of an arse when they get it so wrong. Thus they expinge from Dirty Hits all traces of the two albums they completed before their career-defining "Loaded" single. So be it. We must bow to their vanity. Primal Scream were never an indie band struggling for an identity?they started according to Dirty Hits, with the release of Loaded, a record that seized the ecstatic youthful mood of a generation that had just learnt?with chemical assistance?to dance again as the 1990s dawned invitingly. It was a statement of optimistic intent that they stumbled upon via Andy Weatherall's remixing, but the Scream core of Bobby Gillespie, Robert Young and Andrew Innes have always realised the power of talented allies, drafting in Martin Duffy from Felt, Mani from The Stone Roses and Kevin Shields to swell the ranks and bolster the sound as their career unfolded. This also ensures that their sound has evolved throughout their history, delivering with it a string of brilliant singles?the better part of which, post-"Loaded", are included here. Viewed from a distance, even the long-haired, leather-kecked rocking of their least fondly recalled period, the Give Out, But Don't Give Up album, cuts quite a dash now. The Scream, however reacted spikily to the criticism of their retro period and they've been pushing themselves further from that straight edge towards more experimental plains ever since. Unlike most, their sound has radicalised with age, as evidenced here by the likes of the neo-mod psychedelia of "Burning Wheel" or the ear-bursting white-out of "Accelerator", and it takes a perverse bravery on the band' behalf to trust that their audience won't be shaken free with each sharp new turn. So far, largely ghastly bonus disc of out-dated dance remixes is a away. Concentrate on the main card.