Biasonic Hot Sauce is a mesmerising album.

Who would have thought the musical accompaniment to a film about a series of Idahoan murders could be so beautiful?

It's just that there's a bit of an identity void at the heart of the thing, a lack of personality.

Leaves listeners sadly wondering where a less-troubled Amy might have been able to take her incredible talent.

It's frequently fantastic, weighty, clever and emotionally involving, but strangely polite, and lacking in a sense of overall purpose and direction.

It's a raw and white-knuckled collection, one which captures the phenomenal emotions of the man's solo live sets.

To listen to the pioneering Tago Mago in 2011 is to hear the blueprint for much of the leftfield music of the past 40 years, and this reissue will hopefully inspire further invention for decades to come.

The result is a remarkable display of creative unity and a stellar masterpiece sitting alongside the group's best work.

But when he's in his element – ruling over frenetic beats with rhymes that cut right to the bone – it's clear that Yelawolf's star is sure to shine for the foreseeable.

They get full marks for effort but, unfortunately, not for the end results.

As an album, a glorious rawness and disregard for verse-chorus-verse simplicity runs throughout, but it strains for cohesion.

Quadrophenia is one of the few albums of its time that sounds as good today as it must have done then. For once, the term 'masterpiece' is not sold on the cheap.

A nebulous set of hyper-stoned musings on bass tethered together in the hard drive of one man's mind.

It's hard not to declare the record an admittedly limited success.

Ultimately, this extremely curious album requires several airings to achieve an improved view, and a confirmation of its secretive charms.

On El Camino, mariachi, C&W, gospel, psych rock, blues and soul all mash together into a warm and occasionally dazzling torrent; their appeal is less in fresh sounds as fresh composites of old ones, wrapped around classically dusty tales of errant womenfolk and addiction to love.

While the EP is not a complete overhaul of the band's sound – Falkous' semi-comprehensible mini-stories are alternately spoken and yelled, with frequent backing vocals; the bouncy New Adventures could have slotted comfortably onto either of their first two albums – there's an evident effort by FOTL here to avoid simply returning to what they know.

Captured here, however, the band is still full of the future, and as fascinating and beguiling as such things always are.

Admire the riches this national treasure has bestowed upon us.

It all adds up to a sassy, splashy modern pop album that rattles through its 10 tracks in a dash under 35 minutes.

This two-CD set is now a welcome addition to what eventually became Reid's late-period re-emergence following decades of hip multi-genre collaborations amid a veil of semi-obscurity.

Truly impressive, The Dø gracefully pull off the kind of intriguing "oddness" the likes of Florence Welch strain and wheeze for, and with better tunes.

A record that's easily as good as any punk release you'll hear in 2011.

Taken as a whole, this release offers enough revelations to suggest the original album is worth revisiting.

Though the additions don't enhance the original album's legend, nor do they diminish it any more than the fact that the band sagged once again into artistic complacency after its release.

Inevitably, this turns Here I Am into a bit of a grab-bag in its latter stages, but it's a grab-bag that only Tulisa Contostavlos could claim not to find some pleasure in.

Ryder-Jones has not only pulled off the unusual feat of writing a soundtrack for a complex and experimental novel, complementing the book's allure handsomely. He's also, with its sentiment and inventiveness, made it worthy of repeated plays.

Keepers of country's tragi-comic flame will clasp Lindi firmly to their bosoms.