Essentially, Chapman is an old-style saloon storyteller whose reflections are enhanced and coloured by his myriad guitar treatments, an old dog not afraid of new tricks.

There’s a joyous spontaneity behind the obvious discipline. What makes this such a damn fine record is that the band never allow themselves to get bogged down in minutiae; it’s the big picture which counts.

The punk energy remains, frontman Davy Havok’s vocal delivery dripping with drama and passion, but with a glorious, gilded production job from guitarist Jade Puget, AFI (The Blood Album) luxuriates in a velvety richness that makes it a sumptuous listen.

Stripped of the sonic chaos of Mastodon and ATD-I, the rhythm section are free to just let go and pummel, proving a perfect foil for Sanders’ caveman roar. Meanwhile, the frequent quieter, more considered moments, such as the creeping, ghostly Dublin, have an underlying sense of spaced-out dread.

The band venture away from their own back yard for the first time, recording this new album in El Paso. It results in a pleasingly broader palette, from the redneck power pop of Sandlot, to the melodic and bouncy Madness-like closer We’ll Meet Again.

This time around, the woozy, comforting psychedelia of old remains, the songs trickling into one another, sleepy synths sighing, purring and pulsating. But Eternally Even comes with the biggest serving of soul he’s cooked up yet, sexy basslines sizzling even as he looks death in the face for We Ain’t Getting Any Younger Parts 1 and 2.

The result is the band’s most concise effort since Strung Out In Heaven.

There’s a theme, numbered from 14; dramatic, cinematic, dark but (disappointingly) modern-dancey. 18 hits an ambient spot, though, and 20 is the big ole cosmic epic we really crave.

In a nutshell: fuzzily fierce.

The album pushes an inspired blues-hued blend of their irreverent moonshine gospel romps--‘Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition’ sings Love on Exodus (Movement Of War People)--comedown confessionals (Nothing To Lose But Your Chains) and gutbucket reflection (Rattlesnake Woman), all crucially spiked with the blackest humour.

Recorded just weeks after Barre’s arrival, the album shows Tull still clinging to a blues root although reaching for something entirely new.

24-track double album of brittle, emotive folk pop and alt.rock.

All in all, this is a reissue as reissues ought to be done. A brilliant and familiar album remastered to perfection and bolstered by plenty of legitimately unheard material. Heavenly indeed.

It’s a package that’s pretty hard to improve on but this anniversary edition tries its damnedest to turn things up to eleven.

An excellent remaster accentuates the nuances and stresses the space in a mix that’s by turns claustrophobic and widescreen, crisps hi-hats, sharpens ice-pick guitar shards and further fattens bass subsonics. There are extra tracks, B-sides, Peel sessions, a live ‘rehearsal’ set from Manchester’s Factory, and it’s only a joy.

The Early Years feels like a huge, essential slice of rock history, showing a band with the world at their feet who could, and did, go anywhere they pleased.

While it may not be the most musically involved album of his 50-year career, it’s persuasive evidence that Young still has a lot to offer.

This alt.bluegrass band remain in a field of their own, dragging old-times instrumentation into fresh relevance.

Throw in the odd ambient curveball and you’ve got an album fizzing with life from experts in their field.

There’s nothing novel or exciting here, but at least they seem to be having a ball.

If the joyous Ready For The Magic isn’t already an indie club floor filler, it damn well should be.

Whereas the DVD offers a longer set, including jewels in her crown like Broken English, the CD selects just 45 minutes, highlighting more recent material and covers, before sauntering into a forlorn As Tears Go By, a resilient Sister Morphine and a finale of The Ballad Of Lucy Jordan.

Blue & Lonesome captures the Rolling Stones--The Greatest Urban Blues Band In The World--in their element, doing what they do best. You’ll only wish they did it more.

Ship Of Fools is a gloriously and unapologetically joyous listen, and one that serves to remind us how the Flaming Lips lost their mojo, while simultaneously showing Empire Of The Sun the way forward.

From the woozy menace of No Air and the Killing Joke-tinged Shadows through to the doomy rampage of Living In Lye, this rocks harder and smarter.

The skeletal arrangements allow the controlled frailty of Doherty’s voice to pack a stronger emotional punch.

Avenged Sevenfold have lost any previous limitations and inhibitions, and they’ve crafted a landmark metal album.

Lazarus--partly because it’s a show with a great band, partly because many of David Bowie’s songs are peculiarly adaptable to the musical format--works as a record.