When it works it’s potent enough to rival his 2003 breakbeat opus ‘We Want Your Soul’. When it doesn’t, such as on opener ‘Do You!’ and the turgid ‘Best Fish Tacos In Ensenada’ (every bit as lame as its title suggests), it sounds like the kind of crap that gets played early on at Reflex on student night.

Only on ‘Nice To Be Dead’ does he veer into heavy guitar territory, but it fits seamlessly into the mix, making for not just his strangest set in years, but also his best.

There’s nothing on Hombre Lobo (Spanish for werewolf) that couldn’t be constructed by breaking down the DNA of the previous six Eels albums and repiling the strands up in some melodically fresh but warmly recognisable way.

They appear to be sincere in their sloganeering so you’ve got to admire them, but, really, the message of a song like ‘New Orleans’ gets seriously undermined by the shiny Busted balloon it’s caught inside.

If you were merely whelmed by FF’s anaemic third, then this album of dub versions could be the infusion you’re looking for.

Moondagger is a tune-rich excursion into lo-fi romanticism, with 'Parallelogram’s' multitracked vocals harmonizing over a groundswell of glockenspiels sharing DNA with Animal Collective.

For those patient enough to wait for this record to relinquish its quiet delights, the treasures waiting to be discovered it are rich indeed.

The real star of the show isn’t the often-bloodless figure of Thomas Mars, it’s the brilliantly detailed production, centred around the dovetailing drum and guitar chops, best heard via headphones for the full stroboscopic effect.

Eating Us is their fourth full-length, and it’s a delight.

From the robotic churn of ‘Blue Lights’ to the wiry rock’n’roll of ‘Tin Birds’, there’s little cohesion--rhaps understandably, given Sniper’s penchant for releasing new material every couple of days--t that simply makes it feel of a lovingly-crafted mixtape.

So swathed in electronic trickery, space-age swoops and super-produced vocals is My Electric Family, though, that it ends up a little soulless; individually the tracks have a removed piquancy, but an hour’s solid exposure leaves you yearning for a crackle, some fuzz, or any human intervention.

Admirable, if not necessarily lovable.

Three decades on, a mini Canadian chap is bringing things full-circle and thanks to an all-star cast including the brothers Soulwax and Gonzales, he almost pulls off this grand appropriation.

Often, fantastically, all at the same time.

It’s decent in places but it’s just… you know that feeling you get when someone you love is so wracked with pointless worry that you just want to shake them and shake them until they snap out of it?

The overriding feel is of an album just too jaded, too joyless to truly count as a return to form.

Twin drummers Matthew Clark and Jamie Levinson are oustanding, but it’s Patterson who’s the real star – an all-American frontman whose honey-coated voice is practically begging for adoration.

There are times when the album feels strangely medicated; the positivity, when heaped upon the listener in brutal doses, makes you feel trapped in one of those American self-help groups.

Resplendent with Beam’s raw, whispered tones and snatched memories wrapped in the warmth and emotional calamity Iron And Wine are known for, it’s vintage stuff.

His spectral vocals comfort like new bedsheets, lyrics straddle tranquillity and loss (‘Ghost Of My Old Dog’) and there are enough sun-over-hill-moments (‘Brand New Sun’) that hold their own against his Snowdon-high standards.

The result is an absolute pleasure.

Not since Bon Iver’s "For Emma, Forever Ago" has there been such an accomplished album of torch songs.

Music to stick pins in voodoo dolls of the popular kids by.

Taken on its own merits, there are more than enough moments on Back On My BS to stop the world from forgetting his name. The pity is that, given he’s one of rap’s most distinctive voices, right now Busta seems to have no idea who he is.

The concept is pleasant at first, but pretty soon the repetitive nature of each soundscape--clipped beats, soft Catalan/Castellano vocals and the odd bash, pluck, bird-call and random tinkle--starts to make NME jittery.

Jeffrey Lewis has stepped in to chronicle the detritus of the human condition for his amicable fifth full-length album.

Yet get past the grating AF-isms and there’s some good tunes.

The Hacker is still a dab hand at dark electro, his rich, chewy tracks bubbling like molasses in a cauldron; Miss Kittin still veers close to self-parody.