His high, husky voice recounts tales of hope and desperation over immaculate production that combines the staples of guitar, bass and drums with restrained washes of strings--about as far from the stifling, mainstream Nashville Sound as imaginable.

What becomes apparent with them is that with The E Street Band backing him, Springsteen seemed incapable of writing a clunker. At this point they were on fire and could have turned just about anything into a grandstanding rave-up or stirring anthem, as required.

While the studio album underwhelms, the concept takes off on the live versions available on the four-disc edition.

Richly garnished by fiddles, bottleneck and accordion, the rejuvenated Slim Chance may conjure echoes of Lane’s The Passing Show, but ultimately seem to be emerging with a rough-shod, rollicking sound of their own. On this form, they can be sure their old mate would be leaning at the bar, nodding approval.

The angular but ambling instrumental Fauster can arguably be glossed over and there’s nothing here with the cliff-hanger intensity of Mend’s best track Cathkin Braes, but with the slow-burning Spectres and the churning, dirge-like The Mute, De Rosa have nonetheless book-ended Weem with a pair of their most bewitching power plays to date.

Tortoise may have become a little less cutting-edge in their old age, but within an area of the musical landscape which owes much to their enduring influence, they remain perennially relevant.

As has been noted about some of their previous work, the sonic characteristics, though very seductive, can become slightly repetitive and it could be argued this does not serve the base material to best advantage--there are interesting ideas floating around and it might be worth allowing some of them a little more clarity.

There’s less of the superficial swagger, more mature contemplation and reflection.

The robotic, new wave sheen of Quiet Americans fares slightly better, but on the whole, this record falls somewhat short of Shearwater’s usually excellent capabilities.

The original record’s improvisational nature is still here but hidden, its minimalist touches are scant.

His music admittedly feels a little more battle-scarred nowadays, but this world-weariness fits the LP’s resigned, roots-tinged ballads Good Enough and There It Goes like a glove.

The bleak lyrics are countered by a perky tempo, setting up an interesting tension. If much of the album runs on familiar, well-oiled tracks, The Waves shows what Villagers can achieve when they stretch themselves.

It’s competent, and some of the songs are good, but it’s just so much old hat.

The influences are certainly varied, and harsher critics might suggest a lack of editorial control--a perfect example being Blood Red Balloon, which manages to recall both Grizzly Bear and Toto. Only Saturnine manages to resist the temptation to explode, and is the freshest track as a result (albeit with a guitar break that evokes Brian May). Regardless of such artistic concerns, it sounds like it may be the album to propel Mystery Jets to commercial success.

The Bowie that his fans love most--the unpredictable, courageous and cutting-edge enthusiast-- is properly back, and while this kind of intense listening experience might not trouble the current crop of massive-selling rock stars, he’s somehow a damn sight more vital than the lot of them.

While this 12-track set clearly comes from a Hoxton state of mind, there’s a liberated imagination running riot here.

Sadly, it’s a plodding, semi-acoustic dirge of little note, while When Shipman Decides--about homicidal doctor Harold--also fails to live up to the shock factor of its title. It makes for a mostly meretricious, self-important record with delusions of grandeur.

On the whole, it all helps to convey the peripatetic atmosphere that flows through these two dozen tunes. At the same time, it means the album feels less complete and whole than most ...Trail Of Dead records, but there are moments, such as closer Before The Swim, where it shines bold and bright.

With the cleaner production (and techno wizard Trentemøller’s post-production) serving to highlight rather than smooth its bristling urgency and naked emotion, it seems destined to win hearts and minds.

Wryly observant character studies are linked by wistfully understated instrumental interludes, with harpsichord, vibes, nylon-strung guitar and single-finger organ tumbling contentedly against each other like smalls in a twin-tub.

This disc represents a decent, very listenable attempt at updating that picture. It is however, a relatively small album, overlooked both by predecessors from the new wave era and by more recent, lofty stadium takes on the sound.

He’s been compared to Damien Jurado and while the stylistic link is accurate, Knight is more defined by an urge to experiment. This may be too enigmatic for some but perseverance is repaid during the extrovert moments on The Arp.

While The Waiting Room is not Tindersticks’ greatest album, it might be the one that best signifies how this project is an ongoing one, that the sum of all the band’s work is greater than any individual passages. That they’re playing the long game; waiting.

It’s that kind of affair: fine in parts but far too eclectic for its own good. Collins remains in fine fettle, though, and the choices are fair enough given her Broadway pedigree and eye for a standard.

The lines are blurred, but there’s no court ruling on whether this is cynical appropriation or genuine homage.

An instrumental, Pecket’s Well, highlights the beauty and lyricism of his solo guitar, but the real worth here lies in lyrics that offer listeners clear descriptors of Tilston’s concerns, such as the warnings for mankind encompassed in Running Out Of Road.

The whole caboodle comes to an interesting end with Neil Young’s Cortez The Killer. An unexpected change of pace, its seven minutes of mid-tempo atmospheric desert rock is wholly at odds with everything that preceded it.

The joy of this collaboration lies in Wells’ music. It’s a more varied affair than its predecessor.