Extra tracks aside, the three parent albums are all remarkable realisations of the Captain’s fertile imagination.

Different Every Time joins the dots between those songs (the questing, experimental Moon In June and wise, heartbreaking Just As You Are) to stunning effect on Disc One, while a second CD collates some of the wildly sociable Wyatt’s best extra-curricular work.

It’s wholly recommended.

A triumphant return for one of pop’s most charismatic figures, who has lost none of his ability to make us dance and smile.

Far from lifting the veil, its live performance further deepens the album’s mystery.

This is the first new Simple Minds album in recent memory that you’ll want to keep returning to.

A classic and classy Browne album that draws on his full repertoire of styles.

Singer’s Grave works as a great record in its own right and--perhaps surprisingly, considering its gestation--could be the best starting point for those yet to explore his work.

The attendant singles, EPs and B-sides distil their career into manageable chunks that tell the surface story, but the real gems lie in the albums themselves--each of which is also being reissued singly.

It’s hard not to hear these songs and think of a hollowed-out Echo & The Bunnymen, devoid of the magic, mystery or the passion that made that band so vital.

Purists may regard the project as a desecration, but the Flips could have pushed it even further with no complaints from this jury.

This is a beautiful way to remember--and relive--their purity, their passion and their power.

He and Alexander have also stayed mostly away from the slap-bass and funk drums that made Primus’ early hits so compelling, so don’t expect the usual extravagant workouts. Instead, this album is best viewed as the point where Claypool’s interests in film and music meet at a sort of psychedelic flashpoint.

This reckless abandon practically screams out of La Isla Bonita, but the record falls short of total reinvention.

A fantastic and powerful rock album, Idol’s return commands attention.

If ever an album begs repeated listening, it’s this one, which manages to surprise and reassure at the same time; you’ll want to return to it more than any other post-’83 Floyd album.

The songs sound more muscular than on record, swollen by live strings; Cripple & The Starfish, from his debut, is a standout.

Kind of like almost any Dylan covers album, really, you just wish the man himself were doing this.

The jaunty simplicity of First Time and cod calypso of Sunny Disposition are a tad MOR-by-numbers, perfectly well executed but lacking any real spark. The innate drama in Diamond’s powerful and resonant voice is much better served by the more eloquent and layered In Better Days and the Orbisonesque slow burn, Nothing But A Heartache.

True, it’s rarely a subtle listen, continually more light than shade, but almost 20 years after its release, … Morning Glory can still excite. Some Might Say remains an awful drudge of a lead single, but the rest, pretty much in its entirety, is surprisingly refreshing to revisit.

It’s an edgy, spirited 12-track affair, and it feels like the logical successor to the band’s recently reissued Dung 4, rather than a belated follow-up to Devil Hopping.

The result is a vibrant wall of sound veering between the fierce and hauntingly sensitive.

This is the distilled, finely crafted essence of Bunyan: a hushed, reflective meditation of an album that seems to have the welcome effect of cancelling out the world around the listener.

Every track pulses with a live feel, but they’re all underpinned with the best elements of house, live jazz and even ambient music.

There are likeable enough moments: Cuomo has such an instinctive way with melody that he won’t ever release an album without some saving graces. But, for the most part, this is no improvement on Weezer’s medicore output of the past decade.

Jammed out and demonstrating real chemistry, Time To Die is perhaps best appreciated as one piece of music and proves both atmospheric and immersive in the extreme. The band have lost none of their twisted genius in the four years since their last full-length.

Vocally, Williams experiments more than ever before, almost to the point of jazzy improvisation; she drawls, mutters and often leaves phrases hanging in the air, at times reminiscent of Mary Margaret O’Hara. It’s a welcome development and helps to make the album feel like her most accomplished in many years.

While La Costa Perdida was worth the wait, El Camino Real leaves the listener having enjoyed the trip, but glad to be getting home.