[A] challenging, deeply odd at times and hugely enjoyable album.

A Melvins selection box of sorts, Basses Loaded is packed with delights.

Craft’s intention is to take the listener “off into the clear night of Joshua Tree” and there are certainly moments when he achieves that. It’s not quite the same Joshua Tree of Gram Parsons or U2 but that’s the thing about deserts--they bring you up against yourself.

While it’s churlish to accuse the young of veering towards the childish, the frustration from some of the outré moments on I, Gemini only comes as a result of the satisfaction derived from the more involved, accomplished half of the record.

A rare example of a collaborative album that reflects well on everybody involved.

Relief all round then that their fifth album is a shimmering thing of beauty; a fresh summer breeze blowing in full of character and heart and sweeping away the dirge and disappointment of their last outing.

What you’re left with is the impression of an artist with her receptors fully open, resulting in a debut reaching far more emotional touch points than you’d expect.

They focus on the mundane without giving much life to it, leaving the songs hypnotic when they’re playing, but hard to remember when they’re not.

It’s no River II, though perhaps with a bit of harsh pruning, it could’ve been a carefully edited and extended version that preserved the blues-vs-bossa split of the original vinyl. What The Other Side of The River most definitely does offer, though, is proof that beyond those superlungs that still belt out the 60s cover versions in 2016, it’s from Reid’s breathier excursions that true beauty flows.

While rockers such as Mr Policeman are sufficiently rambunctious (only descending to barroom romping on Willie Dixon’s over-played My Babe), The Rides shine brightest on slower outings such as Stills’ poignant There Was A Place (which sees him lamenting lost friends), Shepherd’s intimate By My Side and Goldberg’s riveting I’ve Got To Use My Imagination, which he wrote in 1973 with Gerry Goffin and became a hit for Gladys Knight & The Pips.

It’s not so much that these two work well together, but that they work well in spite of each other. There are obviously two very different musical personalities on show, but where they meet is a convenient hinterland that somehow manages to honour the music they love.

On an initial spin, the listener likely won’t understand Juarez’s cult appeal or indeed Allen’s own obsession. However, as superbly documented by the excellent liner notes and art prints (reproducing the 1974 lithographs that accompanied the album’s initial 50-run release), repeated listens will quickly have Juarez clawing at the brain and the heart.

There’s an urgency to Paradise, with punishing drums and agitated guitars, but the band never quite embrace the obvious.

Haynes’ mellifluous voice hits home throughout, particularly effective on slower burners such as Tide and Keep Me, invoking a deeper hoodoo on Kingdom Come and Don’t Need It.

An engrossing work in which the organic and electronic intermingle to create complex layers of sound; Felder invites you to explore its singular terrain.

The mellow-vibed Green Aphrodisiac also stands out with its succulent refrain and addictive, jazzy groove. The song’s introspective demeanour reflects the album as a whole, which mostly presents heartfelt meditations on love and life.

Anohni is at her very best when rawly cracking over glacial blasts of percussion.

Although multi-instrumentalist Scott Jacoby’s production reduces the wall of sound to a digital prism, the starker backdrops provide an unobtrusive frame for that towering voice which, while displaying some Marianne Faithfull-style gritty life experience, still sends vintage shivers on her respectful renditions of Sandie Shaw’s Girl Don’t Come, The Beatles’ I’ll Follow The Sun, Ray Davies’ Tired Of Waiting, Gerry Marsden’s Don’t let the Sun Catch You Crying and Lulu’s Oh Me Oh My (I’m A Fool For You Baby).

Some flattening elements that are hard to put your finger on lurk deep in the mix, below the whumping bass and the bewitching sax riffs. These perhaps include the aforementioned vocal treatments or the occasional use of other obviously studio-born effects.

Their dense, clenched teeth sound has allowed them to cross over to rock fans, but can come over a bit try-hard, though that is not to say that the album is anything less than interesting, well put-together, filled with high standard rapping and at times strangely majestic.

Nocturnal Koreans is a testament to their continued relevance.

Day Of The Dead not only represents a triumph of admin on the part of its curators, but the sweetest love letter to the Grateful Dead imaginable. Deadheads will adore it; the unconverted may find themselves a lot more Dead-curious.

It’s a shame then that the music too often tips into the bland, with too much fey folkiness to handle in one sitting.

Santana IV rolls back the years to the time when the band melded spicy percussive Latin grooves with searing blues-rock. Seraphic-voiced Ron Isley fronts a couple of tunes but it’s the spacey, psychedelic instrumental, Fillmore East, and addictive salsa-rock of Anywhere You Want To Go, that impress the most.

Particularly bad is For The Kids, which could come straight from an amateur production of High School Musical (complete with repellent husky spoken-word middle eight), while the just up-to-scratch Beck track, Time Wind, and his presence on the record as a whole, only really serves to illustrate how poor the songs now are.

There are touches of My Morning Jacket in the vocals too, but in chief it is the already-mentioned artists who dominate Dolls Of Highland and if you’ve been missing them a lot, then this is an album not to be missed, filled with yearning and melody.

One hates to say it of a pleasant record, but much of it seems like background music for shiny-looking bars, where people pose around before the action starts.

Lacking a common language (they were forced to communicate via sign language) the sessions--recorded in a garage on the outskirts of Lisbon--have nevertheless resulted in a winning hybrid of styles.