Luneworks works best when the Rhodes, laptop and ennui work in harmony, seemingly unguided, providing moments of pure blissed-out release.

Palomino is by no means a bad album--the songs are well constructed, everyone plays well, the harmonies are tight and accurate, it’s delivered with heart--though it does sound slightly as though it has been recorded in a box. The trouble is, it does not bring much new or original to the party.

Ideas reaches out rather more, while French Drop is a sleight-of-hand piece that works on several levels.

Toxic synths and an undeniable sense of occasion pervade, the record sounds appropriately big and it just about steers clear of unwanted pomposity.

Third album Abbar El Hamada continues that [broad musical] path, though it eschews the largely acoustic nature of Soutak for a more electrified outing.

The significance of the LP title is never apparent--this is the most land-locked album imaginable. Still, here’s an invigorating enough noise to ward off the demons.

The songs aren’t always resolved and have an element of hit-or-miss jam around the edges, but they are thrilling at times.

Beautifully played, arranged to perfection, crystal clear recording and production with the vocals to the fore, but cushioned by immaculate musicianship. A classic of the genre.

He cites everyone from Shellac to Boredoms to Kate Bush as influences, while quoting feminist psychoanalyst Nancy Chodorow and Russian director Andrei Tarkovsky. It takes big balls or hilarious self-delusion to do this, but Grapefruit, pitched somewhere between those two states, just about justifies the aplomb.

It’s the real deal, the meat of his canon and bearing rewards for fans old and new.

Distance Inbetween may not sound entirely like they are back on top form yet, but that’s not to suggest they’re far off.

The gamut of textures and patterns he produces might be surprising, even off-putting, unless you’ve heard Bourne’s treatments of piano and cello on his beguiling debut studio effort, 2011’s Montauk Variations.

The mild and tepid Swirling soon becomes rather repetitive, and Like A Moth gets stuck in its own saccharine, twee groove, but the majority of these eleven tracks find the band back on the right, fizzy, fuzzy, frazzled track.

The overall impression is of vintage music given a modern snap and kept short and simple for maximum effect.

The unorthodox means of composition ensures that the material on ATGCLVLSSCAP feels alive; blessed with some formidable grooves it retains a freshness and zeal that might have proved elusive if it had been recorded as a conventional studio album.

Enjoyable to the core, but not to be taken too seriously as there are so many other bands doing exactly--exactly--the same thing.

The follow-up to 2014’s Get To Hell sees the band further exploring the country element which has always underpinned their music, resulting in a compelling set which effortlessly tramples many of the more buffed-up new bands pulling from the same well.

Singer Julia Cummings’ saccharine vocals overpower as they search for meaning and purpose. Sadly, they end up being somewhat more tepid and irritating.

The element of smoothness cloaking the emotions could either impress the listener with its beauty or wash over them completely. The hit rate here perhaps isn’t quite high enough for the former, but the album deserves some attention for illustrating the exuberant joy of the black dog turning away from one’s door and walking on down the street.

There are elements of anti-folk here, too, but as deliberately unpolished as these songs are, Kempner and band ensure that her songwriting talents aren’t muddied or obscured by it. Rather, they add to its realness, making these songs all the more powerful.

A well-drilled exercise in slick, sumptuous songwriting.

Originally envisioned as a nod to doo-wop, the album soon blossomed thanks to the involvement of various aides-de-camp, including Peter Buck, kd Lang and Neko Case. Yet their contributions are subtle, adding gentle harmonies and instrumental prowess to tiny, emotional epics.

A record that struggles to catch fire.

There is nothing revolutionary about Cayamo but as an example of what world class performers can knock out on their holiday it can’t be beaten.

Headbangers will be pleased to hear that Scott Ian’s crunchy riffs and Joey Belladonna’s banshee wails are at front and centre, athough--continuing a theme that has endured since the mid-90s--truly warp-speed thrash beats are, disappointingly, largely absent here.

Weirdly though, on his first solo record in nearly six years, it’s when everything is piled up together, when all the faders sound as if they are turned up, that the record is at its best.

[Phoenixes is] given layers of treated guitar and robotic backing vocals, creating a stillness that ramps up the emotional effect of the song. It’s indicative of the qualities of the album as a whole; potent stuff.

While the cynical may snigger behind their hands at this degree of conceptualisation, it makes for a suprisingly tight, focused release.