Only the hushed Living Lux, which closes the album in delicate velvet drifts, escapes unscathed. It is, sadly, not enough to give Bloc Party redemption.

A couple of duds: No Monsters telegraphs its Lennon-esque references, while England & America is pointless dad-rock. Everything else works.

There are moments of genius here and there, so do investigate if you find yourself humming Lil’ Devil from time to time.

By the time The Morning Is Waiting appears, all glorious awakenings in pianos and strings, the album begins to feel triumphant. The elation continues to the end, with the funk returning in spades for Same Name, before closer Stay Awake warms you up to start over.

Without You, Death To The Lovers and We Are The Flames--showcase Skin’s still-gobsmacking voice and will be welcomed by fans of earlier, underrated heartstring- pluckers like Infidelity (Only You) from the 1996 album Stoosh. The rest of the album is much rowdier, powered by Cass Lewis’s immense, distorted bass and punk-indebted riffs from unsurnamed guitarist Ace.

At times, there is an element of either hesitance or a deliberately low-key style at work here, but one feels that upon picking up the requisite fans, this could combine with the music’s welling elements to translate into some quite emotional concerts.

While it’s certainly soundtrack material, anyone with good taste would, for instance, go for the original Strauss and Ligeti over this album’s Hollywood light music take on Hal… and dare we say it, anyone with good taste should know not to attempt the latter.

Although at times it underwhelms, at its best this album absolutely convinces and leaves no doubt as to the ability of its creator.

His most cohesive effort yet.

While there’s a compelling dark energy to the stark, fuzz-riffed uptempo tracks (the bass-driven God Song oddly recalling U2 when they strip things down), the telepathic power of the ensemble is best realised on spectral slowies such as I’m In Love Tonight, featuring deeply resonant viola from Bad Seed Warren Ellis, and epic Never Feel This Young.

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.