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.

The album improves halfway through, settling into a spacier late-night feel: retro electronic drums sprinkled over better tunes, with chunky bass and the twin male and female vocals more relaxed.

There’s nothing here as inventive as the ambient electro, hip-hop, psych, and string-orchestra versions made by the amateurs and semi-pros who embraced the project 18 months ago. There are, however, some very good takes indeed.

This record is a composite piece blessed with a vision and singularity that repeatedly surprises and invigorates.

Listening to mid-period Wilco was, admittedly, never instantaneous, but you feel a more savage edit would do wonders with Sukierae.

Commune, the collective’s second studio album, is a pulsating sex globule of groovy chants and invocations.

Much of the album refuses to stick, drifting from one similar-sounding song to another.

It’s an ethereal, atmospheric set, though the busyness of the band has the occasional tendency to swamp the songs, the singer’s emotive power at its most affecting on the stripped-bare stately piano ballad A Stolen Kiss.

Aided and abetted by some magnificent backing by the Helios, using the requisite analog set up, the album has the verve and feel of a classic West African long-player, but with enough subtle updates to prevent a slide into reverent pastiche.

Lateness Of Dancers has the unmistakable aura of a deep classic. It is a US masterpiece. A wonderful thing, for sure.

The ways in which Overjoyed thrill are as endless as the band are absurd and implausible. Overjoyed is literally amazing.