Boyle's versions are professionally executed but phenomenally dreary.

It is, almost inevitably, charming.

He wisely sticks to the spoken word for much of the album, whether delivering the sinister inner monologue of a stalker or a robot-voiced attempt to advocate Transcendental Mediation.

His major-label follow-up wisely keeps the retro aesthetic.

They've brought touches of ska and Latin into the mix, but KD&L still don't do anything Imelda May can do better.

Bad As Me is as good as it gets.

It takes no chances. This is a record that browbeats and bullies you into submission with its sheer massiveness, courtesy of producer Brian Eno.

When he shuts up, and lets the shambling jangle and daydreamy exotica take over, it's great. When he sings, it's murder.

An unprecedented futuristic hybrid of dubstep, speedcore and math-rock, with lyrics which charge towards unexplored lexicographical horizons.

Revelation Road proves, though, that form may come and go, but class is permanent.

It sounds like a soundtrack for the end of the world, or the birth of new worlds. Extraordinary.

Loud guitars are everywhere, bucked by riffing horns, and the general vibe is testosteronal and sleeveless. He is a rippingly good player.

Impressive rather than engaging.

It finds the singer in meditative mood--this is, by some distance, the least playful Björk album--and, amid soundscapes made from tinkling harps and bells and deep electronic burps and farts, she's an uncharacteristically discreet presence, a humble narrator of the wider story she's trying to tell.

While it may, at times, sound a little too familiar--A&F is almost good enough to banish the memory of the dozen or so albums--influenced by grams not Parsons--since.

Apart from a lovely snare-drum loop on "Recat" (annoyingly, all the tracks are called Re-something or other), this is barely even a head-nodding experience.

Haunting and harrowing, the uncomprehending first reactions are combined with a score both alarming and consoling. Also here, Mallet Quartet (2009) and Dance Patterns (2002), but it is WTC 9/11 which packs the most powerful punch.

Reconvening after a four-year hiatus, the duo have carried on where they left off--meaning the Frankmusik-produced TW is gentle, blissful and devoid of the exuberant electro romps of yesteryear.

While nothing grates, all it really achieves is to make you want to hear Hank sing them.

Well, these things are relative, and this record is still jam-packed with purest filth and unrepentant excess.

Slinky, spooky, superb.

Black Rainbows isn't all-out kick-ass noise but, by turns, spindly and fuzzy, smooth and angular.

Danilova's commanding tones evoking nameless terrors over wonderful doom-laden synth-rock.

For the most part this is a glorious hymn to the art of playing together, of which Lennon would surely approve.

Baird's own rather fabulous acoustic is garnished with touches of dobro, pedal-steel or electric, over which her wisp of a voice, and words, hang in a vapour.

It may not be the best Wilco album ever, but with care and consideration it may well turn out to be your favourite.

The result is not, however, a revolution in his sound but a refinement.

Equal parts Byrds, Beatles and Burritos, this kicks away the cobwebs nicely.