Their third album finds them immersed in light-hearted, yet imaginative hop ‘n’ soul, Parliamentarian funk and the fiery chants of lead single ‘This Way’.

A collection of chaotic - yet charming - avant-pop rooted in Japanese culture both martial and precise, like letting blood in a rock garden.

‘Secret Wars’ is an engaging 40 minutes; a haphazard, likely to spontaneously combust at any moment 40 minutes to be sure, but that was the ethic that spawned rock ‘n’ roll in the first place and in these hands there’s plenty of life in it yet.

‘Tasty’, though haunted by more than a few sops to the slick-soul zeitgeist, is an impressive return.

Mirah’s ability to paste candy-pop nursery rhymes over voluptuous, macabre arrangements is truly unique and wholly un-matched.

What does surprise is the way the results combine Clannad with Cocteau Twins.

His carefully constructed tales are accompanied by a warm intimacy, the folky-edge only reinforcing the emphasis on the stories.

A window into the sublime mind of one of Britain’s great outsiders.

It’s worth ploughing through the strange to get to the beautiful, disturbing, fucked-up ‘Venus In Furs’ though, worth the full five stars all by itself.

Off-kilter, irreverent and unbelievably addictive.

Kidwell has distilled hip-hop into a brew that also contains trace elements of Nine Inch Nails, neo-goth noir and the finest Bristolian trip-hop, as well as the ever-present sonic manipulations that result from a very big iPod and a brain to match.

Here their ambient electro is enhanced with a melange of influences that include soul, jazz and - a real winner this - Brazilian psychedelia.

A below par effort by their high standards.

Unfortunately there are only flashes of Curtis breaking free of the overwhelming dominance of their prog tendencies. When used sparingly they are rich and absorbing, but in these instances they lack impact.

Jules’ talents lie closer to the downhome folksiness of Cat Stevens, enlivened by an eye for detail previously thought the sole preserve of Elliott Smith.

A confusing listen.

It most probably won’t attract new fans, but Margo Timmins’ voice is as unique as Thalia Zedek’s, for example, and remains their greatest asset.

Unfortunately, many of these mixes were submitted either by talented fans or lesser known professionals, and often they’ve removed much more than they’ve put in.

This is a perplexing album: two excellent singles, a few stellar moments of vicious riffage, but little to assuage that lingering sense of emptiness.

It’s all very strange yet thoroughly intriguing, but it does leave you pondering the question of what direction Ghost are planning to move in next.

There’s little in the way of straightforward rock here[;] instead they have opted to renege on their commitment to flat-four crunch and embrace melodicism...and experimentalism.

The trouble is, fine guitarist though he is, he too rarely demonstrates his skills, content to cruise on a simple melody.

The melancholy on offer barely gets above the level of sixth form poetry, and though Wilson tries to sound impassioned he comes across as strained.

Unfortunately, whereas sounding out of place in the late 90s worked in their favour, in the mid-noughties the lack of pretty faces, Converse Allstars and - perhaps most important of all - any half-decent tunes is unlikely to bring Gomez first prize even in their local pub’s battle of the bands.

Patchy at best.

Derivative and unfocused from every conceivable angle.