This reissue’s seven bonus tracks will excite completists and include Waco, initially slated for inclusion on the album’s 2002 release before being given away online. But, in truth, the original album’s heartfelt, immediate and tape-hissing guitars and cutely executed melodies excite the most.

It’s edgy, but civil, and it looks like the war will rage on for the time being at least, regardless of the outcome of each emotional battle.

Moore’s Nashville-based father Bob played bass for everyone from Dylan and Elvis to Sammy Davis Jr and Quincy Jones, and his influence is clear; all of pop music is here.

All this is a must-have for fans, and a relatively inexpensive way of accessing an erratic but always intriguing body of work.

Recorded last year at Bestival on the Isle Of Wight, the band are as tight as ever; they’re clearly having a ball.

All very highbrow and ambitious for sure, yet despite portentous advance warnings of material involving fallen angels, the Garden Of Eden and Dante-ish visions of Hell, songs such as the plaintive Morningstar and the Buddy Holly-aping rattle of Letting Me Out quickly prove Hart’s still more than capable of channelling his lofty ideals through good ol’ verse-chorus-verse.

[Heroes is] an immediately striking highlight of the album but, in all truth, most of the remaining 10 songs are up there with his very best.

New versions of Wichita Lineman and Gentle On My Mind are sparser than the originals, if no less affecting, but pale in comparison to the impossibly tender reading of By The Time I Get To Phoenix.

At its weakest, Sleeper can come across like Beady Eye--and if there weren’t a US voice behind it, it might well be laughed out of town. However, Segall’s motives seem authentic.

[Superchunk] crafted an album of effervescent ebullience, fusing joy and sadness with a skill that built on their two decades of existence.

Largely, Right Thoughts is business as usual--a steady, reliable and often invigorating business, but one that constantly, frustratingly hints that it’s capable of more.

It’s not all doom and gloom--though it is mostly chopped-and-twisted electro paranoia.

Feels Like A New Morning is an apt title, because verve and a freshly recovered confidence seep from the Blow Monkeys’ eighth studio set.

“The past is a foreign country,” sings a defiant Peters on the reliably impassioned opener In A Broken Promise Land, while both the ensuing title track and the chest-beating Return are powered by the sort of Ben Nevis-sized, heartstring-tugging Celtic guitar figures that made The Crossing such a compelling debut. It does, admittedly, fall short elsewhere.

All Fired Up, though, is a touch too generic to have Young and his new cohorts making too many changes to the live setlist.

The result is a bizarre, dark album that slowly builds and improves with extending listening.

The Other Life checks in at the expected redneck haunts, but with the lyrical verve of writers from further afield.

Fun, the track which is most obviously Booker T, is ordinary, and Feel Good is so-so; Can’t Wait, despite Estelle’s distinctive vocal, suffers from gimmickry and is the track with the least of Mr Jones on it.... The rest of the album, in which the veteran meets current talent, is mostly great.

Simpson’s gentle deliveries benefit from his wealth of experience and mature understanding of the work, making for a richness that imbues all the songs--never more so than on Come Down Jehovah.

[Shivers is] the only weak moment on an otherwise enjoyable release, it sounds phoney, purposely strung-out, as if self-consciously aping Neil Young’s wracked-out Tonight’s The Night.

It’s all grimly compelling, but you won’t be whacking it on at any dinner parties. Unless you’re Andy Kaufman.

This is effectively juxtaposed with ominous understatement, and the shifting moods, combined with varied instrumentation including harmonium, banjo and electric piano, make for an intriguing, satisfying listen.

The symphonies Fuck Buttons make remain as miasmic as ever: odd and unusual to hear for the first minute or so, before fully entrancing the listener. Beguiling stuff.

Both as a protest against subjugation and an affirmation of Mali’s world class musical heritage, it’s hard to imagine a more eloquent and powerful riposte.

While Knock Knock and The Signs admittedly veer close to theatrical, declamatory pastiche, Solstice--which laudably endeavours to track the journey from the shortest to the longest day-- is nine-and-a-half minutes of bona-fide neo-prog: a shimmering three-way between Camel, the Super Furries and David Gilmour.

Move on, there’s nothing to see here.

It’s unlikely to have the impact of their career-defining Lights... Camera... Revolution, but it’s hardly a folly akin to a Chinese Democracy either.

Rubin’s experiment has paid off handsomely, even though at times you’ll find yourself comparing the new songs to any number of familiar signature tunes from Sabbath’s catalogue.