I never heard Cohen’s debut Museum of Dannys, but the mere fact that it appeared on avant-guardian John Zorn’s Tzadzik label, home of all manner of experimental Jewish music, is some indication of its likely oddness. For Dannyland, Cohen has been given the run of a 40-track studio, and the results are densely-layered, claustrophobic arrangements heavy on horror-movie organ drones, lachrymose lap steel and spooky theremin whines, over which Cohen reflects upon the detritus of his own life and offers odd, discomfiting observations of the world he inhabits – a murky territory of self-medication, tattered hippie dreams, laments for dead heroes, memories of old Twilight Zone episodes, and recollections of a troubled childhood. Although it does, admittedly, fit in neatly with the Beastie’s continuing food theme.Though the music on this, the band’s first entirely self-produced album, is not quite as tasty as might suggest. “Just a little something to show some respect to the city that blends and mends and tests,” they explain.

The cover, at least, is spectacular: a pen-and-ink depiction of the Manhattan skyline drawn by Matteo Pericoli with the kind of fine detail exhibited by autistic savant artists, it stretches across 14 fold-out panels, with the Twin Towers prominently featured on the front panel to remind us that this is the Beastie Boys’ tribute to their hometown, New York, the five boroughs of the title.
Not that that would be particularly evident from the contents until track 12, “An Open Letter to NYC”. Guests include BB King and Clarence “Gatemouth” Brown on the risqu?Hen Layin’ Rooster”, Randy Newman on “I Ate Up the Apple Tree”, Willie Nelson on “Such a Much” and the Dirty Dozen Brass Band on “Life Is a One-Way Ticket”, in which the doctor tells us to spend rather than hoard our money, on the grounds that “I ain’t never seen no armoured car behind a funeral yet”.. A similarly laidback reading of Dave Bartholomew’s morality tale “The Monkey (Speaks His Mind)” features the trumpeter soloing over the swampy groove, and there are superb versions of “St James Infirmary” and “Lay My Burden Down” (aka “Glory, Glory Hallelujah”), the latter featuring Staples again. After James put up the shutters with 2001’s Pleased to Meet You, Tim Booth freewheeled for a while, pondering more theatrical avenues (he once won a best newcomer award for his part in a production of Saved) He had a film script optioned, he did a bit of DJing. Then, via a chance meeting, he stumbled back into music, working with musician/ producer Lee “Muddy” Baker on the songs for Bone.

It’s more groove-oriented: the closest the album comes to James is the muscular guitar rock of “Eh Mamma”, a weaker track. More typical is the title track, building a baggy-ish indie-dance groove from a gust of harmonica, some pattering tabla and a guitar figure reminiscent of a Tubular Bells riff. Booth’s lyrical tropes are less easy to ditch: just a few seconds in he rhymes “duality” with “reality” and muses on the cyclical nature of existence, and thereafter Bone is stuffed with Buddhist sentiments, such as “There’s nothing to say/ But I will say it anyway”. And he does, explaining his desire to escape mass culture in “Down to the Sea”, and defining man as “an ape infected with the spark of divine” in “Monkey God”. His smartest trick, though, comes in “Redneck”, where he manages to profess egoless-ness while letting you know that he’s really quite famous.. Recent Dr John albums have been sidetracks involving collaborations with Britpoppers and tributes to Duke Ellington, so it’s a relief to find him back on course.

N’Awlinz returns to the musical well of his native city, quite brilliantly. “Marie Lavau” is a Gris-Gris-style account of the fable of the voodoo Witch Queen of New Orleans; “Stakalee” is a rolling piano version of the standard, cushioned by a lovely Wardell Quezergue horn arrangement; “Chickee Le Pas” is another foray into Mardi Gras Indian dialect; and Mavis Staples brings the appropriate gospel depth to a stately version of “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In”. Lyrically, too, Cale is broadening his range, with the eco-song “Stone River” lamenting the drying-up of a once bountiful waterway (“They bottled up and dammed it/ Choked it up and canned it”), and the quiet dismissal of George Bush in “The Problem” – “the man in charge has got to go” – constituting arguably his first direct political protest. It makes you wonder: how bad does a president have to be to rouse the ire even of JJ Cale?. Or, most effectively of all, JJ’s foray into Latin-American territory with the slinky, conga-driven samba “Rio”, a paean to the city.