This outstanding transcription of extraordinary events carries a telling subtitle: "A Novel of a Life".

We still know little for sure about the prospects for intelligent fiction in a digital age. Yet most observers agree that the status of the professional "career novelist" may shift from that of a rare species to a deeply endangered one.

Alynda Lee clearly identifies with an inner gypsy. Deciding she wanted to become a musician, she fled her home in the Bronx and jumped across freight trains until she got to New Orleans, or so the story goes.

He's a mysterious little brat, this Zomby chap. Similar to like-minded sinister beats-man Burial, who kept his identity secret at first, Mr Zomby prefers anonymity.

Hollie Smith sure got something out of her system on her second album, Humour and the Misfortune of Others from last year, which scared many with its cathartic songs and tough playing.

This makes two albums in two years for super-producer and ambient master Brian Eno.

Not the most promising band name in these tougher times, but this multi-lingual German neo-folk outfit don't go the 20-minute guitar solo route, but rather their name reflects their origins in a Berlin squat and their collective mentality.

Had Robert Hughes continued with his original aim of being an artist rather than becoming possibly the best-known art critic in the world it is a safe bet he would not have been a miniaturist.

The first offering from Silo Theatre's second-cousin programme emphatically delivers on its promise of edgy and engaging theatre.

When, in 1946, Bobby Troup wrote what became his classic song, Route 66, he could hardly have anticipated how popular it would become.

I realise I am a bear of little brain who doesn't grasp the subtle smartness of post-modern personality-driven television. I need things spelled out to me in simple, non-ironic terms.

Just like the US in World War II, Captain America is the last to get in on the act, but still does more than enough to end the season with a bang.

He could have turned up and played some records - or whatever they scratch and mash-up tunes on these days.

From the literary suggestion of the band name and the chief songwriter here - Damien Wilkins - you could guess at some serious lyrical chops.

African Cats is a wonderfully filmed animal documentary aimed at a young audience.

The raw material of this based-on-fact film is political and emotional dynamite, but the drama doesn't translate on to the screen and the result is more earnest than engaging.

A basement bar in Karangahape Rd provides an appropriate venue for a highly original variation on the classic "man walks into a bar" scenario.

Vivienne Plumb's new collection of poetry - beautifully designed by poet and publisher Helen Rickerby - reminds me that poetry books can feel so good in the hand. Plumb's poems have a chance to breathe on the page.

This debut from British pianist, arranger and jazz eccentric Greg Foat starts out brilliantly strange and tranquil, with the harpischord-driven Time Piece 1, and then it gets head-nodding and smooth on the title track.

A debut album that establishes this Louisiana-based five-piece as a more chaotic version of bands like Vampire Weekend.