Yes, it sounds like you're now entering Bluejam, but Lynch discovered the place, and instead of quitting cinema to make an album that's being called his debut, it sounds more like he's coming home.

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He could be a genius or he could be a lunatic; either way, one of modern filmdom's most debated and alluring figures has made an arresting album that successfully translates his visual surrealism to a new medium.

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Although this is his first foray proper into the medium of electronic music, it's a masterful accomplishment.

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It is a peculiar little record, but it hangs together very well, and makes a reasonable case for his ability to wring something worthy out of whatever art form he chooses to tackle.

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No matter what any of the songs sound like, Lynch stands center stage, his fingerprints over every single element of the music, and the expressive, emotive features on this album create a real response in the listener, from familiarity to icy discomfort.

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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.

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When the album works, it's truly something to behold, a marvelously twisted effort that acts as a corollary to the warped images Lynch has been creating for years.

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Crazy Clown Time never succumbs to the weight of its own novelty, and fits in nicely with Lynch's untidy and constantly evolving body of work.

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It's kind of cool, kind of confusing, and kind of boring.

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Unfortunately, none of these songs actually feel like songs. Only a few have choruses or any significant chord changes. Instead, they're set pieces, which makes sense.

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This is an intriguing diversion for the veteran filmmaker--not quite good enough to make us want him to give up cinema for keeps, but certainly a new strand to his unique, ineffable vision.

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Lynch handles most everything else here--vocals, guitar, writing, production--creating soundscapes that are dark, unsettling, and often confusing.

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The results sound as if Lynch's old protégé Chris Isaak had taken a left turn into lyrical eccentricity, pulsing synths and sinister atmospherics.

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The news that David Lynch was trying his hand at dance music, though strange, was made less so by the fact that the film-maker, one of America's great eccentrics, already had sidelines in visual art, coffee and weather reporting.

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