New York’s Regina Spektor is something of a puzzle wrapped in an enigma. Born in Moscow to a Jewish family, the Perestroika era émigré had a musical upbringing that blended the Beatles with classical piano, and it’s this sort of eclecticism that has remained evident throughout a career blending jazz, hip-hop, rock and who knows what else beneath abstract lyrics and her trademark vocals. This fourth major label release sees Spektor continuing to develop, transforming from her obscure origins into something bordering on pop perfection.

Far begins with Man Of A Thousand Faces, a typically kooky observational track underlined by a luscious piano loop that should accompany the strangely beautiful moments in high definition wildlife documentaries when the sun rises majestically over the savannas and a lion decides to kill something.

It’s a fittingly organic introduction to a record that flirts with existentialism and environmentalism, Blue Lips foregoing tenuous green connotations by opining on the similarities between the human body and “the colour of our planet from far, far away”, whilst current single, and one of the many highlights, Laughing With points out the harsh truth that even cold-hearted atheists such as myself wouldn’t dare “laugh at God in a hospital”. Genius Next Door continues in the same egalitarian vein as Soviet Kitsch’s Poor Little Rich Boy, telling the story of a self-aggrandising egotist now resigned to “bussing tables” or merely “sleeping” come the apparent Armageddon.

Never though does Spektor appear holier-than-thou or po-faced: this is impossible of a woman who peppers her tracks with deft humour and bewildering eccentricities; a woman who on Folding Chair declares she has a perfect body because her eyelashes catch her sweat.

It’s also impossible of a woman whose voice is so utterly joyous to listen to, Human Of The Year seeing her take it to such heights as to rank comfortably alongside fellow leftfield doyenne Joanna Newsom (and for this writer, compliments don’t come any bigger). The title of One More Time With Feeling is a demand that could never be levelled at Spektor herself, a foot-tapping delight with hints of the Kinks and similarly glorious 60s pop.

Far could well be the record that propels Spektor into mainstream consciousness, coming across as a masterful stepping stone between obscure Manhattan anti-folk and the periphery of singer-songwriter greatness, achieving a deep, gorgeous, ceiling-smashing vibe without losing the smoky, breathy essence that made her earlier work so cherished. And whilst she couldn’t be any more Upper East Side if she made post-coital observations about having a ‘Kafkaesque experience’, Spektor remains an enthralling, inclusive artist, her lyricism, equal parts stoic and idiosyncratic, painting pictures that even she admits she can’t wholly explain, whilst her effervescent charm could melt the coldest of hearts.