IF JULIAN Cope didn't already exist, nobody would've invented him. The spaceman has cometh in many guises over the last 15 years: flight-jacketed Scott Walker obsessive, collector of psychedelic Nuggets and Pebbles, krautrock authority, maggot-brained space cadet and now, modern antiquary - Julian belongs to a long and very zig-zag line of English eccentrics, one that stretches right back from Barrett through Byron to Blake.

That said, it's hard to determine Leper Skin's place on the racks, other than as an Island exercise in recouping long-gone outlays. This compilation is drawn from two distinct ages of Cope - his polished but schizoid Saint Julian/My Nation Underground era, and the stunning Peggy Suicide/Jehovahkill rehabilitation - periods that saw the singer metamorphose from mouthy pop maverick to stark raving surfer of the astral plane.

Track selection is somewhat arbitrary and incoherent - Phase 1 contrasts hits like 'Trampoline' and 'World Shut Your Mouth' with random choice B-sides, only half-documenting the arch-Drood's transitional period, as he sought shore leave from the fantastical voyages of the Teardrops years, yet couldn't square his scrambled sensibilities with the spirit of the age. On 'Charlotte Ann' you can feel this oddball struggling to make sense of the sonic parlance of the times: gated, inflated drum sounds, spruced synth/guitar textures, and sell-by production fakery.

By '91 though, the maps had been redrawn, and in the wake of new karmacists like Inspiral Carpets and The Stone Roses, Cope's extrapolations made a crazy kind of sense. Here, with The Stooges groove of 'Hanging Out And Hung Up On The Line', the bitter 'Pristeen'(*How much does it take/To go down on someone/Someone that you hate* - the best recrimination Nico never sang) and the post-AIDS moonage nightmare of 'Safesurfer', the man had found his form once again. The following year, Jehovahkill moved focus from environmental rape to religious fundamentalism, best represented here by the Morrison Hotel-stopover 'Soul Desert', and the Syd-fried psyche-out 'Upwards At 45 Degrees' (*Will somebody sign my release?*).

But despite the quality of the material, Leper Skin is yet another botched attempt to package and sell this floored genius, being neither a comprehensive overview (no 'East Easy Rider' or 'Beautiful Love') nor an attempt to recontextualise the work in the light (or darkness) of what he's achieved since.

For optimum results, skip this and splash out on a reissue of Peggy Suicide. You'll thank him for it.