Matthew Bourne's fourth solo album was recorded at home, looking out across storm-battered Yorkshire moors, during “a period when my relationship with music-making seemed terminal”. His professional slate of sessions and soundtracks in fact continued unimpeded, and moogmemory only came out last year – but these improvised, minimalist, mostly minor-key sketches are the sound of Bourne repledging his love for pure piano playing, finding pleasure, not duty, in its touch. The view from his window provoked no lightning-forked, Wuthering Heights-like reactions, but romantic introspection. It's the sound of a man who had become numb to his art, thawing out. Individual notes reverberate and softly expire, and that most melancholy instrument, the cello, mosquito-buzzes through ‘Isopleth’. ‘Valentine’ is all shuddering cello swells and glacial increments, while ‘Wedding Mala (For Dave & Nicola)’, composed as a last-minute marital gift, is sombre and increasingly ominous, finishing as the sort of nuptials Brian De Palma might direct. It's tempting to say the pleasure, and necessity, of this album is all Bourne's. Composed as an exercise in accidental healing, dull vacancy and depression's black dog both huddle round the pianist. The muted insistence of its simplest pieces suggests depths to their calm pools, waiting to ward off despair.