The eleventh album by this maverick London-based outfit follows in a direction hinted at in last year's Nerve Cure, with John Edwards providing creaky cello scrapes, chunky basslines and self-consciously lumbering and synthetic drum programs. On to that odd framework, the rest of the ensemble hang dry, diffident horn charts that – somewhat improbably – seem to sit halfway between the academic prog of Henry Cow and the chugging cheek of Madness. On tracks like ‘Strange Welcome’ the drum machine stops chattering, replaced by shakers and tympani, giving the horns enough space to quest forth with a tremulous uncertainty. In fact, the whole album feels like a singular, psycho-geographical expedition below the surface of everyday reality in search of some vaguely defined region deep in unmapped psychic territory – manned by a team who, utterly focused on the task in hand, remain boldly, blithely unaware of ephemeral notions of hipness or cool.