There’s intuition, a splash of magic and some greatness of delivery here between Watt, Silver Jew Tim Barnes, John Dietrich of Deerhoof and Nels Cline collaborator Thollem McDonas. It’s no American indie indulgence, it’s the straight strange path straight out of standard sound and off, beautiful and ugly into somewhere other.

While it’s sometimes a bland experience, the songwriting here, with a little self monitoring, could bring us something really special next time around. As it stands we’re left with a debut referential in the extreme but with an occasional knack for shining loveliness.

A wonderful, evocative and suddenly magical set of songs that draw their centre from the bittersweet twang of The Go-Betweens, their adornment from a variety of towns, countries and times, their dancing shoes and smarts from the lessons of one too many minor heartbreaks.

Using the cloak of an alter ego, Tillman creates a warm, witty and stirring album, that contains at least two genuine instant classics.

Human… is shaped imperfectly and purposefully – a jagged, horn-peaked mountain carved from bedroom beats, beholden to bloody noses, broken bottles and bare bones breaks as it builds from the bottom up and trails back down from its various climaxes on its own sufficiently satisfying terms.

While Cheers was the autobiography and Second Round.. a tale of tragedy, Bottoms Up sees Trice veering between the three totems of braggadocio (paired with aggression and a touch of paranoia), his love of money and finery and last but not least, women and his love/hate relationship with them.

There is no doubt that Boucher is possessed of a superb musical intellect. She uses every available element of solo controlled electronica to create an unusual, sometimes spectacular alternate world where words are just another miraculous sound, rhythm a simple foundation on which to drape near-infinte layers of differing finery.

A record for the pre-dawn haze, those unsure moments before the sun hits, after the last cigarette is crushed out and the last kiss had. Perfect.

There’s nothing inherently bad about whimsical, shy little records that deny all forms of ego, bluster and aggression. It’s just that you’d think Love, with his years of experience, would be able to offer up a little more light and shade.

An album of ideas that can’t be criticised for lacking a cohesive style and vision especially when it’s a blinding pop record for at least half of its running time, writes Michael James Hall.