The beat weaves and wanders, prodding the other elements this way and that, gravitating them back towards the centre with a playful smack across the skull. It insists upon not only concentration, but upon a certain amount of pure exhibitionism, an extra little jump, a big suspended leap, a spin and a roll. In spite of the title, there's less messing around with nonsensical lyrics, but the musical nips and tucks, mostly, wonderfully, in the wrong places, add up to a neat fashionable accessory. Here we go again. Each song also bears the marks of the unknowns, the guitarist and the keyboard player casting their lots with considered abandon.
Every sound is spiced up with electro-eccentric trickery, a perfumed round 'n' tumble.
Some of the FX are describable with vague words such as fuzz, wail, grumble and grate, others have to be left to the imagination. The only disastrous slip comes with a cover of a Bob Dylan song, Frantz's less than desirable vocals replacing Weymouth's venerable tones. Forgetting that, we're left with whizz, bang, flash, mmmm. The Tom Tom Club prompted me to tap the person in front of me on the shoulder and propose marriage. He said yes.