What an incredibly beautiful thing, for a package so very garish. The CD cover, slipcase particularly, is a primary school style teaching exercise in primary colours and how to induce a piercing headache thereof. But this disguises, quite surprisingly, an all too brief collection of eccentric classical pop songwriting, its ambition transcribed across blanket constellations of twinkling stars and atmospheric shimmering images daubed by a firm hand. You are eventually left with the feeling that perhaps this won’t be the last time Christian Silva toy with you or your expectations. With these 8 tracks the London 4-piece give a widescreen account of contrariness, sideways seriousness and elaborate sonic thrashing, in a velvet suit stained with the faint fug of cigar smoke and dark secrets. With grand bloody pianos. And equally mighty drums, like that thing that clomps ridiculously around the jungle in Lost. You could mention Muse, because frankly you have to. They’re the first band you hit if you draw a straight line from this record up to the sun. They don’t get that far, they’re bound to the ground on a long length of rope, but still bob around at their limits, and the theatrical flamboyance is unavoidable. As is the gravity of that man’s voice. Like Morrissey, doing Noel Coward, doing low budget opera. And there is more. Much more (hang these on the family tree: Elbow, Talk Talk, Nick Cave, Lambchop, Beck, Frank Zappa). But that should be enough to tempt you in for now.