There's also an anglophillia present in those high-pitched witterings, be it romantic reflections on Hyde Park, or the frankly alarming talk of "The Dole" that pops up early on.

The sound though, despite the nods to The Beatles, The Kinks, The Clash and even Oasis on occasion, is thoroughly American. Neil Young, Jeff Buckley, Bob Dylan, a touch of Wilco here and there, these products of the USA Of America are the touchstones for the sonic texture, man.

It's a stunning album, one that feels like a concept album in places, with one song starting and you don't even know it's a different one until you look up and the timer says 0:15 and you're thinking about shit, man, that sounds just like the last one. This isn't a flaw, though, but it's another reason why this needs a few listens before one makes ones mind up about it all. Now, listening as I write this bullshit, it's hard to credit my first impressions. How the fuck did I miss this shit? How did I not catch those heartbreaking, yearning cries about "There's a feeling I get when I talk to you, Mama"? Those sneering yet compassionate and ultimately rousing as industrial strength-Viagra choruses about "You can drink your gin and cut your skin and rise above all those restless nights"?

Make no mistake, folks, this is a fucking spell-binding work, a transfixing, other-worldy affair that, like the girls you see on Dawsons Creek, don't give in to your advances for a while, and when they do, it's not a one-off fumble and a quick smoke, it's something that you remember, man.

Thanks folks.

The Duke resides at Mondo Irlando

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