Fionn Regan composed the lyrics to this album on a typewriter, and has noted that the percussive nature of typing influenced the phrasing. Despite his ­tendency to sing in rat-a-tat bursts, percussive isn't the first word that comes to mind when listening. What you do notice are the fresh, ­striking ­lyrics (glasses is rhymed with Mr Onassis, and Regan wishes he were your coathook, your pearl-grey ­fedora) and the electric guitars. Yes, electric: while not wholly abandoning the folkie acoustica of his Mercury-nominated debut, The End of History, he's discovered the pleasure of plugging in, turning up the volume and roving in a bluesy, rockabillyish direction. And a pleasure it generally is. Regan can be sassy and scruffy, or quiveringly sincere, but he's never uninteresting. Words and images tumble out – we infer that he's a fool for love, but a cynical one – and by the end, you're thoroughly dazzled.