In the Cocteau Twins, Elisabeth Fraser lost herself in semi-intelligible but wondrous language while guitar maestro Robin Guthrie provided what rock journalists usually ended up describing as "sonic cathedrals of sound".
The Twins split messily in 1996, and the big man has certainly taken his time over this first solo album. But the result is an intriguingly scaled-down and adapted metamorphosis of his trademark sound.
A sonic village church, if you will. Often, Guthrie restrains himself to as little as a solitary, repetitive resonant chord and echo chamber, but uses these ingredients to create vast landscapes of thought and colour. Although there is an obvious debt to Brian Eno's ambient music and Durutti Column's fragile beauty, this is very much Guthrie's noise.
When he finally allows himself a semblance of rocking out, the closing Drift is like Jimi Hendrix's version of the Star Spangled Banner, floating weightless, on the moon. Music not just to listen to, but wallow in blissfully for as long as possible, like a long, hot bath.
