Billy Idol’s recent autobiography, Dancing With Myself, candidly traces his trajectory from Bromley punk pin-up to excess-all-areas 80s stadium rocker. Having swapped pills for Pilates, his first album in eight years attempts the difficult passage from lovably ludicrous rocker to confessional crooner. Now 60, Idol’s rebel yell might be more restrained – and occasionally is actively straining – these days, but he sounds convincingly wistful on the slow, brooding likes of Ghosts in My Guitars. Elsewhere, old-school arena punk rockers such as Bitter Pill and Postcards from the Past attempt to restart the Idolmania era, though aren’t always best assisted by producer Trevor Horn’s 80s stadium-rock gloop. The album is part unrepentant throwback and part Idol’s attempt to emerge a from a party he staggered into to a long time ago and adapt to a much-changed world. Still, he hasn’t lost his chutzpah. “My future seems wide open, and tomorrow’s never broken,” he declares, clunkily, and the old lip curls once again. “So come arrnnn!”