Anyone who's seen Broughton's live act, in which a completely deadpan man with a Jake Thackray baritone plays gorgeous folk melodies and then loops dischords and feedback over it before going on a wander round the back of the room, might be forgiven for wondering how it transfers to record. Well, it doesn't, it's nearly streamlined, but that brings those songs into a glorious technicolour spotlight. Laced with idealistic love and self-loathing, only some of it wry ("I am a perfect louse, I will bleed the goodness from your body"), it may be but that allows Broughton to dip into his poetic mind and rich turn of Yorkshire intonation, often in equal measure ("a stronghold we claim, is it a stronghold we've got? Is it balls") Meanwhile there's always something happening when their extended nature allows the songs to get going in their own sweet time, as unidentified noises wander into the sonic field from leftfield still trying not to disturb the elegantly crafted fingerpicked melodies. These songs, journeys of self-discovery that end up getting horribly lost in the dark for a bit, tear themselves apart but always find a kernel of self-questing truth at heart, delivered through peculiarly gripping and absolutely singular circumstances.