Baxter Dury’s second album isn’t so much a step forward from his 2002 debut, Len Parrott’s Memorial Lift, as a retreat into the darkest nights of his soul. An atmosphere of fractious discontent seeps from the lyrics, dragging even the brightest songs into the murk. “No matter how hard you try you fall from grace,” he repeats, over and over, at the end of the otherwise sparkling Francesca’s Party; “All that matters are the cigarettes,” he decides in the sensuous title track. Murmured and multilayered, Dury’s vocals seem to emerge through a bandage of gauze; at times he sounds unnervingly anaesthetised. The music, too, is woozy and lost, Lisa Said blurring into a wash of guitars reminiscent of My Bloody Valentine, Young Gods a drifting, druggy haze. It’s the kind of album that would incline those of a cheery disposition to shout that it might never happen. Dury, though, knows that the worst always does happen. This beautiful album is the sound of him surviving it.