If that weren't enough, they're forced into breaking a longtime ban on being photographed, exposing themselves to scorn from dance's underground mafia and a lifetime of sarky captions. By rights, Ed Handley and Andy Turner should be on top of a tower somewhere, wreaking revenge by spraying innocent passers-by with bullets and cackling behind clown masks. Or at least breaking into a mild sweat.

But no. Their first post-split LP maintains a state of calm only usually achieved by members of Far Eastern religions and devotees of English county cricket. Gone is the itching restlessness and hovering sense of paranoid unease that made The Black Dog so nail-bitingly compulsive. On the evidence of a quick flick through, 'Not For Threes' seems alarmingly low-key. Far too cosy and unambitious for its own good.

Give it a bit more time, however, and a peculiar musical vocabulary starts materialising. Melodies that whimper like Victorian orphans begging small change. Beats that tickle instead of batter.

And, ultimately, tunes. The kind that Orbital would consider then reject for not being bombastic enough. The jumping bean electro of 'Ladyburst', sonically tiny but busier than an ant hill on a Bank Holiday. Björk's contribution Lilith' cosier than an autumn Sunday in front of the fire. Blatant tear-jerker 'Rakimou' with its tragic operatics soaring all over the shop.