And so, the gradual transformation from Talking Heads to Talk Talk is complete. This is a very different animal to previous work, even from Nonsuch. A seven year gap to what is essentially another double album, and in a postmodern sort of way the band has in fact disappeared. The guitarist has realised he was essentially now a session player, and the Moulding/Patrridge axis is basically now two solo artists operating under a shared name. And I mean you can be as clever as you like about it but it's really pretty good.

It's easy to understand how people could get lost in a work like this. There's the orchestral element, of course, which gives it a filmic quality from the get-go. The Sgt Pepper horns are there in full effect, the Eleanor Rigby strings. And perhaps we have finally crossed the rubicon from a band which just doesn't want to tour anymore, to an album which - frankly - might not make it if you tried to play it live. You'd need the Albert Hall, let's put it that way. And what you'd likely get would be Brixton Academy full of 50-somethings waiting for Nigel and Senses.

To some extent, I would understand if this was the end. The Last Balloon sails off into the sunset and we're left with tantalising glimpses of what might happen next, or what could have happened, or what is happening in some kind of alternate Chalkhills universe.

AP: “It sounds unlike anything else out there at the moment. It's pagan, verdant, greasy, idiosyncratic, salacious.” He's not wrong. It still sounds out on its own, even now at a pace of twenty years.