The German instrumental duo also process the vocals, sending snippets of Smith's poetry looping and repeating into the distance, exploding and disintegrating through the mix. Often Smith sounds like he's not particularly interested or even aware of what's going on. And perversely enough, these moments are the most powerful on the album - ‘Serious Brainskin', played loud enough, is that rarest of things - a genuinely frightening rock song. Smith sounds like death warmed up and determined to take you down with him. Like much of the collection it's harsh, dense and close to industrial.

And unlike the last Fall album Smith doesn't sound bitter, he just sounds fucking berserk. 'Flooded' is a prime example - a horrible clash of provincial shitholes, cheap drugs, paranoia and abrasive synthesizer. The lie dream of a casino soul rewritten. And regardless of what anyone is saying, it doesn't sound like dance music to me. Certainly, apart perhaps from 'Rhinohead' ( which contains some of the best real singing Smith has ever produced), it's a million miles form MES northern soul roots.

Mouse on Mars are far more punk than dance, which isn't a bad thing, but it does seem to mean that they think another squelching acid bassline - nearly twenty years down the line - is the state of the art. Maybe that's a good thing - they certainly avoid the navel gazing minimalism which is the other pole of electronic music at the moment - but sometimes it sounds like the kind of early nineties techno hippy mish mash that would be best forgotten. Then again, with newer acolytes like LCD Sound System and the ongoing post punk / nu-rave / black rabbit thwack post post-modern carry on, it could be that it's bang up to date.

This is a confusing album. On occasion it's truly vital sounding, while elsewhere the two halves seem to separate just too much and it all begins to sound like the Mark E travelling freakshow with guest backing band , which was always going to be the danger.

'Louis Lane' sounds like the last words of someone - pissed, obviously - who's just finished their argument and fallen into a ditch. And equally strangely, 'Dearest Friends' is almost pastoral, Smith saluting his mates over a twee Django guitar backdrop and sounding quite wistful. It's closest to the Kinks of the late 60' s who Smith clearly loves, and it’s quite beautiful. This album's just a strange place to find it.

What to make of it all? If the planned future albums do appear, then maybe there'll be some kind of context to view this in. But as it stands it's an essential purchase. The flashes of genius, the verve and the fucked up raw energy set this apart from 'Reformation post TLC' and leave it much closer to the Fall’s really essential work.