Sometimes there's a book, a painting, a film or a piece of music that just keeps nudging you, long after you've played it, decided you feel attracted, baffled, dumbfounded, slightly foxed, interested but uncommitted, and replaced it on the shelf. David Lynch's Mulholland Drive had me like that. I couldn't have told you what exactly happened, or to whom, or whether, ummm, the person I thought it happened to just now was the same person it happened to in this scene. Which is normally a minus point... but no: sure enough, for months individual scenes, words, colours, feelings just kept nagging at me, coming back to me in quiet moments, until I went back to it again. and again. And again. That's how it is with The Drift. You won't love it first time - you'll be too concerned with trying to latch onto bits of recognisable pop. The riff of Cossacks Are; the musical quote from Jesse,'Jailhouse Rock' slowed down to an acoustic Black Sabbath drone. And in between, well, there are no neat chunks of answers, no more auto-pilot pat 12-bars-and-out passages. Just clues. Just impressions. Just images. Just sounds. And at first, that's a little bit intimidating, a little bit like being lost, and you just want to find out where you are (latch onto those landmarks) and get home by the shortest route. But the beauty, the addictive, indescribable beauty, of The Drift, is that it just leaves you to explore this place. And you get to know it, and feel like you live there. You never get bored because you really, genuinely, never get to latch onto a piece of something regular or conventional that you know will last until the solo etc etc. Get a personal stereo and put this on. Live here. It's terrifying at times, sure, but it's exciting. Neever mind all the worthy adjectves (brave, experimental, bleak etc)... this is a ride and a half, the full hairs-standing-on-end bit. You won't want to go back.