The expansive, heavenly textured, rambling blues jams that make up a good part of the record preserve some of the improvised spirit they were created in.

These details--textures, feelings and moods translated into sonic imprints--elevate the work to a cohesive and impressive debut. It’s proof that taking time, both in creation and in listening and metabolizing an album, is more valuable than ever.

Closer Oh Bummer, sung by drummer Greg Saunier, is a straightforward moody rock song--at least for the first three minutes, after which a striking doomsday-meets-Thriller breakdown erupts, reminding diehard fans that the band members are still weirdos but also keeping fair-weather listeners at a distance.

The album’s emphasis on repetition occasionally sounds too self-conscious, but it’s a rare excess in an otherwise restrained--if not necessarily subtle--collection of ballads.

This means there are fewer musical surprises, though one comes when Martin Doherty takes over lead vocals for a song, seemingly out of nowhere. It makes Mayberry’s return to the mic even sweeter.

A masterful, mystical interpreter, Oldham conjures a new mood for Death To Everyone, unfurls an intense lost original called Beezle, and strikes at the gospel core of Prince’s The Cross.

Blanco takes on characters and stretches her voice into new shapes, easily switching from feminine to macho over the course of a single track, while her lyrics summon up vivid imagery and raw emotions.

They've reused almost every song from their EP. But that's forgivable when the band manages a knockout with almost every punch.

More importantly, though, the songs still totally fucking rock.

Fans of his ambient hip-hop and blissed-out impressionist R&B will be more pleased with Guilt Trips than those who prefer his clubby side.

Rault’s commitment and ability to ape the sounds of his idols is both his strength and his Achilles’ heel.

Simply Grand is the perfect showcase for Thomas’s impressive range and understated power.

Sykes's closely mic'd vocals add a confessional quality to her melancholic delivery of cold raindrops and empty sky imagery that's endearing in small doses.

It may be exactly what fans have been waiting for, but you have to wonder how long the band can keep using the same templates.

The album also hints at bossa nova and jazz but never abandons the post-rock sounds that are the band's forte. The most inviting Mice Parade effort to date.

There are some missteps--the ballad Tripwire feels out of place in the general uptempo pace, and in (She Might Be A) Grenade, Costello lazily compares a girl to an atomic bomb (didn’t Green Day already do this?)--but when the album works, the band and the singer/songwriter sound more invigorated than they have in years.

While IV shows a progression, it lacks the progressiveness that would keep BBNG in a league with their aforementioned jazz/hip-hop predecessors and peers. However admirably, it stays in its own lane.

It's tempting to hate it for failing to recapture their earlier unhinged, chaotic glory. But doing so would be to miss out on how good they've become (despite themselves).

The transitions throughout that first track aren't as seamless as you'd expect from Hebden, but they're also what keeps the music from slipping into the background.

The band’s best album to date.

The five tracks amble and pulsate and plod along in a way that feels consistent with the band and the genre.

It's dizzying, and you'll want off at times, but you'll likely ask to ride again.

The various producers behind this all pull their weight, but as usual the star is Blige’s husky voice and that charming mix of vulnerability and over-the-top diva confidence.

Energy flows smoothly from frantic sugar-rush highs to subtly beautiful, ambient polyrhythm experiments, and this gradual winding down effectively showcases the full spectrum of his vision. It shouldn't work, but it does.

Well sharp.

Mostly, though, the barely 30-minute album is a non-stop rager.

The 10-song album ricochets between great – the grammatically playful What You Is, the countryish Hurry For The Sky – and just okay.

Sparkling arpeggios and sublime atmospherics undercut the loneliness and desperation in MacLean and Whang’s singing (the latter’s is the stronger of the two’s), giving tension to the confident and frequently beautiful production.