‘Custard Curtain’, the 9½ studio record by Album Men

Custard Curtain, quite frankly, is a baffling piece of genius. It knows when to draw you close, taking you by the collar, drawing you level with its face and breathing a mixture of milk breath and willpower over you, moves as if to kiss you and then chucks you back onto the sofa next to Irene. It is the sticky newborn of the righteous farmers of Prog, Album Men, a “three-piece quartet” supergroup comprised of guitarist Mick Splash (the beardless anger from The Formless), violinist Herod Hagley (the composer of the Hate Fête Quadrilles) and drummist Hamish Mist (the first musician to record music at the speed of sound). With chops like these, Album Men are under considerable pressure to produce good music more or less constantly, with more emphasis on the latter rather than the former. And constantly, they do. They are no stranger to controversy, more like cousins to controversy, and tattle tales of their misdemeanors pepper the press like bright chunks of mozzarella in a Salad Nicoise. During the recording process of Custard Curtain, in that un-never-ending pursuit of Sound with a capital ‘S’, Album Men have executed well-known philosophers in public parks, designed lounge furniture using only gravel, thrown Quavers at quavers, chewed a live tail and politely shot an aunt, and set it all down for perpetuity on this, the world’s first record made of leaf. And despite all of my misgivings about prog (a genre I once described as “whatever the inside of an apple must sound like”), this, actually, isn’t bad.

The first couple of tracks, Pie In Pie and Bowls, smell of the kind of pseudo-pre-antiquity that moulds away on the outside of the tasty steak of music, all balls and no bells. A hammer jangles away on the other side of what sounds like Heathrow’s Terminal 2, a melody that is meant to evoke ‘breakfast at dinner-time’, according to the lyrics. The next three songs, Hell Smells, Draw Me A Flan and Time For Limes don’t do much else, other than massage your inner ears in a way that is simultaneously sinister and nostalgic. Then, suddenly, predictably, surprisingly, it’s the end of Side A, and this is where the magic happens. Album Men have built a record that is possibly the most exciting record in the world to turn over. It swooshes through the air like a pumice eagle, it’s grip n’ slip edge as pleasurable to palm as a recently moisturised nectarine, and its central turning hole surprisingly satisfying to puncture. Side B is, again, a P.S. in musical history, something you might read if you have the time but are more likely to bin and find some tea and crisps. But that flip! Flip me, it’s flipping flipped-out. These weary sogs sure know what their public wants, an inverted middle-finger of a gesture that asks us to lie back in our hammocks, worrying not, and just let the rest of the record become itself. It’s the auditory equivalent of spitting an orange pip from the window of a car, passing the same spot many years later and finding a Tropicana factory. I love this record flip and I think you will too.

You’ll like this if you like:

• An Inch of Songs, by Teeny Tiny

• Freshly-Baked Circle, by Ringworm

• Big Green Ticking Sound, by Heavenly