On the one hand, this album demonstrates business as usual with latter-day beat poet John Cooper-Clarke; on the other, it is ripe with unease in terms of Cooper-Clarke's direction, thanks to a more than casual nod to the obligations of a musical approach -- Cooper-Clarke comes perilously close to singing in some spots, and dangerously close to copping a rap approach in others, while the Invisible Girls' backing keeps falling into a low-budget pop trap.

Cooper-Clarke's poems remain quirky, and sometimes have his old cynical bite ("Beasley Street" sees him pouring words out against a gradually more urgent backing), but there are far too many times on this set when he seems at a loss as to where he's going.

Still, he remains unique.