From the cover – a chubby lad slyly cupping a woman's breast – and titles (Dustin Binman, Brad S**tt, Sexy Grandad), not to mention the band's name, you could be forgiven for expecting the musical equivalent of Viz magazine. Not so. What you get is a variously disorientating, draining and divine hybrid of Don Caballero, Larks' Tongues In Aspic-era King Crimson and the more obtuse side of Battles, a molten, miasmic melange of skittering guitar figures, pulsing polyrhythms and arpeggios that dance skywards like lightning bolts in reverse. Easy listening this five-track album is not, and for that the Edinburgh group deserve plaudits. When the brew works, as it does most potently on closer Under A Glass Table, it's the equal of any of the aforementioned bands, an eight-minutes-plus rite that begins with lilting minor-key guitar picking before segueing into an addictively dry funk riff that somehow evolves into a seismic grind that churns like boiling toffee. When it doesn't, the group's leanings towards onanistic virtuosity leaves you wholly uninvolved. Mercifully, the good far outweighs the bad.