Patchy at best.

It’s all very strange yet thoroughly intriguing, but it does leave you pondering the question of what direction Ghost are planning to move in next.

Unfortunately, whereas sounding out of place in the late 90s worked in their favour, in the mid-noughties the lack of pretty faces, Converse Allstars and - perhaps most important of all - any half-decent tunes is unlikely to bring Gomez first prize even in their local pub’s battle of the bands.

Jules’ talents lie closer to the downhome folksiness of Cat Stevens, enlivened by an eye for detail previously thought the sole preserve of Elliott Smith.

This is a perplexing album: two excellent singles, a few stellar moments of vicious riffage, but little to assuage that lingering sense of emptiness.

Unfortunately, many of these mixes were submitted either by talented fans or lesser known professionals, and often they’ve removed much more than they’ve put in.

There’s little in the way of straightforward rock here[;] instead they have opted to renege on their commitment to flat-four crunch and embrace melodicism...and experimentalism.

It most probably won’t attract new fans, but Margo Timmins’ voice is as unique as Thalia Zedek’s, for example, and remains their greatest asset.

The melancholy on offer barely gets above the level of sixth form poetry, and though Wilson tries to sound impassioned he comes across as strained.

A confusing listen.