This catastrophic record from Anton Newcombe’s psychedelic rockers starts as an unlistenable mess and gets progressively worse as the long hour of tripe goes on … and on … and on.

‘Tempo 116.7’ – a fittingly mundane opener - is a confused mish-mash of bhangra, trance and landscape rock that falls flat from the first sound of a synthesiser and doesn’t recover from there. Still, this isn’t quite the worst track on the album, that honour going to the majestically titled ‘Let’s Go F*****g Mental’ which consists of constant repetition of the chant over sub-Kasabian loops. It’s enough to send you crazy. Or stop you listening. You decide.

For those unlucky few who continue, there’s more to come. Every now and then Newcombe strays (accidentally?) into the realm of coherence: from time to time we are treated to some rock ‘n’ roll and ‘Tunger Hnifur’ is almost a normal song which we are grateful for. The only ‘normal song’ on an album being the highlight is usually a bad sign.

Relocating to Iceland hasn’t had a positive effect on BJM, their eleventh album being their weakest and most laughable to date. It’s sprawling and amateurish, repetitive to the point of insanity and too often just plain boring. Still, I recommend ‘Let’s Go F*****g Mental’ for research purposes, and some of the lyrics would make for great greetings cards: "I’ll fucking kill you and everyone too, and I don’t give a fuck about World War Two".