Given his newly shortened artist name, you might be tempted into thinking Ariel Pink was growing up, sobering up and becoming sensible. A quick look at how he's made headlines recently would suggest otherwise: slagging off Madonna's recent discography, calling 4AD labelmate Grimes "stupid and retarded", labelling himself the "Jimmy Saville of Los Angeles".

Similarly, as soon as album opener 'Plastic Raincoats in the Pig Parade' starts (there are worse titles later on), you don't hear an artist willing to settle down. Instead the track is completely infantile, sounding like opening theme of a ‘70s morning cartoon show. About tripping out on cocaine.

While most tracks could be considered playful, some are downright silly: a run from 'Nude Beach A Go-Go' to 'Sexual Athletics' (those are the worse titles) channels everything from naturist surf-rock, glam metal, James Brown funk and advert muzak to, on the bizarre 'Dinosaur Carebears', Middle Eastern dance music, a manic facsimile of a nursery rhyme and finally dubby ska. In this middle third, the album becomes a surreal mess of self-congratulating madness, but since the entire record is covered in this same hazy, analogue shine, it becomes very hard to tell whether or not he's joking.

This thing is, he can afford to joke. This is his boldest album yet, both in terms of its audacious weirdness and how that is set in relief by powerful rock songs. The first and final acts channel their drugged, erratic aesthetic into crafting incredible journeys through a reimagined 80s Hollywood. 'White Freckles', driving and intense, shows a songwriter as imaginative as any in current pop music, evoking early Arcade Fire in his marriage of vulnerable, intimate themes and a sun-drenched, epic sound. Among them is lead single 'Put Your Number In My Phone' – undoubtedly one of the songs of the year – which twists its news-jingle saccharine hook into an infectiously bright, shimmering love song.

The album’s true intentions start becoming apparent on Jell-o, a song mostly about gelatinous desserts: "Mom and Dad are normal / Everyone eats white bread / That's why they're all dead". This sits alongside the only voice that might come from Ariel Rosenberg, not Pink, on 'Picture Me Gone', a poignant slow jam about fearing obliteration from our transient, digital age.

It's clear he wants to be remembered, or more that he wants his reconfigured image to be. The lunacy of pom pom is an attempt to burn that image onto your retinas, and the extraordinary pop songs are his way of rewarding your attention.

Final track 'Dayzed Inn Daydreams' reminds us why he's worth the trouble: a proper indie rock anthem like those that made his name. It's an appropriate end to the album, despite the contradictions it is riddled with. He never sorts out whether he wants to critique or recreate the fantastical Californian dream he keeps invoking, and he might still be a misogynist twat – he never descends into complete self-parody, but can’t make a track completely devoid of weird additions.

Ultimately, however, these tensions are all in service of keeping Ariel Pink in your mind's eye. While he's so restlessly creative, that's no problem at all.