It’s unusual for an act to hit its peak after four decades. Yet here it is. The band’s climb to become Britain’s most dazzling live band – shows are played at full energy without the breaks lesser combos need to breathe, drink or chatter – was unexpected, and public awakening to their humour, skill and brilliance demands revision of post-punk history. The Nightingales emerge as the industrious ant to their peers’ workshy grasshopper personae, appearing victoriously at the finish line to puzzled realisations that they’d ever even been in the race. The Nightingales have notoriously had a new label for each new album, a fact which might reasonably call for consumer caution, but they don’t fit in with anything like a scene, they speak their own musical language, and while they bust out slogans about being “slightly superior to others of their ilk” . . . the truth is, they have no ilk. Faust’s Hans-Joachim Irmler adds keyboards and The Lovely Eggs’ Holly Blackwell’s languid voice features on one song, but the album’s real shock is that the band has now gelled to an unspoken, nearly psychic interplay. Captain Beefheart, one of Robert Lloyd’s musical heroes, is best known for the difficult-but-classic Trout Mask Replica, and like that album, this one contains nary a ‘hit’, yet here every song sticks in the brain and grooves . . . outclassing Beefheart’s masterpiece with its effortless charm. John Peel noted, “Their performances will serve to confirm their excellence when we are far enough distanced from the 1980s to look at the period rationally and other, infinitely better known, bands stand revealed as charlatans”. It’s doubtful he would have bothered with such a pre-emptive defence if he’d been able to witness the explosive growth of the band during their second incarnation.