Like a forensic scientist, Adamson revels in discovery, epiphany and the heart's ultimate failing, whether it be in a wrangled out Nina Simone style rant in six-eight time, an electronic emulation of how the fifties might of sounded if synths were around then, or cranked up disco blues where repetition and longing hammer the point home. The record takes the listener through a whole menu of musical delectation, an expected, almost given in Adamson's work, leaving you unlike the character in this hideous analysis, craving more for it's own sake, but rather feeling like going back to your favourite eatery with an appetite that simply wants to delight in savouring.