Wave Upon Wave of Idiom. Zammuto, Zammuto.

It were a sad one the day the Books called time on said project and sadder yet still when Nick Zammuto conceded to chapters scribed with erudite accomplice Paul de Jong being slammed shut definitively. All good things must come to an end if the hackneyed proverb is to be read into and if one irrevocably great thing may have come from the drawing of proverbial line beneath endeavours Bookish then it's this lustrous debut from its compulsive creative, who here beams in an opus of sorts from some bucolic bit down the back of the sofa of America.

Although Zammuto may have switched the gears on his default approach now riding solo (the eponymous el-pee was composed with the backing of a full band), so intrinsic are the idiosyncrasies and crazy intricacies within his modus operandi that if it may purport a wild spectrum of sound and style that's at times invigoratingly schizophrenic even within the framework of solitary song then its author remains unmistakable. From the clattering dub-cum-fraught orchestrations of Idiom Wave (the cherry on the perilously layered cake the scarcely touched, thus seemingly naked vox employed to exquisite effect on Free Translator) to the euphoric rhythmic skitter of The Shape Of Things To Come that comes across like latterday Air wafting heavenwards aboard celestial manjira, The Way Out now not only seems retrospectively as though it were Zammuto's escape route from the overbearing suppression of the band but also as a somewhat prototypal work for this perfectly shaped thing hurtling toward our present. Whether it be the schizophrenic balladry of Too Late To Topologize or the contorted futuro-folk stylings of Harlequin the Books suddenly appears to be a prologue to the history currently being emphatically scribed by this greatly eccentric introvert and with a tangible, earthly joy returning to fertilise his work, that enviable childish naïveté may bloom.

Opener Yay for instance, a snowballing bundle of playful synths, stuttering vocal processions and a hi-hat intro repeated ad infinitum, harnesses the unadulterated excitement of dashing down slippery PVC flooring to the din of sonorous break time bell. The tumbling guitars of the segueing, double entendre-centric Groan Man, Don't Cry too flutter with an impeccable youthfulness, as though they were the flimsy bricks of a stately house of cards to have been mischievously razed to a pillow-soft ground. Snippets of sample meet a rambunctious bass clunk on Zebra Butt, its title akin to the sort of mildly warped obscenity scribbled on the blackboard behind the back of irked instructor although it is centrepiece F U C-3PO that purveys most potently Zammuto's intense attempts to construct songs of discernible verses and choruses, with bridges crossing these refreshing waters from one to t'other. Preceded by Crabbing – the rustle of lost jazz take explicating that penchant for the collecting of randomness adopted from de Jong – if this extended intro of sorts (an intro for solitary song again evidencing Nick's sonic zanity) may appear a conscious attempt to stay true to parts penned previously then the acculturation of organic Astatke-esque shimmer and mechanical bass-led romp to follow is the figurative, entirely ceremonious shredding of rulebook; The Shape Of Things To Come slithers of inordinate promise and uncompromising artistry.