Great Balls of Fire. The Orb featuring Lee "Scratch" Perry, The Observer In The Star House.

Ever an unknown quantity, is the collaboration album: for every Dangerdoom there's a JJ DOOM; for every David Byrne & St. Vincent a She & Him. That between legendary reggae progenitor Lee "Scratch" Perry and ever esoteric ambient house outfit The Orb is as loose and fluid a listening experience as any – so much so that its closest contemporary would, approximately, be Jamie xx' erratic, and with it dramatic repositioning of Gil Scott-Heron's We're New Here. However were that the one to sway to upon the trundling night bus back, this would be the one to carry you through the midst of mong; to the point at which you relocate yourself and begin to remember who you actually are for at least five days a week.

As celebratory as any given Friday, Ball Of Fire is a simmering blaze of almost skiffle-fringed dub, with Perry its blotto ramblin' man. In keeping with the flavour of Lemon Jelly, Golden Clouds meanwhile is akin to the sonic imagining of a Fred Deakin-streaked sunrise; that point aforesaid at which the emergence of our almighty ball of fire decrees a new day. Again, Perry proffers little other than perfunctory blather of "God is great", something or other about "blue space", rainbows and so forth yet here, performing the part of spoken wordsmith as opposed to thoroughgoing vocalist, his absentminded presence – a stream of barely consciousness – is nowt if not a masterly pleasure. Hold Me Upsetter, a gust of ganja-scented bliss, recalls Mr. Scruff's scuffled bebop masterpiece Get A Move On, suffused with vocal samples of "The Pattersons are coming over and we only have enough grass left to roll one joint." Precisely the sort of family to which our beloved Jamaican wayfarer longs to belong, no doubt.

Elsewhere, The Orb indulge their scruffy, yet succinct ambient techno proclivities on H. O. O., whilst the syncopated limp and swagga to Thirsty slumps upwards toward bordering on breakbeat. Then, again sating the Brit pairing's appetite for a deep and murky atmosphere is LP closer Congo – a potent blend of primordial rhythmic polyrhythms, and flatulent kazoos, and Perry's unremittingly yabberous, if outwardly sagacious jargons.

The Observer In The Star House may not be one to enlighten the ends of our earth, although that said it is, at times, about as cockle-warming as the headiest Tequila Sunrise. Cheers, JA.