Tape’s last album Rideau is a massive favourite of mine.  Its languid mix of guitars and fizzing electronics reminds me of that strange and seemingly-mythical land, summer.  So, with winter’s long and gnarled fingers finally beginning to loosen their grip on Britain’s wizened ankles, I’m especially pleased to have a new soundtrack to accompany the sound of it been kicked in the face and tossed to the southern hemisphere for them to deal with.  Listening to Luminaire, I’m feeling ready for whatever that fairest of seasons can bring.  Except those stupid bastard-faced insects (wasps, are you reading?), which will inevitably make me squeal and flap like a deflating zeppelin.

True to form, Luminarium ambles into view like a sun-weary Tortoise, the gently-picked figure of “Beam” and then “Moth Wings” only gradually being joined by a couple of lazy drum splashes and woozy keyboard.  It then gets momentarily sprightlier; “Reperto” has celestial organ melodies which mingle with jaunty strum and crackling textures.  After that the heat haze returns, punctuated with the buzzing guitar of “Dripstone” protesting at having its picnic carried off by squawking gulls.  “Parade” builds elegantly up to the album’s standout “Illuminations”, in which beauty emerges butterfly-like from a chrysalis of electronic chatter, before being carried off on droning keyboard winds.

Luminarium is a more minimal beast than its predecessor.  Gone are lengthy rambles across sun-kissed plains laden with pianos, strings and the like; in its place are sharper, more direct strides unencumbered by such weight.  They both get to the same destination in the end, a beautiful place only they inhabit. That’s right – there aren’t even any insects.  Shuffle over to Häpna for your copy.