Much like Howe Gelb and Sufjan Stevens, Califone’s sixth album accompanies an eponymous feature film (out 2010), a tale of a woman living in a house full of ghosts who begin to destroy her life. But the interchanging ectoplasm fuzz and poltergeist grind that entrap Tim Rutili’s mournful husk along with the record’s unusual progression from jarring, dissonant percussion to almost reluctantly fecund Americana translate the notion of feeling ill at ease in familiar territory stunningly; not least on the hummingbird wing fragile ‘1928’, melancholy to the point of being lyrically disoriented, and the memory sullied “white dress” of ‘Evidence’. Although its initial disinclination to engage may deter those unfamiliar with Califone, for those accustomed, All My Friends… represents the apotheosis of their work.

Laura Snapes