Hailed in various non-French quarters as the leaders in some arch Euro-easy-dance scene, truth is Air's oeuvre—faux-naïf fragments with processed vocals dressed in posh strings and vulgar analogue synth, plus a hook (if you're lucky)—has always trod a fine line. Art or pop? Postmodern electronica or vacuous kitsch? The very sound of the zeitgeist or the infantile grab-bag of drivel that the media-drugged, retro-chic-obsessed audience deserve? Clever pretending to be stupid or stupid pretending to be clever?

It's a tricky one, yet there in lies Air's appeal; their childish-sophisticated, retro-future aesthetic is persuasively peddled, apparently heartfelt and, at its best, damnably alluring. You'll gather I came to bury, not to praise, but Talkie Walkie is a confounding, insidious seducer. The odd lapse notwithstanding (the silly, unworthy synthetic pop of "Surfing On A Rocket"), the album contains their most convincing, most composerly music to date. Mostly eschewing the tougher, darker stance of their ill-received 2001 album 10,000 Hz Legend, Talkie Walkie is richly textured, carefully harmonised and laced through with lovely melodic flotsam. Songs like "Cherry Blossom Girl" and "Venus" recall the enticing, blank-eyed pop of 1998's Moon Safari, while the instrumentals "Alone In Kyoto" and "Mike Mills" (named for their erstwhile art director, not R.E.M.'s bassist) are similar to the mood pieces from their soundtrack album The Virgin Suicides (2000), but are more finely honed.

Those bored with the hype and the genre may not have the patience to allow Talkie Walkie's charms to unfold in their imagination, but it snuck up on this cynic and much of it captured his heart. That'll be clever music then.

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