“Indie by numbers is boring” stated Ricky Wilson earlier this year. He may as well have said “Hey pot, it’s kettle - you’re black!” because, for the past three years, his band have purported a stream of indie gubbins - I mean, have you seen their live shows? Ricky Wilson just runs across the stage for an hour shouting “woooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooah! Now you sing!”. Needless to say, the joke’s starting to wear thin. After the pretty drastic failure of second effort ‘Yours Truly, Angry Mob’ (three good songs were salvaged from the wreckage), Wilson’s band are out to prove they don’t fall under the jurisdiction of his “indie by numbers” formula. Do they succeed? There’s still no certain answer.

Opener ‘Spanish Metal’ is a bombastic barrage of galloping Latin guitars, like Queen’s ‘Innuendo’ rocked up. It’s an excellent opener, with Ricky Wilson, crooning “if you think you’re right then you are wrong” meaninglessly, yet emphatically, in this Mexican assault interspersed with a closing dose of Britpop. The Kaisers are trying to prove they don’t care with this album, but this is something that’s very apparent, to the point where the message becomes slightly paradoxical. More on that later. Next is lead single, ‘Never Miss A Beat’ is also pretty good. The lyrics are ridiculous, one of which is one of the worst I’ve ever heard (“what do you want for tea? I want crisps”). It’s a tedious attempt at social-commentary, but the chorus reaches a festival-sized anthemic fever pitch. The layered vocals smack of Ronson, and you can tell this is a work by the twatty producer, with catchy pop hooks abundant (thankfully he left his trumpets at home). But regardless, it serves its purpose, energising the album and creating an indie-dancefloor filler.

Next up is ‘Like It Too Much’, which saunters into classic Kaiser Chiefs-filler territory alarmingly early. It’s just meaningless drivel, with orchestral touches shimmying over the top pretentiously with a stupid Guillemots interlude. It’s just pretty rubbish. Track four is ‘You Want History’, the first song which breaks into the ‘I Predict A Riot’ canon of the Kaiser’s history. It’s a dancey, synth-laden number, different to anything they’ve done before, with “ey-ey-ey-oh-oh”s splattered across the top, coated with a bongo-beat. The closing cries of “if the girls start moving the boys will start moving, if the girls start moving the boys will join” accounting every school-disco in the last 30 years, and a ready-made sing-along moment. ‘Can’t Say What I Mean’ is a poppy number, which sounds like Ronson’s interpretation of ‘God Put A Smile On Your Face’ with no trumpets and a Yorkshireman singing over the top. Weirdly, it works. Drummer Nick Hodgson going like the clappers, setting a frenetic pace which Wilson strains to keep up with. But it’s still a dazzling slice of indie-poppery.

‘Good Days Bad Days’ is just dull-as-dishwater Chiefs-by-numbers and just goes right over the head of the listener. Then there’s ‘Tomato In The Rain’ which, in all seriousness, is a contender for the worst song I’ve heard this year. It’s dreary and bleak, with awful, awful lyrics “like a tomato in the rain, I’ve got that feeling again”. What the fuck is that? Stick to what you know Ricky - talk about pissed-up nights on the town and girls whose names are also precious stones. Next is ‘Half The Truth’, which is once again, plain dull, before the Lily Allen-accompanied ‘Always Happens Like That’, which is folky and very sixties. It’s actually quite an interesting listen, switching between the chirpy chorus, and the ominous sounding coos of “love is like a letter that I don’t want to open”. Penultimate track ‘Addicted To Drugs’ finally buckles to the self inflicted pressure, with the “wooooooooooooooooah” moment coming in the intro, with the chorus “you might as well face it you’re addicted to drugs” enough to have Robert Palmer spinning in his grave. But it’s still a very good track, and one of the album’s best.

Then comes the closer, ‘Remember You’re A Girl’ sung by drummer, Nick Hodgson. It’s gorgeous, sounding like a fusion of the Beach Boys and The Monkees. But it’s massively out of placed - it’s here where the album should have one last burst into the stratospheric, but instead meanders to a halt.

This is what typifies the album as a whole - it’s filled with bad decisions. Instead of embracing the dance brilliance of ‘You Want History’ they give it a mere handshake, and resort at times to indie by numbers. The result? Six good songs, four awful, and one that is placed massively out of context. It’s an improvement on ‘Yours Truly…’, but can’t quite hark back to the flashes of genius shown on ‘Employment’. Ricky Wilson still has work to do to show us his band aren’t just making up the numbers - as this is less than convincing.