You will hate this record at first, its relaxed, naff mismatchedness will grate: who let this flake into our well-groomed, studiously dangerous, attitood-packing 2002 pop party? But by the end of the Bees’ laid-back travelogue – a nickel-bag of Pet Sounds here, a pocketful of Beatles there, some reggae, some John Barry, and heaving rucksacks full of great old ideas nicked and made modern - you will want to award them some kind of prize for swashbuckling, Indiana Jones-style pop archaeology.

The Bees are from the Isle Of Wight, and thus it is perhaps apt that the Avalanches are put in mind, not because they use turntablism and sampling (they use neither) but because they share (a) a peculiar islanders’ predilection for imaginary travel, as well as (b) a gift for turning the familiar to their own purposes. There are great lost Paul McCartney solo singles (‘Punchbag’), sun-dappled inst-o-classic rasta splifferamas (‘No Trophy’) and aching Beach Boys harmonies married to Afro finger percussion (‘Binnel Bay’). The darkly stoned-but-beautiful ‘Sunshine’ could have soundtracked the LSD party-scene in Midnight Cowboy; ‘This Town’ is a direct lift of 60’s soul-pop single ‘Groovin’’ and the haunted, childlike ‘Sweet Like A Champion’ an outtake from The Hour Of Bewilderbeast. Syd Barrett could have doodled the lyrical-absurdism of ‘Lying In The Snow’; ‘Sky Holds The Sun’ is Bacharach’s ‘This Boy’s In Love With You’ as done by Brian Wilson... and that isn’t the half of what goes on on this lovely, insane record.

So, The ‘Bee’s indeed: Beatles, Bacharach, Barry, Barrett, BDB, Brian (Wilson) and Bob (Marley). But, as they say, mere talent borrows: genius steals, and they’ve pulled off the heist of the year. And we’re so happy to watch them get away with it.