Masquerading as a fiftysomething ex-janitor from Capitol Records cobbling together an album from his prodigious record collection, this is actually E cobbling together a hip hop album of sorts, rife with post-modern flippancy. Hammond organs, stiff rhythms and samples from obscure, cheesy old ’60s phonographs instructing you How To Hypnotise Yourself, you know the sort of thing.

This album has its moments, but frankly, unless you’re a jaded goatee-bearded record store clerk attuned to a particularly American wavelength of irony, you’re unlikely to get much from this.