Their problem was always that they were too big for their own bloody good: months before they had even signed to first label, Skunk Anansie were already the completely finished article, stormtrooping around London's Borderline like Rage Against The Machine fronted by a hyperactive black shaven-headed lady singer with mysterious sexual leanings. Quite where they could actually drag their rap-rock beast on to from there was impossible to discern.

Half-a-decade on, however, the true horror of the Skunk evolution has been revealed: smartly realizing that to bore the public is not how to shift units, the new album rattles along, careering between taut, bellowing riffs and epic, sonically-perfect ballads, that make Garbage look like fluffy hamsters on the timid treadmill of pop. You are once transported to a world of sweating, swearing, righteous indignation and really rather loud metal riffs, and if that doesn't seduce a generation of troubled teens then nothing ever will. Because Skunk Anansie have always been big. And now they are very, very clever. Their guitarist is called Ace, y'know...