It might be tempting fate somewhat to call your album Yawn. It leaves you wide open to smartarse journos delivering Spinal Tap-like pithy reviews in the vein of "shit sandwich". Truth is, though, there is a certain woozy, narcoleptic quality to Bill Ryder-Jones' fourth solo outing. Is the word mellow allowed? How about introspective, maudlin, downbeat, contemplative?

With its murmured vocals, groaning guitars and solemnly bowing cellos, this is not a party record - unless it’s The Donner Party. It’s probably best listened to at 3am, as you contemplate the universe and your place in it. There is an overarching sensation of drowning. In porridge. Of being in that crepuscular hypnogogic state where all your niggling fears and doubts take advantage of that vulnerable condition (sounds like a production weekend in Hot Press).

So. Ten slow-burning meditations on life or a cry for help? Let's look at the evidence. "Mither" is a paean to his mum and her guinea pigs. Apparently. "No One's Trying To Kill You" sounds like a lullaby for a depressed newborn, but then we get to "Happy Song" and suddenly - it's exactly the same as all the others. The jury - of one - is divided. Not a summer album in any case.

Yawn is out now.