Tucked away in Massachusetts, the Books wholly committed themselves to the possibilities of symbiotic relationships: silence/sound, nature/technology, up/down. Then they cracked open their laptops with garden gloves and spade and, with Richard Thompson strumming softly in one corner and Arvo Pârt smiling devilishly in the other, they released this beauteous electro-folk tangle into the world. Where most folktronicists focus on Shambhalic Czukay-meets-Premier drum tracks, The Books weaves an Indra’s net of intricacies with shrewd attention to their palette of sound. Guitars nebulously mutate onto themselves; the comfortably familiar is spliced, diced and reintroduced; the human voice sounds so new and raw; and the Lemon Of Pink becomes an equation that just seems so right.