In over 20 years as The The, Matt Johnson has recorded a startling spectrum of musical fire.
The visceral experimentation and virtuosity of 'Burning Blue Soul', 'Mind Bomb' and 'Infected''s vicious polemic diatribes and the rich melancholia that has ripped through all of Johnson's work, have cemented him as an untouchable if marginalised enigma.
But perhaps his greatest achievement has been to consistently disappear from the music scene and return years later, when most people thought he must be dead. And then unload a near masterpiece.
As is the situation with 'Naked Self'.
Johnson's last The The record was 1993's 'Dusk'. Why these albums take so long is anyone's guess but The The now return over seven years later and little appears to have really changed - musically or lyrically - for Johnson in his absence.
Self-analysis is still a haunting characteristic, with 'Naked Self' showing once again a deep chasm of fulfilment, perhaps as massive as the absences he inflicts on obsessive The The fans, while waiting for a new release.
Second track 'Shrunkenman' throws down the gauntlet early - 'he's just an imperfect man, trapped in an imperfect body' - while 'The Whisperers' is as despondent and critical - 'don't get sad, when people that you love, stab you in the back.'
Rabid political fury also continues to stain his work, as best evidenced by the clubbing disaffection and seeping stealth of 'Globaleyes'.
Having moved to New York City, apparently in an attempt at placing himself in the hotbed of capitalistic blood-sucking, 'Global Eyes' amplifies how little Johnson's anger has subsided - 'mobilise…………force is the new dictator' - but how incisive he still is.
More ballistic ideals are also well charged, particularly opener 'Boiling Point' with its claustrophobic guitar mantra, although the terribly bombastic, noisy industrial rock blitzgrieks of 'Swine Fever' and the rancid and aimless thunder of 'Saltwater', do weigh heavy.
However, the hiccups are rare and Johnson is perhaps at his most effective on 'Naked Self' when armed primarily with an acoustic guitar, as the unmistakable, booming voice is allowed to cry with fear rather than anger.
'Soul Catcher', for example, finds Johnson in typically disillusioned territory - 'my life is halfway through, and I still haven't done what I'm here to do' - while the weary but cathartic 'December Sunlight' is as magnificent, as those self-same demons he's been exorcising for two decades are slain again.
This man is a very lazy Lazarus and the next record could perhaps be the ultimate crowning glory. Just don't hold your breath.
