It was in the depths of Melbournian winter that the eight-piece band nestled into their clubhouse-cum-studio, Super Melody World, armed with a veritable junk shop of instruments and perhaps too many ideas. Thus, the recording process began.

Songs hung in mid-air. Cats meowed into microphones. Plagues of mice were thwarted and way too much spaghetti was eaten. By the time the new year arrived, the studio had turned into a saloon. Some 40 odd humans had passed through it, among them many local music luminaries and several hitherto hidden talents. They played and sang their hearts out, brandishing everything from bassoons to power saws. Every day a new idea was hatched, phone calls were made, then someone who knew how to play the sitar or the steel drum would show up, ready to offer their services in exchange for a slice of pizza and a cup of tea. As a result, there's a uniquely communal auraabout the songs, a handmade intricacy that is rare on modern pop albums.