If i was absolutely forced to compare Super Furry Animals to another band, i would probably go for Oklahoman psych-pop confectioners The Flaming Lips. Of course, i may be in the minority ’round HH parts as a member of their fanclub (so to speak), but hear me out: both started out as noisy, mischievous punk rockers with a sentimental side which came to the fore as their scope of ambition widened. They’ve both, to varying degrees, embraced electronic elements as well as unashamedly referencing the cooler end of prog. The main difference, though, is the absence of a career-defining album in the case of SFA. The Lips most likely hit their peak with 1999’s orchestral pop opus ‘The Soft Bulletin’, a record to these ears so disconcertingly emotional that much of their material since has felt like an attempt to cover their tracks by peddling looser lyrical cliches and an errant musical muse (well, some of Yoshimi’s pretty great, but that’s another story). Gruff Rhys and co, however, have not been stuck with such a weight around their shoulders. They have undoubtedly released some fascinating and highly enjoyable albums since 1996’s ‘Fuzzy Logic’, but critics are yet to wholeheartedly leap on an album, grandly declare it their highpoint, and scupper the creative momentum which got them there. 2001’s ‘Rings Around The World’ felt like an attempt at such an LP, but the press didn’t let it happen, praising it conditionally on account of its glossy production not a million miles from the ‘Moon Safari’s of this world.

Almost forgotten, then, is the previous year’s ‘Mwng’, an album entirely consisting of Welsh songs and made on a relatively tiny budget. The press did jump for this album, but primarily to highlight the supposed novelty of a songwriter singing in his first language. This culminated in a mention in the House of Commons praising the band for its contribution to the culture of their homeland. Of course all of this detracted from the fact that Super Furry Animals had recorded one of the strongest, most charming collections of songs in at least the past decade.

Following on from 1999’s ‘Guerilla’, a highly accessible, if slightly overcooked mix of glam, pop and techno, ‘Mwng’ predictably represented a (to use a hideous cliche) back-to-basics approach — flashes of horns appear here and there, but at the core is a band letting Gruff’s songs breathe. Cian Ciaran, keyboardist and electronics fiddler of considerable repute, who had arguably been given a little too much opportunity to varnish on recent efforts, makes much gentler, almost subliminal, contributions here. Bunf, Daf and Guto follow suit, knowing where to go and where to stop but at the same time making the most of the liberty offered by such a basic setting. The renowned Furry harmonies appear throughout, sounding even more assured and sedcutive than ever before.

All of this could amount to very little but then there’s the songs… good grief. Although most listeners will have next to no idea what Gruff is singing about, the melodies transcend such silly boundaries in their expression of joy, abjection, playfulness, humour, regret, longing — the list goes on. They’re so deeply human and touching when you’re in the right mood that it’s hardly worth trying to describe them. Here goes nothing then…

1. Drygioni (rough translation — ‘drug badness’) — The album opens deceptively with its most disposable track. That’s not to say that it’s not great fun, an 85 second burst of the Roxy-go-Nuggets odd-pop perfected on ‘Fuzzy Logic’ and ‘Radiator’.

2. Ymaelodi A’r Ymylon (‘join the periphery’ — don’t think for a second i haven’t got the song titles right in front of me) — A pop melody with a dark bite worthy of Cope in the late Teardrop era. The harmonies are positively angelic here.

3. Y Gwyneb Iau (‘liverface’) — Beautifully dejected keyboards and a sad, solitary horn recall ‘Radiator’ highlight Demons. The fragile vocals amost crack under the weight of feeling.

4. Dacw Hi (‘there she is’) — Brief respite with a simple, quite lovely guitar melody and, yep, more wondrous harmonies.

5. Nythod Cacwn (‘beehives’) — A positively chilling acoustic guitar and wonderful, plodding drums back a haunting Gruff melody imagining, of all things, drummer Daf being attacked by bees.

6. Pan Ddaw’r Wawr (‘when dawn breaks’) — Feels almost medieval with its pulsing harmonium and creepy acoustic undertow, only to switch to a bouncy pop singalong to finish.

7. Ysbeidiau Heulog (‘sunny intervals’) — As with the first track, this seems like an obvious concession to those hoping for the frivolous guitar-pop of their early work. Which is fine by me when the tune’s so bloody catchy.

8. Y Teimlad (‘the feeling’) — This cover of a Datblygu song (nope, me neither) may pass by unimpressively at first, but further listening reveals a quite beautiful folk melody given the ideal, simple backing.

9. Sarn Helen — Apparently about a roman road, the music brilliantly echoes the subject matter in its evocation of ancient ruins and epic travel. Whatever the hell that means!

10. Gwreiddiau Dwfn / Mawrth Oer Ar y Blaned Neifion (‘deep roots / a cold march on the planet neptune’) — The album closes with its strongest track, which would definitely be SFA’s finest moment if 2003’s ‘Slow Life’ didn’t exist. Even the beauty of the preceding songs pales somewhat next to this perfectly realised composition. The first part is an overwhelmingly sad ballad, a singalong for the unbearably melancholy, whilst the closing instrumental soars on lilting brass, graceful keys and metronomic drums reminiscent of our old friends Neu!. You even think Julian would approve. But, then again, probably not.

For me, this album stands as the band’s finest achievement, but gains from its lack of exposure as an ‘important work’. It happliy nestles in their back catalogue, ready for smart folk like those found ’round ‘ere to discover and fall in love with. Their other albums are all worth hearing, containing numerous moments of pop brilliance, but this, whilst possibly not the best place to start, is the one that gets me most.