I don’t know why I find myself listening so obsessively to Max Tundra’s skittering electro-jazz, since its air of aimlessness and slight self-satisfaction clash with my current aesthetic of self-promotion and self-belief. It has overtones of Nathan Barley-ism, true, but it’s saved by this uncontrollable rush, the way the sounds play with each other. Like all the best electronic jazz – and, indeed, all the best jazz full stop – it plays a game with excitement and indulgence, and just about saves itself.

I feel strangely assured by it, awful word I know, but it’s the best description for the mixed feelings of strangeness and security this music gives me (and it’s steering me through these unsettled weeks like nothing else). Something seems to be happening sonically in every one of these pieces, as well – the way “Control It (Bistrotheque)” hurtles along to what sounds like a frog on speed, the way “Life in a Lift Shaft” is powered throughout by a frenetic mad dash of concert piano. A large part of me will recall this as the backdrop to a cruel, unthinking summer.