Lambchop exists in a state of flux. They’re a constantly shifting and evolving band; the only constants are Kurt Wagner’s indelible singing and lyrics that have progressively strayed far from moments of grand southern ennui and towards stream of consciousness patter. All of it great. The island that is Mr. M is a glacial one, inspired by lounge music and sixties orchestral country, with moments of wit (the first words heard are “don’t know what the fuck they talk about” muttered over gentle brushes and stormy piano) cut by loss-addled wistfulness. Though the lyrics don’t delve deep into it, the ghost of Vic Chestnutt — a former collaborator and brilliant songwriter in his own right — hovers over the proceedings. Ultimately it’s a patient, lovely record from a band that continues to push harder and harder into uncharted territory. Wouldn’t have it any other way.