If Junkboy were indeed "dance music for departure lounges", the airlines in question would probably fly to Venus and Mars, in special noise-reduction planes with fake fur seats and waterfall aquariums as in-flight standard. Yes, easy on the ears and soul this is indeed. Sometimes, like on Ikea, a cheesy brass section and recorder coupled with a tiny drum machine make this sound like someone's little brother made his toy monkeys do a Pride street parade. In 1972. In those brown'n orange turtlenecks.

But then a soft layer of cymbaline highsounds kicks in and dreams you away into the next track Absence with it's lovely Simon & Garfunkel-like whispered, maximum feedback vocals. At other times, like on Friends (Part 1), spoken french vocals by a girl that you can almost picture the heavy mascara and tied-back hair on, line the melody like a seashell seam, sparkling and pretty and calm.

All in all this album is wearing a suit made of dreamy 60s elevator music, while its skin peeps through the button holes with a modern hint of irony. Sometimes this combination works well and blissful, sometimes the chill out factor just makes you sleepy without dreams, and so you feel a bit more like vegetable soup than like cloud 9...

There's is not much on this album to give you shivers down your back or tug at your heartstrings. But there is a lot to choreograph drunken dance routines for the neighbour's cat to. Or dreamily watch butterflies chasing each other through the garden.

A little slice of loveliness it is.