As exciting as the prospect of a Josh Homme corrupted, sexed up Arctic Monkeys had the potential to be, there remained a nagging feeling that time could judge it to be the move of a desperate band. When a band with a well known, well worn style of their own is produced by someone with a similarly distinctive but utterly different trademark, things can go horribly wrong. It's all about the balance, you see. A 'Mardy Bum' rewrite with inappropriately heavy QOTSA drums would be awful for example. By the same token, just as bad would be a 'Go With the Flow' rip off replete with hammed up Monkeys-by-numbers-lyrics.

These doubts, however, last approximately 22 seconds into Humbug. 'My Propeller', the band's finest moment to date, begins with a huge riff, settles into a mood reminiscent of Nirvana's 'Heart Shaped Box', before later taking in Pixies melodies and even a bit of trademark Pavement wonkiness. Oh, and the lyrics are pure, unadulterated filth: "My propeller...won't spin, and I can't get it started on my own". That or the song is a fairly rudimentary tale of aeronautical unreliability. Either way, it positively reeks of both Homme and Monkeys, and is utterly wonderful. It's a pace - and a balance - that for the most part Humbug maintains. 'Dance Little Liar', bristling with menace throughout, suddenly becomes the closest to funky - albeit QOTSA approved nasty funk - that the band are ever likely to get. I don't know what the recording process in the Mojave desert did to these fragile Sheffield souls, but the album's spectacular closer 'Jeweller's Hands' sounds like Nick Cave (Turner's vocals have matured greatly into an occasionally disconcerting croon) soundtracking a fairground based episode of Scooby Doo. Which of course means it's fucking brilliant.

Two Humbug tracks are not produced by Josh Homme, and they stick out instantly. 'Cornerstone' is a sweet (yet in the spirit of it's surroundings, ever so slightly seedy) lament to elusive love that is blatantly Arctic Monkeys' next great pop single, while the blatant Scott Walkerisms of 'Secret Door' are the closest we get to Alex Turner's Last Shadow Puppets sojourn. Bizarrely, though they could jarr in terms of sound among the dirt and aggression of much of the Homme produced tracks, they provide momentary respite rather than sounding out of place. Balance, you see.

For a band whose early work suggested brattily talented one trick ponies, Arctic Monkeys - and Turner in particular - are showing themselves to be remarkably durable. Rather than revealing desperation to escape their past, Humbug is an as yet career defining showcase of a band that have never sounded more comfortable in their own skin. And thanks to Homme, it fucking rocks.