"I make a lot of tracks by sticking on a loop forever, letting it live and breathe as long as it needs to," says Dunbar. As a true artisan of house deconstruction, Maxmillion Dunbar follows the routes of his instinct and allows each piece of music to formulate its own concept. There are clear ambitions, if passive ones, to avoid any constraints which genre may demand, and even a desire to break away into an original field. House of Woo escapes into existence rather than striking out, but with each track finding its natural fissure to explore. There are moments of purposeful disillusionment, using discomfort as a tool to accentuate his ideology of what house should achieve. If we were to expect a record of pleasant, uniform and resolving beats, then we'd be astounded; mouth agape, at how Dunbar uses their convex forms to create something even more stunning.

Rather than using his music like a shot of adrenaline or fleeting high, he would rather intrigue the listener with concerted and arresting passages. He wants us to dissolve into the music and feel the arrest of its heart and experience how each effect works on us. Often, the initial rhythm loops throughout the track, magnetizing it, and attracting odd entities of sound into its orbit. This ingenious arrangement creates a base from which these allusions can soar – like the repeated chord flow of jazz, with it's improvisational accoutrements.

House of Woo echoes the Jazz epithet of sprawling, layered sound in many ways. The underlying constancy creating tension which you feel must break but rarely does, instead reverting back to its original form ('Ice Room Graffiti'). But there's another axis, or dimension to the Dunbar sound that doesn't merely work with layers, it works with time and rhythm. As prevalent as looped hooks, are the tendencies to stratify expectation and disassemble what has just been created. It's as if we are shown the elements individually first, and then experience the reaction before returning back to the rudimentary beginnings. It's a fascinating experience to float around with sounds and feel how they reverberate against each other; with magnified prominence at times, and blurred subtlety at others. Yet it also has the effect of isolating a sample which doesn't seem at all appropriate and then buffering it at different intensities until it forms a seamless compound.

Fans following his previous Hip-Hop excerpts won't find too much familiar here, and even his minimalist exploits seem to expand beyond into another stratosphere. House of Woo is as much an experimental instrumental record told through Jazz inflected beat-making, as it is a house record. And what is exemplified is Dunbar's ambition to avoid, at all costs, a reinterpretation of something else. You feel his understated presence as a guardian of these organisms for which he is the medium.

There have been suggestions that House of Woo represents a celebration of the longevity of a relationship, in particular his own. But what seems more prevalent to a distanced listener, is a celebration of creativity. The record is an example what exceptional originality and limitless ambition can conjure, with more subtle glories than it's possible to express in words. This record not only wants you to listen but invest in a relationship between musician and listener. Like the divine tangibility of modernist poetry, the record's very existence is enough to mesmerise without a route of access to something deeper. A creation which is incomparable, except perhaps, to the similarly magnificent creation, of love itself.