Cloud Control's debut album, Bliss Release, has a very composed tranquillity. If you imagine life to be lived through a plethora of feelers, it feeds back only the purest of pleasures. It's threaded like a necklace; aesthetically consistent, jangling with lucky charms, loose, liberal and strung along a very clear spiritual cord.

The album was conceived in homeland Australia - a child of the notorious Blue Mountains - and such an expansive environment is arguably paralleled by the open sonic spaces on the record. Interestingly though, the sophomore album in question, Dream Cave, was brought to life in the rolling Kentish countryside, here in the beloved UK where it rains and we pretend to hate things.

The movement between albums can't be described in a generic sense. It's not like there's been a dramatic shift in styles or a simple 'change in direction'. The core substance of the band remains the same - thrilling, enigmatic harmonies; confident, exacting bass lines; tight swing grooves; swooning, ceremonial climaxes. The same heart beats at the center of both, but Dream Cave arrives with a subtly altered attitude, ripplings of a more melancholic and dysphoric charm.

Spun-out, psych anthems 'Moonrabbit' and 'Dojo Rising' do seem to exist in a kind of existential limbo between old and new. The same stylistic urges are foregrounded, but it's at the edges that new, more bitter vibes creep. Programmed drum samples writhe with natural percussion, once sweet harmonies are subtly soured - voices no longer fall into such tight formations, but instead roam with more independent impulses.

'Brief flashes of an alter ego' seems to be a running theme throughout. The album title itself sparks of discordancy. Dream is spacious, limitless, without bounds, the cave an arguably oppressive space, deeply natural but altogether confining. These two spaces collide on the album, the close, clammy track 'Island Living' - which dare I say it, has severe Radiohead vibes - is at odds with tracks like 'Scar', which breaths deeply, soaring at an alien altitude.

'Tombstone' is such a dense and foreboding track - weighted down by lolloping beats and marvellously lethargic vocals, and home to a kind of mystic breakdown mid song. Befittingly, it feels as thought the track is struggling to breath, as it labours and ebbs. If the end of the album is a kind of thematic death, the whole ensemble crawls toward its embrace.

It's these kinds of songs - whilst still demonstrating a masterful ability to weave and manipulate a very natural palette of sounds - make Dream Cave such a captivating listen. The rough and the smooth are ridden simultaneously; blissful crumpled, disdainful and euphoric moments all flash intermittently. It fluctuates with a complex flow, exploring spaces that weren't neglected by their debut, but perhaps confidently ignored.

"Maybe that harmony promises happiness?" Alister Wright croons in 'Promises', his voice accented by a severe and sinister crunch. Their debut promised and upheld a euphoria that momentarily blocked a more pressing reality. But reality - like a fairly foreboding tide - seems to have seeped inward, flooding the Dream Cave. The effects are both vivid and triumphant, and more than worth immersing yourself in.