"The man in ecstasy and the man drowning—both throw up their arms" observed writer Franz Kafka, and there perhaps could be no truer statement as Cigarettes After Sex's front man Greg Gonzalez unveils this self-titled debut. The Brooklyn quartet have slowly but surely crafted music with authenticity and intimacy over the last four years, and this is their biggest collection to date. With an adoring underground audience of sleep-deprived soul grazers, lovers and the skin hungry by their side, the band's artistry is cherished in loyalty and remedy which could well rocket them in to the breaking of dawn, but that's not before the night is uncovered - because this is music which manifests in the dark. The tracks are immediate, the feel that there is no tomorrow, no yesterday and that we are united in the twilight of the present very quickly comes in to play and it really is a gentle, special something.

Album opener 'K' is an ode to his muse, Kristen. We are thrown instantly in to the infatuation of Gonzalez as he has very honestly made a symphony of this mesmeric figure, and like all the best artists do, has laid himself completely bare in the process. "I think I like you best when you are just with me and no one else," he confesses in his staple woozy rasp, wrapping the words around the palms of his lover, and us the listeners. 'Each Time You Fall in Love' bears the most elegant of sonics as the first few seconds set a brooding pace, which feels understated in temperament and utterly romantic. The tones are so sweet tempered, we float amongst a bed of guitar hooks and gentle strings, and if a vocal could be on prescription then it should be that of Gonzalez; it gets under our skin and sets in, like a lotion which nourishes and soothes. Mazzy Star and Slowdive sonically are true pioneers at this, and Cigarettes After Sex in their own way have executed similar styles with confidence.

The words and music alike hold the power to really resonate with us. Much like a conversation, his visions and recollections fill our headspaces with yearning, fragmented memoirs and are in turn gorgeously cinematic. From crashing helicopters, apocalyptic cityscapes and barren LA highways, these settings are inflamed, flicker and fade like a box of old Polaroids hidden away in an attic - except the attic is his musical core, and it is open and shared with us.

'Apocalypse', which has been a regular feature on Phil Taggart's Sunday night Radio 1 show, is a woozy little croon, evocative, tender and vivid. Gonzalez has not only the skill of a well crafted musician, but as a lyricist draws resemblances to true illusory greats. The fierce desire of a modern day Bukowski, his old soul passion burns like wildfire and is ablaze through sentiment and stark declaration of love, sex and desire. 'Opera House' is also brooding at introduction, as a slow and gentle undercurrent blankets us, like the whirl of a warm bath as it beds in, leaving space for Gonzalez's effortless lilts. It's hard not love something such honest vows like "my love for you cuts me like barbed wire" just seem to work on this record and from this voice, and I don't think many could spin a line like that and make it sound so ardent. "If I abandoned love, I'd be a man without dreams," he continues on apologetically.

With such an ambient, lo-fi alcove of genre there is always the possibility that tone can wash over us and become stagnant, and I must admit I was fearful that this could well be the case prior to listening. However, the quartet have very delicately cultivated a body of work that, despite the record's undeniable steadiness, is alluring from start to finish. This has a lot to do with Gonzalez's literary craft of course, but the accompanying percussion operates extremely well. Minimalism is an integral part of the artistry, but with such intoxicating and candid notions, the balance reached is so perfectly aligned for this type of music, and in such an apathetic age, material like this really is a dying art; savour it.