This is the sound of conflict, all parts at odds with each other and as startling as PiL. Lyrically, massive two fingers up at social stereotyping from what we can gather – and boy, look at how the staunchly angular rhythms piss all over Foals. And the switch to ambience in the last quarter is even more dramatic through headphones.

The intricacy of those brass flourishes is astonishing, but far from instant. Who’d have thought a band could go from Silent Alarm to this? Matt Tong’s drumming is dictatorial, ferocious, and mind-boggling – and this is oh-so-exciting. On its own it’s a revelation, but in the context of Intimacy it’s a cataclysm. Or rather, one of many.

A rare moment of semi-conventionality here after the one-two opening, but it’s far from predictable – that recurring riff sucks itself up nicely, and the enigmatic Kele Okereke confounds and entices in equal parts. The syncopation all over the verses is startling at first, but that’s just a reminder of how skilled this lot are as a four-piece.

The colossal drop in tempo and density forces the chronology out of its comfort zone, and the scattered bass and beats are the right level of abstract. Perhaps Bloc Party’s starkest outing yet as we can’t think of anything to compare this to. It’s stunning, inspiring, and you never know what’s coming next. The derelict sound of stillness.

With the denseness of old favourite ‘Helicopter’ and the broader-spanning outlook of the second album, it’s the album’s lyrically basest moment. All the same, it’s scratchy; it lacerates its way through the motions decorously. Though it’s piercing it’s just not as striking as the rest of the album – maybe because it’s just too complete?

Following on from ‘Biko’, this is the album’s other pared down offering – think Autechre and Venetian Snares this time. Tacitly fragile, this song feels uniquely open and endearingly breakable. The spacious glockenspiels and luxurious strings make for a mass of subtle contradictions, and we bet it’ll mature gloriously too.

Continuing the lack of sequential congruity, this one synopsises Bloc Party’s back catalogue – it’s got the painstaking hooks, fierce lyrics, and steely edge that define the band’s sound. Kele wants revenge, and with Jacknife Lee and Paul Epworth sharing production, he’s more likely than ever to get it (though the key change is a bit naff).

They get the electronics so, so right here. Timbral contrasts a-plenty, this offering puts the volatile emotion in some separate compartment to the thumpingly simple beat. The vocals hover around the carefully constructed disquiet, and the guitars are spikier than ever. It’s what ‘Flux’ should’ve sounded like.

The production feels a tad desperate here, too compressed. This song has a celestial ambition, but it doesn’t quite pull off as the desire to play hard, fast, and intangibly; it makes the underlying heart rather oblique. It’s brooding in a Joy Division meets Thom Yorke’s The Eraser sort of way though, an exciting prospect for the live arena.

Honest, but monolithic; existential, but still; triumphant, but too conclusive; purposeful but almost sacrosanct. The album closes on a compelling rather than confounding note where everything’s changing except for Kele’s distinctive (and, of course, divisive) vocal – a powerful ending to a mostly superb record.

The song titles are more than misleading, and won’t warm Bloc Party to the already fully-formed haters. But this lot don’t care for humility, at least on the surface – and that very notion of subtle hypocrisy is what makes this album so brilliant, so forward-thinking. Intimacy pits the personal against the abstract through the band’s growing desire to confound consistency and put as much variation in as they can without imploding. The title is apt, and whilst there’s some hits and misses we reckon the misses will make more sense after a few more listens.