Its gestation was longwinded, punctuated by dalliances with distraught noise and the kind of avant-garde on-stage instability that absolutely ensured that Oneida were never plucked and positioned in the same basket as so many other NYC-bred outfits finding a kind of fame (infamy) across the Pond, but here it is: The Wedding. An idea that first blossomed in 2001 has now shed its fruit, and - pardon the cringeworthy nature of the next statement - it tastes delicious.

If that left something of a bad taste in your mouth, then let me at least assure you that The Wedding won't. Whereas previous Oneida albums could be criticised for being inconsistent and almost too art-rock for their own good, this sounds both absolutely complete and wonderfully concise. A surprisingly muted 'The Eiger' opens the thirteen-tracker with some wonderfully mournful strings accompanying vocals pleading their desire not to "die amongst the snow and ice, all frozen"; rarely has a band so known for their kinetic qualities down-tempoed so effectively.

Of course, it's not all sweeping strings and understated melodious vocals - 'Lavender', the very next track, shifts the album up a good two or three gears, wonderfully insistent drums stabbing recklessly at whopping slabs of organ and beaten-blue guitars. Things get a little psychedelic on 'Spirits' (whatever you do, don't say Kula Shaker), before the genuinely beautiful 'Run Through My Hair' slows the pace back to a crawl again, its repetitive backing chimes and bells reminiscent even of Bjork's great Vespertine record. And that's just the first four tracks.

Later delights are plentiful (just try to remain unmoved by 'You're Drifting'), but elaborating beyond such a say-nothing summary would spoil them for new listeners. Okay, so that quasi-conclusive sentence is actually born of a desire to go sleep (if you people knew what hours the average DiS writer keeps...), but its heart - my heart - is in the right place. Open your mind a little more than usual and Oneida's latest will cradle and tickle your cerebellum 'til it purrs itself into a wondrously surreal slumber.