If you believe in a band, you tend to expect greatness will one day come. I’ve always believed that The Cribs have been capable of making a truly ground breaking indie rock album - it’s just that I never expected them to actually do it. Getting straight to the point In The Belly Of The Brazen Bull is the best album The Cribs have recorded.

The Jarman brothers have managed to harness everything golden they’ve previously said and done, and pertinently, present it on this album. After Johnny Marr hitched a ride on the good ship for Ignore The Ignorant before deciding to move on to a new solo venture, the Jarmans have revisited their simpler, less intricate stateside college rock influences. Most of the song skeletons were put together by Gary and Ryan during riotous road trips across the Pacific North West. You can imagine left of the dial mess-arounds sketched on the back of tomato sauce stained diner napkins.

Then these marauding moments was recorded in a fuller manner during intense snapshot sessions, working with Steve Albini in Chicago, and Dave Fridmann (producer of Pinkerton) in New York State. Both producers have brought out the best in the band, with Albini bringing out the beast and Fridmann catching rare melodic butterflies. That’s the beauty of the album, mixing the rough and the ready with an honest poetic vulnerability.

‘Glitters Like Gold’ is a tentative beginning which takes a couple of minutes to get going, and the immediate signs are good. Receiving prominent airplay on BBC 6 Music ‘Come On, Be A No-One’ is a homecoming tale, a return to humdrum Wakefield, recalling the familiarity of home and the dullness of blending back in as you leave the ‘rockstar’ costume on tour. It’s an anthemic call to arms that appeals to daydreaming bedroom guitarists looking to breakout of the provinces.

‘Jaded Youth’ doesn’t appear to know what it wants to be, confused, stroppy, kicking about all over the place, before flopping onto the sofa and allowing the room to stop spinning. The faster go faster chorus falls to a temporary halt, as it stops to reflect on the ceiling’s swirling artex patterns, before another final burst of energy.

A cluster of tracks could almost come from a mix tape rescued from an early nineties time capsule somewhere close to Portland. The unglamorous indie rock and roll of ‘Anna’, straight to the point punch in ‘Chi-town’, glum introspective self-torture on ‘Confident Men’ and sludgy euphoria of ‘Pure O’ all bear a familiar mark, which points to a much maligned period in music history. One might say meat and potatoes rock, however man runs on his stomach, and all it needs is a wave of Yorkshire gravy to create a respectfully revived sound.

There are two tracks which stand out above the rest. I adore ‘Uptight’; it has an imposing stomping intro that mellows out in the form of serene clean sawing riffs. The chorus reminds me a lot of Weezer before they lost their way, which nods towards Dave Fridmann’s studio influence. ‘Back To The Bolthole’ is a stunning track, arguably the best song The Cribs have written. Again following on a recurring album theme it is morose and brooding, but there is hope in the arms aloft chorus.

Ending with a quartet of songs ‘Stalagmites’, ‘Like A Gift Giver’, ‘Butterflies’ and ‘Arena Rock Encore with Full Cast’ which I suppose is the closest thing The Cribs are going to make to a rock opera - it veers into dramatic lunacy, tapping into a bizarre amalgamation of ‘Pet Sounds’, Queen-esque grandiosity and Sonic flipping Youth. We are taken on an unexpectedly ambitious odyssey.

Ryan Jarman has spoken in interviews about waiting for the “corporate indie ship to sink”, which seems opportunistic, since he must have had a fair inkling that what the band were creating in these brainstorming road trips, and short sharp recording sessions was high calibre shit from the lucky golden goose. The Cribs still have an audience, an army of their ardent supporters, and those who want a no thrills guitar band that delivers uplifting fist pumping “heck yes, this rocks!” music no matter what is currently mainstream flavour of the month.

Using Ryan’s words - “Sorry that it’s taken years”. The Cribs have finally reached their pinnacle. What this might mean for the band is that they could well be forced to deal with being the unlikely figureheads for an indie rock revival, which could put them in the unwelcome position of captaining the next ship. How corporate they want that ship to be is open for debate; however you can’t tell me that their integrity won’t be tested by the critical acclaim that is sure to come their way.

Or just maybe I’m way off the mark. Perhaps I am the only one who believes that one of my favourite bands will reap the rewards. In reality, the Jarman’s have an almost self-defeating attitude which usually makes them look a gift horse in the mouth. Whether it be not making the most of big time tour supports, the lucrative festival shows, nor utilizing the rub of Johnny Marr, who Modest Mouse furthered their mainstream breakthrough alongside. The Cribs tend to tread their own path, a path laden with self-inflicted pot holes and uneven cobble stones; likely they’ll stumble and fall, but no doubt continue to chuckle about the lumps and bruises they pick up along the way.