Wainwright defiantly says his seventh studio album is "very Rufus", as if to establish that bringing in Mark Ronson as producer hasn't impinged on his fundamental Rufusness. Quite so: Ronson's keynote retro-soul makes incursions, but Wainwright uses the vibrant horns and female backing crooners as servants to his own romanticism. The result is a Wainwright more open to pop simplicity than before – Barbara, for example, is undiluted 70s soft rock – but still captivated by the heft and drama of big arrangements. Yet the tracks where he and Ronson contribute equally can be stunning. Rashida, for one, is a gem, in which Ronson's Dap-Kings horn section finds perfect, sleazy symmetry with Wainwright's louche vocal. The album was equally inspired by the birth of Wainwright's daughter, and a corresponding feeling that he'd like to turn his back on stardom, producing songs that throb with newfound wonder. Can anyone listen to Montauk ("One day you will come to Montauk and see your dad trying to be funny") and not be touched?