The London/Three Counties quartet's self-described "genre-splicing molotov cocktail" approach finds its perfect expression here, as whip-smart electronics dance around Marc Singh-Jones's confession of emotional disintegration. But where their previous work has often felt like an assault on complacency, 'Reflection' operates as a seduction – drawing listeners into its lysergic embrace before revealing the complexity lurking beneath its shimmering surface.

Singh-Jones's vocals carry the weight of someone who has genuinely stared into the void, his admission that "emotional disintegration has got me dreaming of you" delivered with a vulnerability that cuts through any pretense. The Buddhist meditation centre he references isn't name-dropped for mystical credibility – it's the genuine source of the song's spiritual architecture, its understanding that enlightenment might arrive not through isolation but through the collective euphoria of bodies moving in unison.

The production – all handled in-house, as is the band's militant DIY way – walks the razor's edge between accessibility and complexity that Fourmarks have made their calling card. Those Italo-house piano cascades and four-on-the-floor rhythms provide the sugar that helps the philosophical medicine go down, creating space for ideas to breathe while never sacrificing the visceral impact that makes their live shows such essential experiences.

This is the sound of a band chasing their stated goal of finding "sounds that are big enough to carry complex ideas, and accessible enough to sell them." The result is pop music with genuine substance, a club anthem that doubles as existential inquiry. When Singh-Jones promises "I know a place we can dance," he's not just offering escapism – he's proposing a form of secular salvation through shared movement and sound.

Fourmarks have always understood that the most radical act might be making challenging ideas irresistibly danceable. With 'Reflection,' they've crafted their most compelling argument yet for why progressive music needn't be punishing, and why the dancefloor remains one of our last truly democratic spaces.

The molotov cocktail, it turns out, can heal as well as destroy.