Moby Dick, or The Quest for That Elusive Second Album .. .. Call me Ishmael ... .. .. And so with album one safely stored under the sweet underpit of pop history we set sail for the most slippery of fishes: The Follow-up Fish. Like Captain Ahab, we set sail aboard HMS Hoosier in search of the Great White Whale of a second album, hoping to return to the shores of radio exodus with our hands full of the juiciest hits our musical spears could spear - much like Britney Spears speared in earlier years but in our own special way.

But it was not to be as simple as Melville had foretold. We were prepared for our journey - packing our ears full of pop revelry. The Cars, Neon Neon, M83 and Daft Punk were sat in our overnight satchels as we swallowed whole a host of fables from the knobs and dials of Giorgio Moroder before setting sail upon the seven seas of pop, our cornea's throbbing at the promise of a brave new world of aural realization.

Almost conspiratorially the calm, sheltered seas of Album One Cove, swiftly turned as sour as a single piece of salty popcorn hidden amongst it's honeyed brethren. The winds of new musical exploration swept us into "uncharting" pop territory and into the tentacles of various giant synth-opuses and marauding fleets of the Pirates of Pop.

Moby Dick, however, was far away, and only the swelling storm of our loyal Hoosierette's anticipation and a kick-up our collective bums could turn the winds in our favour. In short, our first eight songs were far from the good we wanted - quite the contrary - they were bedfellows with the bad we didn't.

Our patience was as worn and tested as this drawn out metaphor, but like our brave author, we clung on. Conviction and cavalrous audacity would drive our musician'ship' on.

With our compass swinging as much as an East 17 rap ("from the south to the east, from the north to the west") we found guidance and direction in the form of a straight four to the floor beat. Skipper 'Skippy beat' walked the plank and was eaten by a host of ravanous planctae. And so with captain kick drum at the tiller we soon recovered ground/sea and composure in equal measure.

Synth-riff, driven odyssey 'Choices' appeared like a beacon - like a mirage of water in the desert - only the opposite. And we swiftly hooked 'Unlikely Hero' with the aggressive splendour with which a fisherman hooks a marlin. The album was falling into plaice.

Our quest had sent us as mad as Hatters in a world full of headless chickens who have no need for hats, not least because they are chickens, but because they are, as aforementioned, headless.

The elephant in the room/cabin was a whale - an elephant whale - but his name was not Moby Dick- it was Willy- and we were about to free the hell out of him.

A 'Bumpy Ride' it had been but when Martin Starbuckendahl plunged his final bass tweak into the belly of the the beast and Irwin swapped his sea legs for the voice of Arial in a sinister deal brokered by Ursalla (much like in the Little Mermaid (another fine oceanic-themed adventure) we dragged the elusive beast ashore. The journey - 18 months in its entirety - was all worthwhile. So despite a time of absence we are back and by golly are we happy to be here!

There were actually no animals hurt in the making of the album 'The Hoosiers & The Illusion of Safety' out NOW- apart from the many bees that Al hunted down for his bee soup. Love always, The/Your Hoosiers