Fresh from its dramatic purging of guitarist Graham Coxon, Blur finds itself entering what may be its last and most mature stage of musical reincarnation—not that that’s a bad thing. Frontman Damon Albarn now reigns with full control over Blur’s creative focus and with Think Tank that focus is decidedly a combination of Maghrebian poly-rhythms and the techno/chill influences of Albarn’s recent success with his Gorillaz side project.

In the opening moments of the disc’s starter "Ambulance," Blur shows that the group has started to emerge from its lazy post-Britpop walkabout. Distortion, both instrumentally and vocally, and jazzy, mock-serious non sequiturs — used to great effect in their 2000 single "Music Is My Radar" — have been expanded upon and pushed beyond casual dabbling to substantial effect. "Ambulance" builds and melds into what sounds like some of the first truly modern music of the 21st century: a mix of distortion, worldbeat, synths and languid vocals that sounds like a global flip through the radio dial. In a similar vein, "Crazy Beat" — clearly a fresh attempt to evoke the success of "Song 2" — wrings every last drop it can out of Vocoders and crunching guitars. At times, this experimentation goes awry; "Moroccan Peoples Revolutionary Bowls Club" is more than a tad reminiscent of Styx, and "Sweet Song" veers too close to saccharine balladry to take seriously.

For the most part, however, Blur appears to be well along in successfully redefining itself and its sound as a sort of eclectic redesign of the sonic territory first established by the likes of Brian Eno, Talking Heads, and The Police. Think Tank as whole is a smooth, subtle album, one whose climaxes, such as the eerie, all-too-short dub "On the Way to the Club," take, as the cliché goes, "a few listens to grasp and admire." Other highlights, such as the mock-punk of "We’ve Got a File on You" and the sunrise ballad "Out of Time," are more readily accessible, albeit still in need of a little more fleshing out. It’s a shame, then, that the album ends on a sour note with "Battery in Your Leg" (the only track with Graham Coxon’s guitar work), an overlong dreamscape of a song that cribs off of Radiohead’s usual fetish for closing tracks with meandering pianos and wailing vocals. Just a little more discipline, and this album would shine far brighter.