As a change from The Fall and the mellifluous Mark E. Smith, I shove Comicopera into the car stereo this morning.

It's interesting to hear how Robert Wyatt's voice has changed over the decades - decayed over the decades? - from Canterbury cheeky chappy to asthmatic old geezer (a term I think he uses himself and by no means pejorative). Indeed, that's part of the power of Wyatt's music: the vocals breathed as it were in your ear. A mulling over, regretful, disenchanted sigh yet still getting through the days. And utterly devoid of rock posture.

But this morning what strikes me the most are the delicious backing parts - the brass in particular - harmonizing with the main melodic line. I hear Miles, I hear Mingus - and the way his music drifts.... Nowhere to go yet going.

Somewhere I have a documentary with Wyatt sat at his mixing desk explaining his relationship with the world: surfacing occasionally like a whale to breathe and descend again. That's the rhythm here.