French singer-songwriter Melody Prochet’s self-titled debut – a collection of radiant psychedelia produced by her then-boyfriend, Tame Impala’s Kevin Parker – was released almost six years ago. In 2014, she began trailing its follow-up. Only now, however, has Bon Voyage actually arrived.

The reasons for the four-year delay are rather hazy: in 2017 it was revealed that Prochet had been hospitalised following a serious accident (the details of which have never reached the public), yet the album had been pushed back for years prior to that. Much like its mysterious timeline, Bon Voyage is not a straightforward record. Sung in a mixture of English, French and Swedish, tracks tend to be loose and freeform as they slope between tempos and styles: opener Cross My Heart begins by aping Jefferson Airplane before segueing into a fidgety breakbeat; Breathe in, Breathe Out matches trembling, wiry synths with a Britpoppy chorus; Desert Horse interrupts chunky guitar riffs with helium vocals; Quand Les Larmes D’un Ange Font Danser La Neige’s jazzy drum fills are silenced by a grossly scatalogical spoken-word passage courtesy of Pond’s Nicholas Allbrook.

There are recurring themes – Prochet’s sweet, breathy voice, extended psychedelic wigouts, Middle Eastern instrumentation – but no trope as pervasive as the record’s proclivity for impromptu left turns. On the one hand, this means dull moments are few and far between. Yet an album that flits wantonly back and forth between languages and decades needs a strong personality to anchor it – and that’s one thing Bon Voyage’s restless experimentalism never quite gets round to establishing.