Every January, gyms and diet books will see a spike in subscriptions and sales. Those who gorged themselves over the Xmas period decide to attack that spreading midriff with a few blasts on the treadmill and eating nothing other than lemon juice. We fill our previously loose work clothes like a sausage about to burst on a red-hot griddle pan and we promise ourselves that next year we will do it all differently -- that we won’t succumb to the hedonism and gluttony of the festive season which leaves us feeling repentant, miserable, fallible and ever so flatulently human.

Perhaps picking up on this prevailing mood, Goldfrapp have decided to ditch the glitter, seedinees and the bacchanalian revelry to explore a pastoral outlook on their fourth album The Seventh Tree. “A&E,” the lead single, even has our heroine dressed in a smock and some owl feather head-dress thing. Sheesh.

Watching the video is a bit like having a particularly vicious hangover and having a mental image of bathing in a babbling brook but not having the strength to get off the couch to get a glass of water. The imagery suggests Goldfrapp have turned their back on T-Rex, Roxy Music, Kraftwerk, and all things '70s; they've pulled off the spangly platform boots and soaked their aching feet in some '60s Donovan, Nick Drake, and Fairport Convention. The song, however, does not.

What was intended as a return to simplicity, purity, and melody has somehow translated into a throw-away, linear, middle of the road ballad underpinned by barely-there synth murmurings and an uncharacteristically bland vocal from Ms. Goldfrapp. To be frank, it could even be Kelly Clarkson. Or Carrie Underwood. Or that one from the Pussycat Dolls. Actually, if we’re being honest, the musical worthiness and the song’s allegorical tale -- a recovery in hospital after a pill-popping party where lust does not evolve into love -- smacks a little of Pink’s ham-fisted lyricism.

The biggest shame is that by casting herself as a modern-day Ophelia with messy tresses, Alison Goldfrapp has put to bed the robo-dominatrix role which suited her otherworldly vocals and surging electro pop. For two albums, Goldfrapp were the paragon of all that is glittery, sensual, exotic, and sexually alien. Now? Not so much. It's like they've made their own New Year's resolution.

I've got my muffin-top waistband and constipation to remind me of my crippling humanity. I don’t really want to be healthy. What I really need is more drink, more food, more fun and more partying. Thanks for nothing, Goldfrapp.

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