Scott Walker, Lee Hazlewood, the Zombies, David Axelrod, Ennio Morricone, early music-hall pre-Ziggy Stardust David Bowie - these are just a few of the most obvious touchstones of The Age of the Understatement, and Kane and Turner approach them all with an obvious reverence and affection. There's nothing ironic or kitschy about what they're doing here, and their collaborators are equally passionate about their mission to create a modern update of classic symphonic-pop. Their drummer-producer, Simian Mobile Disco's James Ford, brings just the right measures of echo and reverb and string textures to the album's production, and Final Fantasy's Owen Pallett's arrangements - performed by the London Metropolitan Orchestra - are sumptuous, hair-raising marvels.

Ultimately, the bit about this being a "modern update of classic symphonic-pop" comes down to Kane's and Turner's voices - their boyish, occasionally sneering delivery would indeed have seemed out of step with the more debonair croons of Walker and early Bowie. Hazlewood - himself quite the iconoclast, and hardly the most suave in the bunch - probably would've approved, however. As much as most of the spy-guitar shuffle, the funhouse organ, rolling timpani rhythms, and now-or-never orchestrations could very well have been transmitted directly from that fertile period of pop music, it's the vocals that point to the obvious passage of time. As reverential as they have been with this project, they're unafraid of pointing out that, yes, punk happened. The listener doesn't get whomped over the head with this acknowledgment, but it's definitely there, in the way they casually inject these songs with a decidedly less-polite attitude than their musical forbears.

The disc arrives in a torrent of shrieking, Alfred Hitchcock-worthy violins on the opening title track, crescendoing into an earth-afire galloping rhythm punctuated by thundering timpani and rattling tambourine. A sweeping string arrangement only heightens the drama, as does an exhilarating wordless battle-cry which wouldn't feel out of place on an Ennio Morricone score. "The Age of the Understatement" makes quite the announcement of purpose, and there's nothing even faintly resembling the reserve suggested by the title, bless its blazing little heart. Rather, the Last Shadow Puppets explode into view amid full-blown pageantry and a litany of lingering images. By the time Turner announces, "And she would throw her feather boa in the road/ if she thought that it would set the scene," it's clear that these guys want little to do with understatement:

Similar Scott Walker-recalling horse-galloping drumbeats are used on the stomping "Only the Truth," a dark slice of intrigue peppered by muted trumpet and roaring trombone. Pizzicato strings burn in the background, along with occasional whirrs of acid guitar - the combination brings to mind elements of Bob Crewe's and Charles Fox's 1966 soundtrack to the uber-campy Jane Fonda sci-fi frolic Barbarella, perhaps, or a David Axelrod production.

"Calm Like You" is anything but - a strident, swinging number colored by Turner's urgent delivery and a thrilling stop-start cadence. Fans of current English psychedelic garage-pop revivalists the Coral will find plenty to cheer about on this one, as they will on the thundering "Separate and Ever Deadly." Here, noir-ish guitar, horror-show organ, and death-chiming bells come together to furnish a nervy atmosphere perfect for Turner's admission, "Can't you see I'm a ghost in the wrong coat / biting butter and crumbs?" Not sure what exactly that those words, but he spits them out with such force that I have to believe it ain't good.

Particularly noteworthy are the band's forays into smoother, less frenzied sounds. "My Mistakes Were Made For You" swaggers with a swinging lounge rhythm and some lovely understated spy-movie guitar - think Portishead's Adrian Utley in their less distraught moments - to create an alluring bedding for Turner's rueful delivery. "Standing Next to Me" and "The Meeting Place" each offer elegant jazz-pop that probably sadly hasn't been touched much since the glory days of 1980's English Burt Bacharach-loving romantics the Pale Fountains. The latter track is pure bliss: a gentle momentum-gatherer propelled by spiraling violins, rumbling timpani, and a soaring French horn melody that builds incrementally with the rising urgency of the rhythm. All these theatrics only make the love-gone-wrong subject matter even more potent; when Turner reveals, "Her voice still echoes / 'I'm sorry I met you darling / I'm sorry I met you,'" don't be surprised if your heart gives a little.