Ever wondered what fills the mind of the average sleeping adolescent? Well, if Beach House’s third album is to be taken literally (and why wouldn’t it be?), it’s packed with ethereal tales of zebras, snow-kissed landscapes and lost love. All wrought by Victoria Legrand’s glorious Nico-esque contralto, atop a shimmering blanket of undulating synths and blissfully fuzzy guitars, obviously. And how lucky for Beach House it is too, because more banal subjects like exams, acne and furtive snogs wouldn’t have been in fitting with their heavenly, dream-pop aesthetic. Gorgeous stuff.