It happened the old-fashioned way, by hearing the single first. ‘God Lead Your Soul’, it’s called. You play it once and think, That’s a strange record, and then find it doesn’t leave you. You come back the next day and play it twice, and it intrigues even more. So you try and unlock its charms, its whereabouts, almost. What is this record, this glorious slice of circa-1970 country-pop that begins as if in the middle of the song, and then continues to shift across the musical landscape like a Western stagecoach – harmonies, pedal steel, a brass section from the late-’60s all coming in, and yet none of it, bizarrely enough, with the imprint of retro upon it. The song’s good, and it’s been carried through these production styles to create something otherworldly and precious, and miles from the punch of much contemporary music. It’s the work of Luke Steele, he of The Sleepy Jackson, and it’s the first shot of a man going out on a limb, consequences be damned.

The Sleepy Jackson came out of Perth in 1999. They released two well-received EPs, and then Lovers, their debut album, came out in 2003. As career positioning, it all seemed perfect. The album got ecstatic reviews, then ARIA nominations, and the international press sat up and took notice. Here was a young band with a charismatic lead singer and songwriter ready to go anywhere. Lovers charted in the UK, the band toured, but, as often happens with successful young musicians on the road, things started to fray. Members left, management got tangled, lawsuits and bad blood followed. After the giddy trip, Steele found himself alone (a recurrent word on this new album): the captain of the ship, as always, but with no one around him to command. Personality was born of these circumstances. It’s the fight out. The work of a man on a mission – chips on both shoulders, God behind him – convinced he can make a masterpiece.

The album’s set-up is almost a pastiche of a pop epic. There’s a 24-piece live orchestra, percussion, vibraphone, banks of harmonies and choral arrangements, plus the usuals: synths, keyboards, bass and drums, and up to four guitarists on some songs. It’s all there, a sumptuous blend heralding the confidence Steele has in his own songwriting. All of this is fuelled by the very interesting “personality” of Steele, who is nearly a parody, at times, of the eccentric, messianic pop-star. He has created an alter ego called Luke Blonde (Steele in a blond wig), who runs the Church of Harmonology; there are photos with clocks and other props, slogans written on hands, and a whole run of attention-seeking pop behaviour that’s both a cry for meaning and a way for him to psych himself into total self-belief. He’s got that, and he’s set out to make that very rare beast, hard to find on the Australian major-label roster: the big-budget, soaringly ambitious, experimental pop-album.

His choice of cohorts and location in this endeavour is striking. Steele, for all his cosmic intentions, seems to prefer things local. He still lives in hometown Perth. No big-name overseas producer on the record, but rather Scott Horscroft, part-owner of and engineer at Big Jesus Burger Studios in inner Sydney. Horscroft is an intriguing choice for Steele to make at this stage of his career: no obvious big-hit-maker, but a composer, sound artist and musician with avant-garde leanings, who’s obviously been brought in because of his attitude to sound. The studio is an analogue-equipment paradise. Steele’s gone for authenticity and naturalness, tinged with the possibilities of the “out there”, a place where he believes his visions and dreams of the songs can be brought to life. A place, also, where he will remain in control.