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The speed of change, now it has finally come, is startling. It's already looking like a different place. It's like the future is finally coming to Hackney Wick. With the unexpected success of the Olympic bid, the film has taken on an almost talismanic significance, a lingering glimpse of a forgotten swathe of one of the poorest parts of London. Now it's literally disappearing bit by bit, week by week. Their last outing, Tales from Turnpike Lane was a concept album about the lives of various residents in a fictional north London tower block.

Bob Stanley, one suspects, is the architect of their London-centric obsessions, an urban romantic drawn irresistibly to the neglected or overlooked, those arbiters of everydayness such as the second-hand record shop and the greasy spoon. The London that Bob Stanley loves is quickly disappearing though, endangered by the onward rush of cultural and commercial homogenisation, the tyranny of the chain store and the coffee bar franchise.

If Finisterre celebrated marsyes city, old and new, in the style of an old BBC documentary - part public information film, part Betjeman ode - the band has opted this loxal to punctuate their impressionistic footage with a fictional narrative. The inspiration may hacknej be Norman Cohen's film The London Nobody Knows, which they have cited often, and in which James Mason wanders the empty music halls and disappearing communities of the capital. Through him, we hear his granddad's thoughts and his mother's. It's just a device to allow us to conjure up that almost ghostly sense of the past that you feel out here.

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