In August, Fred Gibson became the first dance artist to headline the Reading and Leeds festivals. Early on, he addressed the crowd and talked about how nervous he was. It’s the kind of thing festival headliners like to say, which flatters the magnitude of the event, but in Gibson’s case, it didn’t come across as natural: he seemed genuinely, frantically restless. It was only three years ago that he released his first solo album, after a seemingly lucrative behind-the-scenes job as a pop songwriter and producer for BTS, Clean Bandit, Stormzy and George Ezra. His breakthrough single, “Marea (We’ve Lost Dancing)”, was a reflection on Covid-era privation and was released as lockdown was just ending. And now he’s here, and a bigger festival draw, if the Reading/Leeds lineup is to be believed, than Lana Del Rey.

In the meantime, he has carved out something of a portmanteau career: big pop-dance hits alongside collaborations with underground greats like Four Tet; occasional high-profile production gigs for Ed Sheeran alongside collaborative ambient albums with Brian Eno. His success has been more popular than critical, accompanied by a certain amount of grousing about his wealthy and well-connected background (he is descended from Huntingdonshire gentry; Eno was his parents’ neighbour) and the supposed lack of originality of his musical approach.

His fourth album highlights the pros and cons of that approach, showing that Gibson is a truly great pop-house producer. As you might expect from someone originally known more as a songwriter than an artist, he has a piercing hook up his sleeve. His sound is more subtle and nuanced than some of his neon-tinged peers, but still good for surprises: earlier single Ten is suddenly mixed by Jim Legxacy, who delivers a Drake-esque melody over a four-to-the-floor pulse, segueing into a choppy hip-hop-inspired interlude, and back again.

And his magpie borrowings suggest a scholarly approach to dance music history: the late San Francisco house producer Scott Hardkiss turns up in sampled form on closer Backseat, while one of the album’s touchstones is clearly Orbital’s 1991 techno classic Belfast, whose influence is felt on both Adore U and Glow, the latter an instrumental collaboration with Skrillex, Four Tet and London producer Duskus that may well be the album’s highlight. He assembles an impressively eclectic selection of guest vocalists, albeit all played through Auto-Tune. His use seems creative on Adore U, where Nigerian singer Obongjayar’s voice is so effects-laden it seems to tremble or shimmer; it’s hard to see what the point of giving Sampha or even Emmylou Harris a robotic sheen, although the melodies they sing are strong enough to withstand it.

Ten Days is generously endowed with speaking rather than singing voices – voice notes, off-mic recordings from the studio, phone messages, Derry singer-songwriter Soak describing the feeling of falling in love, an experience they compare not just to “all four seasons in one day” but, winningly, to “the first crunch of cheese and onion crisps”. As on Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, the album opens with a montage of these voices over atmospheric ambience, one big difference being that on Dark Side of the Moon the voices answered existential questions, whereas here the voices seem strangely inconsequential: aside from Soak, they do things like wish Gibson a happy birthday or declare something “crazy”. Without wanting to put too much weight on a 30-second ambient intro, you get the feeling that this is the key to Ten Days’ big flaw.

With its succession of short instrumental interludes and segues that make cherry-picking for playlists impossible, there’s a sense that Gibson sees Ten Days as a grand statement that goes beyond the dancefloor and deals with deeper issues, rather than simply sending Reading teenagers into a state of post-GCSE jubilation. Fine, but it’s not really clear what the grand statement is supposed to be about. Instead, there’s a kind of vague, universal wistfulness hovering over virtually everything here – a sign of depth, not the definite article. Only the gospel-esque Peace U Need and the drum’n’bass-inspired Places to Be offer unbridled euphoria, and when that’s the case, it’s a certain relief. Sometimes the cocktail of four-to-the-floor propulsion and melancholy has an emotional impact, as on “Ten” or “Fear Less,” but more often it feels a little empty and contrived: music that unnecessarily strives for something and doesn’t quite achieve it.

Still, nothing about Ten Days suggests it will slow Fred Again’s progress; it’s hard to imagine the last time he headlined a festival. No doubt its flaws will be less obvious when you’re in the midst of a huge crowd looking to party. Perhaps they’ll even benefit him commercially—after all, few things inspire TikTokers to soundtrack their videos like a bit of vague, universally applicable melancholy. It’s an album that serves its purpose, crisply produced and full of strong melodies, even if it doesn’t quite serve the purpose the author presumably wants.