In a music scene pumped with Kanye-sized egos, let's shower some love on a breed of male musicians who eschew machismo for down-home humility.

Joseph Mount, the 37-year-old frontman of the Devon indie-electronic quintet Metronomy, is one such guy.

The title of his band's sixth album, the 17-track Metronomy Forever, is over the top, but every track strives to deflate that pomposity.

"I've got an insecurity/Gets real bad when you're here with me," he keens in the funky confessional simply titled Insecurity.

Over squiggly riffs and jaunty drums, his voice goes falsetto as he utters the next heartbreaking line: "I take it 'cause I'm being a man/But I think it might be killing me."

In the light of the #MeToo movement, gender roles are changing, not least for the self-aware Mount, who has a partner and two young sons.

On a break-up number called The Light, he takes masculine understanding to the next level: "Cause I understand that I hold you back/But I'm just a man/A bad one at that."

On the brink of being dumped, he feels apologetic instead. The music is, oddly, cool Motown-styled R&B, slathered for action, but the action is to say sorry, I'm to blame.

Another unusual doozie is the lo-fi, beta-male anthem, Upset My Girlfriend, sung close to the mike and with an electric guitar sparsely strummed.

A mournful sheen of synth is adrift as he joylessly rolls out a litany of youthful misdemeanours - crashing a car, getting kicked out of a rock 'n' roll band and sending a text to a girlfriend who is not happy. The results are bathetic and relatable.

These songs complement the catchy art-rock zingers which Metronomy have built their reputation on.

Try resisting the effervescent, fizzy charm of Lately, or Whitsand Bay, the sprightly sequel to the band's 2011 hit The Bay.

Band members - keyboardist Michael Lovett, drummer Anna Prior, bass guitarist Olugbenga Adelekan and saxophonist/guitarist Oscar Cash - ably bring Mount's sonic adventures to life.

In Whitsand Bay, a wobbly bassline oscillates through airy beats, but the lyrics are riven with self-doubt. "And I need to find some peace/But she keeps on touching me/And everyone looks at me," he sings, switching from unease to ardour to paranoia within a blink of an eye.

Throughout, you can get a cinematic portrait of a man navigating life's turns and twists - one moment, he is riding on the come-hither electro funk of Sex Emoji or the silly, disco-seduction of Salted Caramel Ice Cream; and the next moment, he would come down from the high in a midnight palate cleanser such as Miracle Rooftop.

By the time one comes to the last track Ur Mixtape, a lifetime has indeed passed. Morphing ceaselessly like an alt-R&B missive, Frank Ocean-style, the song is cut up, moving along on its glacial, stop-start manner, ricocheting like an unexpected recall.

He recounts meeting the brother of a crush, who told him: "You loved my sister/And I loved your mixtape/So let's have a drink mate."

It is a coda delivered so straight and casual, it hits you hard.