A blob of blu-tack on the wall. A stack of boxes. A curtain opens and closes. A scrunched up ball of paper. “Everything Is Going To Be Alright”. A stack of chairs. A professional athlete runs through the corridors of a national art museum. The lights turn on and off again. A man plays guitar and sings songs. Welcome to the work and world of Martin Creed; mischiever; musician; artist.

Unequivocally part of the contemporary art establishment, and former Turner Prize winner, Martin Creed does not regard what he does as “art”, in fact, he doesn’t even know what art is. One thing that is for sure, he is a divisive figure in the critical and public eye. Some herald his simplicity and naivety, whilst others call him a purloiner of ideas rolled into an pandering art scene and given an extortionate price tag. Whether you think lights turning on and off again (Work No. 227) is worthy of a room in the Tate or not, it’s impossible to ignore the impression that Creed has depressed into the consciousness of art lovers in the UK. A symbol for all that is daring or flatulent with contemporary art.

Just another part of his 100-plus works, Mind Trap is a mix of Creed’s impulsive, raw punk songs and his ambitious orchestral arrangements which, at the heart of it, represents both his enduring charm and charismatic allure, as well as his rancorous attitude and widespread public scorn.

There is nothing special about this album. The punk songs are mantra-driven and monotonous, a raw, pummelling punch that never ceases, grabs the rag by the teeth, shakes and never lets go. Whereas the orchestral works that make up the second half of the album are distinctly unremarkable. But, to almost quote the title of his current retrospective at the Hayward Gallery, isn’t that the point?

You could hardly describe any of Creed’s work as spectacular. It is just as primitive to bash out a couple of chords on a guitar whilst hollering the phrase “Pass them on/Pass them on/Pass your bad feelings on”, as it is a roll a piece of A4 paper into a crumpled ball and submit it to the Tate’s director for consideration to display. In fact, the second act could be regarded as more “punk” than the first.

With much of Creed’s visual works, he is be praised for placing everyday objects and circumstances in unusually unique settings. We have all seen blu-tack stuck to a wall, perhaps even in an art gallery, but not as an object of actual, legitimate art in a museum gallery. It is both mundane and electrifyingly antagonistic. Unfortunately, in a musical scene, Creed’s music does little for originality. The Fall have been doing it for decades. It takes the form of a vanity project rather than a perceptive communication between artist and listener.

Despite it’s musical failings, Mind Trap does possess the bracing innocence and simplicity we have come to expect from Martin Creed, the artist.