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Nightmares On Wax, "In A Space Outta Sound"

Noticeably stepping away from 2002's accessible Mind Elevation, in particular its almost radio-friendly verse-chorus-verse cuts, the latest N.O.W. album serves not as a return to form but rather as a bridge between that album and the tokeworthy downtempo delights of his post-bleep back catalog.


Warp

Boasting stellar production that shames his gaggle of imitators, the results are by-and-large gratifying, but can prove somewhat grating due to an unyielding sense of repetition. No one can deny that George Evelyn knows how to lay down a damn fine groove. How effective he is translating that into a proper song remains up for debate. Case in point: although exhibiting a solid foundation, opener "Passion" just begged for something more than herbal accompaniment to prevent me from skipping through at its midpoint, a rather rough way to start off an album.

However, Evelyn knows how to take total control of his listeners, blunted or otherwise, and applies himself towards such means on several occasions here. No true roots reggae devotee could possibly pass over the sun-drenched "Flip Ya Lid", with classic toasting, subtly dubby echoes, and a bassline begging for a massive sound system. "I Am You" is good old fashioned American blues put through the N.O.W. ringer, lyrically sparse but sonically infused with sincere emotion and spirituality. "Damn" stands out as the true gem of this record, brimming with soulful R&B sensibility and a hefty dollop of uplifting gospel, starkly contrasting with the desperation of the lyrics.

His best album since the essential Carboot Soul, In A Space Outta Sound goes down easy for purists and novices alike, proving that despite even my own protests, Warp isn't completely useless these days.

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The Eye: Video of the Day

Morr Music Winter Tour

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Review of the Day

DNA, "DNA ON DNA"

DNA played angular freak noise for spastic punks; fiercely intellectual, bordering on the psychotic. The Brazilian-born Arto Lindsay played guitar in the most anti-musical, reptilian brand of non-funk that had ever been heard outside of music hour at the local laughing academy, barking and shrieking like a constipated Artaud in clipped fragments of opaque poeticism. Ikue Mori played a drum set with big taiko sticks in a manner that suggested neo-tribalism but delivered cold, muscular propulsion. Robin Crutchfield's synths unsympathetically reveled in circular insanity, and later, Tim Wright's bass danced around flittingly like a dying mosquito, never finding a foothold, falling over itself in a mad rush to the end of the song.
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