Though avid readers of Edith Hamilton's "Mythology" will recall how the Greek goddess of love, Aphrodite, was born from her grandpappy's ballsack, I doubt that Gavin King, who has taken on the goddess as his moniker, was brought into this world in quite such a picturesque manner. Nor, truth be told, is Gavin likely to sit for any latter- day Botticelli. Damien Hurst is a more likely stylist for such a job.

King writes tunes that the British would condemn, in their class- addled mentality, as drum-n-bass for bricklayers (or any such contemptibly manual laborer). Here, in the egalitarian paradise of the United States, the closest put-down would be "jump-up jungle for frat boys" which just doesn't convey the same sneering insinuation of ill- education as the British jibe. After all, frat boys have to get into college somehow. Your average limey bricklayer barely made it past learning to read the labels on beer cans, let alone made it to a similarly fine institution as the University of Arizona. Nonetheless, for those Phi- Kappa- Chis who wish a respite from Mr. Durst's idiosyncratic spin on Lutheranism, Gavin King presents a collection of old now- threadbare singles and a sprinkle of sleek, shiny new tunes.

King doesn't set his goals too high. He's quite happy to roll out one party tune after another. The samples are the tried and true. "B.M. Funkster" appropriates two such stalwarts: the bassline from the O'Jays' "For the Love of Money" and the same James Brown sax line that Chad Jackson used for "Hear the Drummer Get Wicked" all those years ago. "Rincing Quince" samples the same Quincy Jones organ line that Nightmares on Wax snatched for their proto trip-hop and Mo'Wax blueprint "Night's Interlude." For "Spice," King turns to no less an obvious source than the failed David Lynch- directed sci-fi flop "Dune," which J. Saul Kane and Ian Loveday plundered for their 1992 Eon project.

So amid the predictably wobbly (but no too nauseating) basslines and the beats you've heard across many similar compilations, what are you getting for your greenbacks? Is this disc the jump up equivalent of Taco Bell, a dependably bland version of a spicier cuisine? The Budweiser of drum-n-bass? Unfortunately, yes. Aphrodite is merely a showcase for King's competency. There's none of the distorted funk you can find in bundles on Super Collider's Head On or the artful precision of any of Photek's releases. Instead, this album is a no-frills, thoroughly serviceable party disc and no more. It's a clear case of misnomer; this goddess is not one of voluptuousness and desire; rather, a plain Jane waste of testicular tissue.

-Paul Cooper