MG4, the craftily titled fourth album from Japanese jazz-funk producer Shinichi Osawa (aka Mondo Grosso), takes its cue from M.J. Cole's high strutting two-step album, Sincere. Osawa entirely erases the vestigial marks of two-step's origins in junglist pirate radio, and maximizes the glamour and Fifth Avenue chic. As such, MG4 is a consummate success. The album is free of the roughness of the genre's original patois and speediness, and rammed to the gills with the sophistication that comes of getting beyond quaffing Kristal.

But inevitably, there's a price to be paid for such deracination. By entirely distancing the songs here from the drum-n-bass-n-dancehall roots of two-step garage, Osawa has pushed the style into a gooey rootless area of high-sheen R&B.; And it doesn't have to be that way as Cole's Sincere magnificently proved. Yet, how accepting would we be of a coked-up-chatty toasting of Japanese rasta? We would naturally suspect Osawa of well-intentioned minstrelsy.

Subtext concerns aside, Osawa is an outstandingly strong producer that noticeably doesn't quit with just an okay take. His guest performers, who range from Brand New Heavy N'Dea Davenport to Japanese R&B; siren Monday Michiru to ex-Groove Theory vocalist Amel Larrieux, all contribute passionate performances. This also goes for the instrumentalists Osawa's gathered. His charts are never as huge as the ones Vince Montana, Jr. wrote out for the Salsoul Orchestra, but they're just as full of unexpected twists and quirks. In fact, it could be suggested that the string sections throughout MG4 imagine Bartok's string quartets as rewritten for the Salsoul Orchestra.

Apart from the mojito samba of "Life" and the no frills jazz of "1974-Way Home," the beats follow the routine two-step patterns that every producer after Todd Edwards has incorporated. That's to say that the hi-hats flutter with a graceful spasticity while the kickdrum anchors, bouncing along at great leisure. The lyrics, too, are routine for this type of slightly earth-mother, eco-sensitive, ever-so lovelorn R&B.; Osawa doesn't want even a whiff of big pimpin' in his high-life jazz, unlike the on-the-corner stylings of pimp-conscious Bilal.

So, we hear such empty-yet-fragrant lines as "Summer breeze/ Pollen in the air/ Blowing free/ Like the wind in my hair/ And like my hopes, they may find/ A place beneath the sky/ Butterfly, carry me/ And share with me your dreams" (from "Butterfly"). Monday Michiru sings these lines with yearning, but with closer examination, it's hard to know exactly what she means by them. Aside from the allergy issues that arise whenever you mention pollen to an American, I can't work out what the "they" in the "And like my hopes, they may find" section refers to. What is the plural antecedent of they? Is Michiru anthropomorphizing pollen grains? Couldn't be-- if that were the case, the pronoun would be singular rather than plural. Is it a conspiratorial use of "they," a variant of The Man? Who knows? I suppose I should care that it's broken syntactically and sustains a referent-less pronoun.

But I shouldn't care because above all, MG4 is a statement about the aspirations of the person who buys this disc. Such a person will watch "Sex and the City" to verify which shoe boutiques are currently en vogue. Such a person will look out for which West Village restaurants are the talk of the town. Such a person will not have read A Man Without Qualities, but will own and prominently display an import boxed edition. If these are your aspirations, here is a perfect album for you. But those of us who feel underdressed when shopping at Target can also enjoy MG4, as long as we're not paying too much attention.

-Paul Cooper