See, I move in one of two ways; rapidly or not at all. Our esteemed editor-in- chief and tribal wiseman, Ryan, would be happy to attest to the paradox of 150 reviews in three months becoming one review every two weeks. We sit around, harumphing our downfalls and what are we left with? Well, 60 Channels, of course.

It seems that somewhere along the way, I became the expert on the dreamy, delicious, femme mello-tech bands that were sprouting from all corners suddenly after Portishead appeared. It's not a bad expert to be, except that you want cappuccino and rain all the time. I take it as a high honor today to give you my jaded, yet experienced, opinion of this here record.

The first word that springs to mind (I'm too impatient to wait for the second) is detached. Yeah. There are waves of various beats, ranging in texture from distant drum waves to spacy tekno glorps. They seem to be in some vague agreement, but they come and go under the vocals of The Angel. Yes, that's really what she calls herself. I guess her career's improved since her appearance in "Bimbo Bowlers In Buffalo." (Oh, wait-- that was a different angel.)

The Angel drifts along in lazy recognition of a song to be done, turning cattily sexy when the beats get turned up. Snatches of samples and the various voice drift through, as you'd expect. But in my earnestly expert opinion, I'd recommend this most strongly to those inclined toward the likes of Laika or perhaps Baby Fox. 60 Channels lacks the warmth of truly pitiable feelings that Portishead fans crave, and might be attempting to wiggle into Sneaker Pimps- saturated dance floors, but their obscurity dampens interest in all but the perversely interested and "the experts."

-James P. Wisdom