During my adolescence, I was an outsider. I was separate from my fellows not because of some heinous act of villainy or a disturbed love of bus tickets. Nope, I was shunned because Nature decided to play the cruelest trick on this developing youth. Nature instructed my pituitary gland to make my nasal cartilage grow at a hyper-accelerated rate. My conk was totally out of proportion with the rest of my soon-to-be gangly self. I would never score.

I sought solace in music. Like the other hormonal freaks I knew, I chose the Jesus and Mary Chain/ Joy Division axis to ally myself with. Though I must confess to splitting over to the Smiths enclave more than a few times. The brothers Reid and Ian Curtis offered me a place where I wouldn't be derided for my waywardness. The music existed because of waywardness. If Nature was cruel to me, music could, in part, alleviate the punishment.

So it wasn't long before I wanted a pair of winkle-pickers instead of the sturdy Hush Puppies my parents bought for me. I wanted to wear shades like the Velvet Underground. Music took over my life. I identified. My big-eared brother did the same, a few years later-- he chose to dress like the blokes in the Fields of the Nephilim.

Luke Slater would like us to believe he's been there too. Did he have a lazy eye, or a speech impediment? Maybe I'll get to ask him one day. But the music on Wireless yells out, "I am an outsider, just like you! Wanna get skulled with me?" And skulled you will be, having listened to Slater's dirty neuro-funk. Where his previous record, Freek Funk was comprised of shimmering tech-disco, Wireless is a dingy street corner electro session. "Sum Ton Tin" is all screeching blasts and cranked-up body pops. "Sheer Five Five" draws heavily from Two Lone Swordsmen's deep sea nitrogen bubble. Fatboy Slim's hallmark breaks get a drubbing during "Hard Knock Rock;" and "All Exhale" is relentless in its pursuit of your unflinching attention.

I have no doubt that each track is professionally spliced together, but Slater is excelling in styles that others have already pioneered. Slater will never be up there with Andy Weatherall, Richard D. James, Richie Hawtin, or Wolfgang Voigt while he gets by like this. Of course, maybe that's not his plan. Perhaps he's just more comfortable being an insider.

-Paul Cooper