Just before the police arrived, I found myself engaged in deep conversation with Rockers. They had loudly proclaimed all techno and electronica to be "crap" and I felt it my duty to try to set them straight. Despite the fact that my diaper was chafing and I had broken into a nasty rash in both my armpits and between my toes, I expounded upon the ignorance of such gross generalizations. I sang the song of techno, likened it to bands that the poor rockers could relate to, and massaged their erect Rocker egos with a verve not seen since the time I pooped in my hand and threw it out the window of my moving car, just to see if I could. It made me proud that I'd defended the faith, even though I worship at no specific musical church, preferring an eclectic musical polytheism that happens to encompass everything except Country.

Which brings me to the Bowling Green. The Rockers' primary complaint with the genre of "electronica" was that it "all sounded the same." Listening to One Pound Note, I can see the foundation for such a complaint. Though the album is filled with drum-n-bass stylings tempered with lighter DJ Shadow- like rhythms, I found myself searching for something to grab onto, a musical totem to worship. They were few and far between.

One Pound Note has the makings to have been a much better album than it ultimately is, exhibiting smatterings of the most beloved "electronica" paradigms; yet the utter lack of defining criteria-- be it vocals, some breakbeats, drum bombs or heavy crescendos-- leaves One Pound Note sounding barren and godless. It loops in wide circles, samples repeating at expected intervals, an occasional funkified guitar or haunting melody offering a mild distraction from the featureless landscape of admittedly toe- tapping regularity. It's not enough, though. The music lacks the ego and personality that most Rockers find so entertaining, the ghost in the machine, the human presence so necessary for a fulfilling musical experience. That's not to say that the digital experience is innately unfulfilling, but it's the art, the artist, the musician, that makes the music, dude! If y'can't hear that, then why are you listening?

Eventually, the cops arrived, and I waddled out the back gate, poo dripping from my overstuffed diaper. My brow was furrowed as I pondered these deep thoughts on the state of music. I will continue to worship, but not at the Bowling Green.

-James P. Wisdom