Moby
Play
[V2]
Rating: 5.0
For those Connecticut hardcore kids (of what I like to call the "Hartcord"
scene) who don't know, the drummer from the Pork Guys moonlights as a
techno superstar! Believe it or not, but when he's not playing New England
basements, Moby entertains thousands of dopamine- intake- inhibited kids.
Although his musical output has been varied in sound, it's been predictable
in emotion and execution. One can always count on an album full of filler,
a few buried dance gems, over- thought moods, some preaching, and banal
new- age tendencies. It's commendable of Moby to make each album a unified
experiment, but imagine how great an LP of his career's best bits would be.
Instead we're consistently left with "the ambient stuff," "the house
stuff," "the punk stuff," and now "the blues stuff."
Play opens with the butt- shuffling "Honey." A stuttering bass line
and thudding piano shouts out "nas-tee!" (It also mummbles, "Fatboy Slim
does this sort of thing better.") Picture products spinning over a stark,
white background. The next few tracks keep up a sweaty, soulful pace.
"Porcelain" tenderly glides down throats like lithium. "South Side" is
the closest Moby has come to writing a radio- friendly pop song. "Why Does
My Heart Feel So Bad" asks just that in an ad nauseum sample loop over some
hip-hop beats, syrupy synthesizer, and blues guitar. Okay, so what we
have so far are the makings of a great EP. But from here on out, the album
deliquesces into a warm puddle of generic ambient, techno, and trip-hop
(mostly ambient).
The throbbing "Machete" rips off Underworld as much as legally possible.
The somber "7" offers only brief respite from higher dbs and bpms. Moby's
flaw is that he comes across as too genuine-- too wholesome. Play
tries to juggle an academic love of music history, a primal desire to
groove, a uniform movement towards the "peaceful" and "beautiful," vegan
manifestos, and studio wizardry. Thus, we are left with the aural
equivalent of a "For Better or For Worse" cartoon or a romantic comedy. If
only Moby would tip the scale in any one direction.
The sampling and processing of passionate folk and blues roots music drains
whatever emotional ballast kept the music so spiritually afloat; although,
this is more of the fault of innate digital recording techniques than Moby's
talent. A performance loses raw magnetism after being chopped up in
ProTools, cut from its atmosphere, cleaned, and gutted from its
accompanying guitar. After this process, the blues on Play become
nothing more than a quirky sample. The fact that he added gobs of
synthesized mayonnaise doesn't help, either.
Ultimately, Play's best moments are 100% Moby. Y'see, Moby has
talent. What he needs is an editor and some of that good ol' fashioned
Pork Guys punk energy. Without those essential ingredients, Play
offers only one intriguing listen. In short, it's fun and functional, yet
disposable: Play is the condom of rock.
-Brent DiCrescenzo