Having a hundred days off is either a workman's fantasy or just another way of saying "unemployment", but either way, there's a nice mystique to it: an epic vacation, an eternity (to the shortsighted among us) of free time, all empty of responsibility, regret, and unwilled concerns. A hundred days to wake up at three in the afternoon, a hundred days of raving 'til dawn, a hundred days to revel in all the fruits of blissful slackerdom-- this is what Underworld would like to bring you, and they come damn close.

But Underworld's Hundred Days is an unpaid holiday, you see, and over time, bills pile up, boredom sets in, and eventually, part of you wishes you had a job to go back to. It's relaxing, okay, but in the end, there's not much to show for it-- a souvenir, and perhaps a few points off your systolic pressure. Underworld, of course, are perfectly content to offer only this. They're the cruise ship of electronic music industry, offering clients a world of extravagant entertainment and vacuous beauty. You want to think? Get a day job, go to school. But when this vacation begins, there will be no literary references, no complex mathematical tables or equations, no world-weary insights into the human condition.

With every release, Underworld-- here stripped to the duo of Karl Hyde and Rick Smith, as Darren Emerson left to pursue DJing full-time in 2000-- refine their ultra-hypnotic beats to the barest, simplest elements, each time taking one step closer to some basic internal rhythm so instantly accessible that consciousness seems optional for its perception; you could almost dance to it in your sleep. A Hundred Days Off is merely the next step in their process. It's the best thing they've hammered out since tumbling from the lofty heights of Dubnobasswithmyheadman, though given their interim releases, that isn't saying much of anything. What's interesting, though, is that they've managed to refine their sound without hardly changing it. Their music has a sort of unyielding rigidity-- no matter how much they change things superficially, the fundamentals are instantly recognizable. And on A Hundred Days Off, their formula remains pristine-- from the first vocoded (big surprise) syllable, to the final repetitive, trance-inducing pulse-- if far from perfect.

The most notable improvement, as befits the album's title, is that this time around, Underworld take things a little easier. The record is far more low-key and subdued, yet holds just shy of complacency. Tracks like "SolaSistim" are stylish and direct, easily enjoyed by the subconscious while you relax in the local sensory-deprivation tank. Between the similarly mellow radiations of "Twist" and "Little Speaker" (the two songs bookending "SolaSistim"), it wanders slightly off course by becoming slothful, perhaps, but all in all, the user-friendly ease of the tones and rhythms is a big selling point. The change is a subtle one, but the laid-back feel of A Hundred Days Off is a qualified improvement.

"Two Months Off" is the one exception to the album's otherwise placid comfort-- this record's answer to their epic hit single "Born Slippy". Calling back the vocoding "Slippy" so successfully employed for an encore and an equally rousing chorus, its nine-minute run is easily the album's most powerful stretch. Although the other tracks are reasonably successful, none are so naturally anthemic. In fact, the only other song that makes such a distinct impression (possibly included to counterbalance "Two Months Off") is the absolutely horrendous "Trim". See, the great thing about the way Underworld employ vocoding is that you typically can't make out the lyrics. "Trim" serves as a reminder that Underworld is better heard than actually listened to; they use those vocoders for a reason, folks. I'm the last person to care what Underworld is singing about, but these lyrics make my head hurt, and the singing, sadly the central focus of "Trim", makes Yoko Ono sound like Nina Simone.

Exceptions aside, A Hundred Days Off is enjoyably uninspired; it defines both "pleasant" and "unremarkable". Even when, during its second half, Underworld seem tempted to venture into some foreign territory, they're scared off by the alien sounds and patterns, and run off without genuinely committing to anything (though if the results of such a commitment were to be along the lines of "Trim", it's for the best that they stay put). Instead, they offer just enough variety to briefly snap you out of the daze that the record's first half puts you in. Still, that's not to say that Underworld, at any point on A Hundred Days Off, even approaches "thinking-man's music". Your body will move long before your brain does. Of course, I suppose that's the point.

-Eric Carr, October 11th, 2002