Domenique Dumont - Comme Ca

Label: Antinote

Unpredictability is always a double-edged sword in the dance world. On the one hand, it’s great to be caught off guard by something great, but sometimes a producer hits such a great groove that it’s frustrating when they give it up and start doing something else entirely. It feeds into a wider discussion on DJing style too: many DJs use dance tracks as functional tools to build a dance, and like a producer to deliver similar, high-calibre material. Others are always looking to surprise listeners, giving dancers the frequent rush of the new. But it’s not just producers that can be un/predictable. Labels, key curators in the glut of contemporary music, are also often guilty of getting a little too cosy with a sound and remaining a little unadventurous.

One label which spectacularly avoids this pitfall is French imprint Antinote, which has quietly become buy-on-sight over the last few years. Label-head Zaltan switches between releasing lost grooves, such as the deep meditations of Iueke or vintage Italian synth noodles, and modern output such as the ace future-funk of D-K. An eccentric range of sound and high quality control have become Antinote’s hallmarks rather than a fixed style, and so it was with anticipation rather than trepidation that we first listened to the label’s poppiest offering yet, Domenique Dumont’s debut album Comme Ça.

We know little more than the producer of these intoxicating tunes hails from Riga, but the shadows cast over their identity do nothing to darken the music. This is a pure summer sound, skilfully stirring dub, synth pop and more meditative electronica into a colourful, bustling whole.

The LP starts in a tongue-in-cheek fashion, the title track’s first moments opening onto a yawning synthscape which promises a slow meditative groove, abruptly cut short by a rhythm of lively claps and pops, sunny steel pan melodies and the vocals of a breathless Nouvelle Vague heroine cut out of her own time. The A-side continues in a similar style, as La Basse et les Shakers guides the listener a bustling trip into the jungle, all syncopated rhythms and jangling melodies. The cooing French vocalist returns on album highlight L’Esprit de l’Escalier, her vocals treated so heavily they’re barely distinguishable as the track eschews traditional pop structure by moving from chorus-verse-chorus to a glorious never-ending bridge which occupies the song’s second half.

These aren’t really tracks or cuts, they’re songs, addictive and hummable, but with a fine producer at the helm, who has a light touch but never lets things get too sugary. The album’s B-side keeps the tone but changes the mood, with three meandering slices of electronica that evoke a sunny haze. Un Jour Avec Yusef is almost too stoned to move, a lazy tropical guitar line drifting over slo-mo clicks and pops. La Bataille de Neige is a nostalgic carnival ride, but it’s on Le Château de Corail that Dumont really nails this slower style, a majestic calypso-closer with regal steel pans that march on, proud and wistful. It closes a curious and winning package from yet another great Antinote discovery, as if they needed another feather in their cap.

8/10

Romare - Projections

Label: Ninja Tune

What do we tend to expect from a debut electronic LP? With a few solid EPs under his or her belt, most producers head in one of two directions for their first album: they refine their existing sound or they go for something completely different. British producer Romare chooses the former approach to follow two sterling EPs on Black Acre which proved challenging while overflowing with groove and invention.

On Projections, he burnishes his sample collages to a sheen, casting a sharp eye at the history of American music by recomposing its features. It’s a warm, generous collection of tracks, overflowing with the spirit of funk, soul and jazz, shot through with an eye-popping cast of samples. And yet, after it’s all over, it feels like there’s something missing. Romare’s first EPs were so creative, so searching in theme, sound and style, that hearing him do more of what he does best is a disappointment in a way. The novelty of his approach has worn off as his craft has improved, so what we’re left with is an album that impresses and caresses, but doesn’t quite excite.

Yet that very mastery of craft is still something to behold. Romare has a way in particular with structure, eliciting drama in his tracks by leaving tracks up to past the halfway point before they gloriously erupt, such as Work Song’s explosion from soupy synthwork to a swung groove and clipped piano samples like excerpts from a lost saloon jam. Motherless Child at first doesn’t convince with a lounge-y melody that sounds like it belongs on the shopping channel, but the seedy trumpet that dominates the track’s latter half is a joyous reward, as Romare boldly changes the spirit of the original.

As well as his fine attention to build and release, Romare’s use of samples is generous and far-reaching, such as on highlight Roots, where a bassline like a distilment of his earlier Down The Line (It Takes A Number) builds with patience, slowly accruing dusty samples til one can only marvel at the complexity of the arrangement, at how every tiny sample plays such an integral part of the whole.

Later The Drifter enchants instantly with its strutting bassline, while Rainbow is a confident dancefloor number, all smooth guitar licks and a lush funk bassline. It’s euphoric without ever beating you over the head with its emotional direction. Yet by this point in the album, perhaps some head-beating would be appreciated. These tracks are so classy and polished that over repeated listens they feel somewhat lacking in grit, even unadventurous compared with his earlier work.

Later tracks suffer from the success of what came before, Prison Blues is a syrup-thick jazzy number that has personality but loses its impact because it feels like we’ve heard it before, while meandering closer La Petite Mort’s slow-mo jazz keys and tidy vocal feel directionless over the track’s indulgent 7 minute length. When Romare can craft a superb tune like the melancholy Jimmy’s Lament in only three minutes, we’re left to wonder why he dedicated so much time to such an aimless parting shot.

Projections is tough to judge because what you get out of it as a listener really depends on what you were expecting (although admittedly all music is prey to the warping powers of expectation). If you’re looking for something bold and fresh in this spirit of Romare’s first EPs, it might be worth skipping over this one. Yet if you loved that first sound and want to hear more like it, Projections is a lovely gem, seducing with a distinctive voice and lavish arrangements.

7/10

Anthony Naples - P O T

Label: Proibito

After Anthony Naples emerged last year with his anthemic disco cut Mad Disrespect on Mister Saturday Night, it remained to be seen whether the Brookylnite’s talent would extend beyond one smash hit. Over the course of 2013 Naples has exceeded even the highest expectations, displaying a natural talent for DIY grooves and lustrous melodies. El Portal was great, but his crowning achievement to date is undoubtedly the sublime Ill Still EP, which contained three leftfield house jams which each rank among the year’s very best. Yet in Naples’ work to date there remains an unsettled tension (the germ of many an artist’s most engaging material): on the likes of Moscato B we heard an untapped toughness to his drums, while the short ambient/ beat-sketches at the end of Faceless, I Don’t See Them and El Portal hinted at an artist straying towards longer, more experimental song structures. These hints of a stylistic shift are realised on P O T, Naples’ first release on his minty fresh Proibito imprint, where two ten-minute cuts take a metamorphic approach to lo-fi house.

P O T, Side A

Both sides of the single follow a similar track – a bumpin’ house groove dominates the first movement, followed by a clean break into a synth-fed slice of ambience. Side A is an instant hit, an unadorned thump supporting a set of sensuous looped vocals and an insistent synth whir. There’s an abrasive quality to the distorted kicks and rude melodies which Naples wears with style, yet it’s the sudden turn to new-age synth work in the track’s final minutes which really confirm its success as a blissful melody unfurls patiently, its eyes turned towards the eternal. Side B is no less successful, taking longer to unravel its spacious groove, metallic percussion underpinning glistering synths and a bold bassline. It’s a finely drawn exercise in drum programming, and as the beats are eaten away by static another radiant melody takes hold, its buoyant high notes twinned with broad, dubby stabs and a metronomic beat which fades out as suddenly as it arrived. Naples’ year has been a rare case of success after success, and all for one simple reason: the boy’s got talent to spare. His willingness to stretch out and experiment has resulted in another essential release in an increasingly enviable catalogue, leaving us eager to hear what he pulls out of the bag next.

8/10

KWC 92 - Dream Of The Walled City (OST)

Label: L.I.E.S.

The moment you hear it, you’re there in Kowloon. Night Drive leads you on a neon, rain-streaked tour through the Walled City’s microscopic alleyways. Live drums tumble around you; the skyscrapers are set suffocatingly close. Synth notes suggest danger, distending lazily. The denizens of the town are an age-old portrait of vice and fear. In 70’s Hong Kong, the Walled City is ruled by the Triads. The bassline snarls, throaty and insistent: a smouldering threat. In the track’s final minutes, a delicate melody cuts through the darkness: have you just found the person you’re cruising for? Have you made it to safety, the city’s menace briefly at bay? It’s up to you: with their imaginary soundtrack, KWC 92 just give you the tone. The narrative is all yours.

Brooklyn tastemakers L.I.E.S. have shown a new interest in the album format in 2013, with excellent offerings from Gunnar Haslam and Marcos Cabral, but Dream Of The Walled City is the label’s first concept-driven gambit, and it’s a storming success. Taking the ‘OST’ of their title seriously, KWC 92 (Samo DJ and Max Stenerudh) here score a film which will never be shot, providing a soundtrack which beckons each listener to create his individual story. While all music listening is in a sense a collaborative effort, the stimulus of the music interpreted in the mind of the listener, here that mutual act of creation is exposed and encouraged, leaving the listener to research the Walled City and dream up one of its countless stories. The place in question is Hong Kong’s Kowloon, a densely populated fort-cum-city demolished in 1993 due to poor living conditions and a high rate of criminality. The pair could hardly have picked a more fertile subject: sonic suggestion pushes the listener’s imagination into overdrive, as the half-heard muttering of a local in his native tongue, the exotic exhale of a wind instrument, or the ghostly refrain of a synthesiser give you all the material you need to create a true epic.

Night Drive  

Sonically Dream Of The Walled City is a vivid hybrid, casting Oriental samples across brooding 80s-inspired synthscapes. Cultural appropriation, when lazily attempted, often proves problematic, but KWC 92 never take the stereotypical approach to their Eastern sound palette, instead delicately working samples into crisp, inviting soundscapes. Dreaming Of You starts off slow, radio crackle, ominous bass and a slow breathing sample drawing the listener into the titular dream. The track’s core itself is tranquil, a longing build of wind and string melodies that strike at an emotional sweet spot. From here on out things get earthier: the darkness take hold over the moody techno of Night Drive, Missing and standout Macau Ferry Terminal as an unnamed threat stalks the regular bass throb and nervy synthlines. It’s consuming material drenched in atmospheric flair, sure to excite the techno-heads as much as the experimental crowd.

Over its final two tracks, KWC 92 draw us through more sombre sounds, KWC 92 melting distant danger into a mournful finale, and Tai Tam Tuk leaving us irresolute, pitting the persistent tension of its heartbeat bassline under ethereal melodies and poignant chimes. It closes a record that deserves to be listened to attentively and openly, whether for its clever details (such as the opener’s lonely woodwind reprised in Missing’s closing moments) or its immersive atmosphere. What KWC 92 have crafted is a sonic space where stories are made, be they frightening, exotic or seductive: the wall’s the limit.

8.5/10

Laurel Halo - Chance of Rain

Label: Hyperdub

Laurel Halo makes slippery music. Throughout the Hyperdub producer’s catalogue of restless electronic compositions there persists an ungraspable quality: whenever you feel, whether on the early techno experimentations as King Felix or on last year’s vocal-led Quarantine LP, that you’d really found something to hold onto, it slips through your fingers. In many ways, this constant mutability, this defiant middle finger to generic expectations, makes Laurel Halo’s music challenging, at times inaccessible. Yet the tricky productions are so becoming of the producer’s recurring themes – paranoia, individual agency, the relationship between man and machine, systems and viruses – that each release feels not difficult but brave. When news came that Halo’s latest, around six months after her club-driven Behind The Green Door EP, did away with the vocals which served as an anchor on Quarantine, we could have feared a disconnect, an isolation in a mist of alien noise. Yet given her superb track record to date, a sense of trust and an abandonment of preconceptions is all that’s necessary to feel rewarded by Chance of Rain. A demanding album then, but a ruthlessly thrilling one.

Album Clips

In the mould of a true sonic explorer, Halo’s sound cannot be tied down. A nervous energy pervades A Change Of Rain, whose generic touchstones shift from Warp-style IDM to outsider house distortion, from hypnagogic experimentation to drowned club music. Many take their shape as fleshed-out versions of Halo’s live experimentations, a fact which only enhances the unpredictability of this musical suite. The longer tracks mostly take the shape of percussive exercises, yet each is impressively singular. Oneiroi is as dreamlike as its name suggests: a quivering field of largely unidentifiable sounds jostle for attention, leaving the listener adrift and vulnerable, only able to latch onto the occasional clean woodblock or vocal distortion. Serendip takes shape with a foggy techno pulse, a warbling bassline left to wander beneath the mist, while later the abrasive Thrax adds a boiling dose of acid to stuttering drum patterns.

Still in these harsher numbers a softness persists: the emotive chords that occupy Thrax’s final minutes, or the jazzy piano which dissipates the tension built over Chance Of Rain’s angular workout. These melodies take the listener to curious emotional terrain, discomforting rather than tranquil given their placement in such harsh environments. These organic instrumental moments, whether on the piano pieces which bookend the album or stirring mid-point Melt, which moves from soaring strings to a single isolated wind instrument, distil the broader ambiguity left in the wake of A Change Of Rain. Here, Laurel Halo leaves the listener with an anxious album which trades abrasion for serenity at a moment's notice, an endlessly enigmatic collection of music. It may take some work to truly get to grips with her latest, and even then a specific emotion or idea may slip through your fingers, but the only thing that won’t elude your grasp will be this record’s quality, and it's composer's singular vision.

7.5/10