Paranoid Pleasures

Fluent British Headzdance Genre Graveyard Shifts Into Paranoid Pleasures :

Honest Industrial Graft

You Can Take That To The Burbank

by Don Allred
September 10th, 2004 2:00 PM Issue 37

Grime
Rephlex

I'm sitting in my rockhead trailer, looking at a UK CD cover that's almost as gray as
me. Grime, it sez. Four tracks each by MarkOne, Plasticman (not to be confused with Plastikman), and Slaughter Mob.

MarkOne's first two are just bad-smelly jungle, bouncing dead syllables.

(Spoiler: such Halloweeny tricks can fit with Grime's crinkly consolations treats, at least as notions, once you've bagged 'em all.)

Then "Interference": a mainly manly vocal sample (brief,
persistent) is shadowed by a girl-child band saw (sweetly whiny,  lovingly blended
and EQ'd),  in call-and-response: latchkey trainee children, while Mama Blues is gone.

Instruments and voices find Grime to be more of a low-budget midnight melting pot than, say, the customized rap of grime prince Dizzee Rascal's emblematic Boy in da Corner. Yet this cater-corner Grime's tracks and ears usually get fed well enough, one way or another. 

Especially by 18 juicy wheels of highway Plasticman's "Industrial Graft,"

where my spatial phobias get too stuffed to jump (too far).

Big spoonnful breaks also feature festive forklifts with a pulse, under fluorescent warehouse stripes, while the Moon checks in through skylight.

Below the afterglow, Slaughter Mob's deep-sea bass notes pucker, kiss, and
talk at hooky schools of higher sounds. "Yeh fi-yahed," old Trumplips-bass tries
to tell an uppity voice. Which pays no mind, has no mind to pay, floating in my trailer. 

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