Moby
Play
(V2)
Boasting feet of clay and an ass of lead,
my exposure to and relationship with the endless subgenres of club music -- from disco to
drum'n'bass -- pretty much starts and ends with my home stereo. No doubt that's why I'm partial
to artists generous enough to offer a little something for my brain as well as my butt -- the
Pet Shop Boys, say, or DJ Shadow. The pedantic little prodigy who calls himself Moby has
certainly threatened to make the list -- 1995's smorgasbord, Everything Is Wrong, was
interesting even when it wasn't enjoyable -- but his almost compulsive tendency to genre hop
lent itself more to good singles than coherent long players. So Play, one of the most
engrossing, consistent and ambitious releases from a dance-techno electronica-jungle-whatever
practitioner in memory, is both a surprise and no surprise at all. On one hand, it wouldn't have
happened of Moby hadn't finally assimilated his influences; on the other, it wouldn't have
happened if he hadn't given free rein to interests as far-flung as pre-war gospel, Buddy Holly
and Frankie Knuckles. Moby's such a surprising little crackpot that I'm not going to posit how
he brought it all together. All I know is, my brain and my booty are on speaking terms for the
first time in years.
Rating: 9
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