Having a friend who owns a record store is a great thing, especially if he, on principle, doesn't sell commercial music, sends you an email every week with all the offers or new releases, gives you a nice discount, and delivers the records to your home.
Generally, on the first day of the month, I'm euphoric. I can begin swiping my credit card with the illusion that the purchase won't be charged until the 15th of the next month. It was precisely 03/01; I only remember because it was a Saturday, and I was wandering around the little shop ready to take away several CDs when I was convinced to buy this album.
I tried, honestly, to listen over and over again to the 23 tracks it comprises without ever feeling the slightest emotion, the slightest involvement, the slightest enthusiasm. I also read enthusiastic reviews about it that talk about a journey through time and space, about an original revisitation of Kraftwerk's electronics, and even Brian Eno, but they didn't convince me.
I put away the record only to pick it up again a few months later (that is, today) to declare that I don't like this album at all!
After "Ready Let's Go," a pathetic intro in both title and content, we get to "Music Is Math," the most lively and "radio-friendly" track of the album, which, however, too closely resembles the various volumes of "Buddha Bar."
The rest is almost unlistenable.
Maybe every now and then, you're hit by a ray of light like "Dandelion" or some nice reverb like "Sunshine Recorder," but often the work gets lost in excessive experimentation for its own sake, arriving at the 23rd track after skipping at least a dozen, dulled by boredom.
Ah, I vented! Sorry dear L, I never told you anything, and I hope you don't read this review. I'll give you one out of 100.
It is a nocturnal journey within oneself and simultaneously through thirty years of avant-garde electronics.
This album perfectly reconstructs the same sense of vague incommunicability and surrealism.