Three murderous steppers dubs on a propulsive, rat-tat-tat rhythm, combining mystical spaciousness with detail and ferocity. Angry-lion bass and smears of brass, fusillades and explosions, scares and shocks, oriental pentatonics, clattering percussion and synthy transcendence… the business. The second mix is nastiest; the third is the wildest and most discombobulated (and our favourite).
Bim bim bim.

‘Perhaps the first time he has chosen to showcase the full range of his skills. The set is intoxicatingly rich and, with a couple of exceptions, largely downbeat… Sonically there’s much more variation — if not in the pace of the riddims, then certainly the instrumentation and textures — making it St. Hilaire’s most approachable album for non-dub-techno aficionados… A modern master whose importance and influence can now — though long overdue — be fully recognised’ ((Steve Barker, The Wire).

Tikiman running full range, from the spoken-word dread of What’s This to the Rhythm & Sound-style call-to-action of Send Them On.
Nine dazzling collaborations with Mala, Shinichi Atobe, Batu, Azu Tiwaline, Gavsborg, and full crew.

Ace Berlin house, with a chronic case of the Disco Jerks.

Dazzling house-disco cut-ups, saucily steeped in soul classicism.
All-body coitus interruptus, dozens per minute.

The twitching, mangled corpses of Lemon and Tamiko Jones, left for dead by Frank Timm on the altar of cut-and-loop disco-house. Brilliant, rooted, and ecstatic.

A bass-bin trembler from the surefire doyen of nu disco-house.

Swingeing Millsian techno from the geezer formerly known as ∑. Nothing extraneous. Lethal.