‘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.

A walloping one dozen tonics of close-cropped, spasming, blissed-out boogie abstraction, for dancin and prancin. Zinging pick-me-up blends of forensic, gleeful, sleight-of-hand skills and disco connoisseurship, school of Ron Hardy.
It’s a must.

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

Well-crafted, feeling variations of bass, UK garage and house, drum and bass and the rest.

Torsten Profrock’s occult homage to UK garage.
Two-step waylaid in the scuffed, churning, sub-heavy terrain running from his Chain Reaction days to Monolake, mysteriously entangled with the distressed tracks of old Ugandan 78s.

We love this film. Warmly recommended.