Pitchfork

For those Connecticut hardcore kids (of what I like to call the "Hartcord" scene) who don't know, the drummer from the Pork Guys moonlights as a techno superstar! Believe it or not, but when he's not playing New England basements, Moby entertains thousands of dopamine- intake- inhibited kids. Although his musical output has been varied in sound, it's been predictable in emotion and execution. One can always count on an album full of filler, a few buried dance gems, over- thought moods, some preaching, and banal new- age tendencies. It's commendable of Moby to make each album a unified experiment, but imagine how great an LP of his career's best bits would be. Instead we're consistently left with "the ambient stuff," "the house stuff," "the punk stuff," and now "the blues stuff."

Play opens with the butt- shuffling "Honey." A stuttering bass line and thudding piano shouts out "nas-tee!" (It also mummbles, "Fatboy Slim does this sort of thing better.") Picture products spinning over a stark, white background. The next few tracks keep up a sweaty, soulful pace. "Porcelain" tenderly glides down throats like lithium. "South Side" is the closest Moby has come to writing a radio- friendly pop song. "Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad" asks just that in an ad nauseum sample loop over some hip-hop beats, syrupy synthesizer, and blues guitar. Okay, so what we have so far are the makings of a great EP. But from here on out, the album deliquesces into a warm puddle of generic ambient, techno, and trip-hop (mostly ambient).

The throbbing "Machete" rips off Underworld as much as legally possible. The somber "7" offers only brief respite from higher dbs and bpms. Moby's flaw is that he comes across as too genuine-- too wholesome. Play tries to juggle an academic love of music history, a primal desire to groove, a uniform movement towards the "peaceful" and "beautiful," vegan manifestos, and studio wizardry. Thus, we are left with the aural equivalent of a "For Better or For Worse" cartoon or a romantic comedy. If only Moby would tip the scale in any one direction.

The sampling and processing of passionate folk and blues roots music drains whatever emotional ballast kept the music so spiritually afloat; although, this is more of the fault of innate digital recording techniques than Moby's talent. A performance loses raw magnetism after being chopped up in ProTools, cut from its atmosphere, cleaned, and gutted from its accompanying guitar. After this process, the blues on Play become nothing more than a quirky sample. The fact that he added gobs of synthesized mayonnaise doesn't help, either.

Ultimately, Play's best moments are 100% Moby. Y'see, Moby has talent. What he needs is an editor and some of that good ol' fashioned Pork Guys punk energy. Without those essential ingredients, Play offers only one intriguing listen. In short, it's fun and functional, yet disposable: Play is the condom of rock.