Pitchfork

As a man who's often credited with reigniting the sputtering spark of drum 'n' bass, Amon Tobin has a huge burden to carry. To date, his studio releases have lived up to standard he set by his earliest recordings under the Ninja Tune banner, plastering the testosterone-fueled aggression inherent in hard jazz over volcanic basslines and finely chopped beats. Tobin mines subtlety from minor changes in volume and pacing, but relies almost exclusively on sheer force to bowl over the listener. His music is ominous and looming, mysterious and cinematic, despite its menace. Even as 2002's Out from Out Where nodded to the Chemical Brothers' big beat/psychedelia pastiche, Luke Vibert's kitchen sink breaks, and the organic jazz textures of Roni Size, his DJ sets have always been about shock and awe above shade and nuance.

Recorded live in Melbourne, Australia for Ninja Tune's Solid Steel radio series, Tobin's sound here is derived purely from a laptop, two pieces of vinyl, and Final Scratch, a software package that allows him to mix digital audio files via a turntable interface. For almost a full hour, Tobin flows through several moods in all his ear-splitting, creeped-out, bass-heavy hysteria. Those moods mainly range from dark to darker, but eventually come out the other end of the tunnel with a relatively gentle comedown.

In lieu of hiring a full band to recreate his songs, Tobin's tourdates primarily consist of DJ sets like this one, and as such, he tends to throw many of his own tracks into the blender. Song of his like "Chronic Tronic" and "Verbal", which almost come off with a nod and a smile on Out from Out Where, are here taken into a back alley and roughed up with jackhammer breaks and chasms of reverb. The roar and moan work well here, tempered by spiraling rhythmic structures, quickly shifting tracks, or clever sampling-- all of which Tobin takes advantage of without remorse.

A brief LL Cool J quote bleeds into the hip-hop opening of Cherrystones' "Pressure Cooker", and a snippet of an astronomy lecture evokes a vintage Space Mountain feel at the end Tobin's "Marine Machines", before diving into the vintage Space Invaders warfare of "Schmalla" by Facs & Smythe. These bright moments stab out of the fog and give the listener something to hold on to while Tobin keeps the bass in full force.

Unfortunately, a ponderous midsection mires the maddening pace of the album's first and final thirds. Here, Tobin blends 13 tracks in less than 20 minutes, killing the heightened anxiety by total anesthesia, drumming and bassing us into numbness. Normally known for extended, intricate transitions, the blending of these tracks seems forced-- almost clumsy. The press notes accompanying the album mention that some songs were excised from the set in post-production due to lack of legal clearance for samples, and some of these transitions lead me to believe that something is literally missing from these segues, as they're so uncharacteristically inelegant.

Things pick back up during the final third of the record, though, as we find Tobin at his most playful and surreal. His "Night Life" is the first downtempo respite of the set, a churning break accompanied by Arabesque flute and brass. Future Prophecies deliver some future-funk breaks with the well-titled "Deep Impact". This is soon followed by the shuffle and bounce of Dizzee Rascal's "Sittin' Here", in which the UK garage star's vocals seethe and bubble with effects (though are almost entirely drowned in what must've been a muddy P.A. mix).

The last 12 minutes-- a including mashup of three Tobin originals-- offer some innovative peak moments, probably leaving the drunken bogan crowd shaken to their Ug Boots. Here are the schizoid arrangements and found-sound samples that makes Tobin's albums so intriguing. The elephantine bass of "Proper Hoodidge" slowly fades into the breaking cymbals and strings of "Four Ton Mantis", which then slides into "Hey Blondie"'s electro synths. And then comes a truly inspired finale: Tobin drops a majestic, cathartic "Venus in Furs", slow-breaks style, that despite the low vocal volume closes the album with a heavy-lidded sigh.

Of course, even with Lou Reed's hermaphroditic voice lightening the set's loafers, Recorded Live is overwhelmingly masculine. In other words, if you're looking for delicate, atmospheric beats you won't find them here. What the disc does contain is a brutish, undeniable muscle that makes it an enthralling and abrasive listen. Best be sure your speakers can handle the workout.