Despite this realisation, he opts to continue on his chosen route: clearly, destiny cannot be denied.Ĭompared to Ultramarine's previous records, in particular the Canterbury Sound revisionism and folkie grooves of 1993's United Kingdoms, this is a huge disappointment. In 'Caruso', he uses a scattershot series of cultural references to illustrate the song's contention that 'I'm not myself today': this is a life lived through vicarious images, populated by fictions and infatuations which, he subsequently realises (in 'My 20th Century'), have betrayed him, most notably the great myths of rock'n'roll. The range of music is certainly impressive, but it's Friday's lyrical apprehension of himself that comes across most strongly. Friday's long- time colleague Maurice Seezer adds a little dockside decadence to the latter with a gentle wheeze of accordion, while Bono and Edge buff up the harmonies of the former elsewhere, a clarinet brings a touch of mannered sleaze to the queenly 'Mr Pussy'. The tension between the ethereal backdrop and the frantic percussion is initially interesting but soon palls, especially the fourth or fifth track along and compared to many other jungle/drum 'n' bass pieces, there seems precious little here beyond that primary tension: an occasional cry of 'Jah!', a smattering of jazzy guitar vamps, a few bird samples and wave noises, and most tediously of all, the same kind of dull female Brit-soul cooings we've come to expect from every other sequencing sub-genre this isle has thrown up.Ĭouched in musical terms of cabaret and late-night cafe, the album traces both strict hetero sensibilities (the lusty 'Little Black Dress') and more polymorphously perverse attitudes, as in the transsexual chanson 'Dolls', wherein 'it's time for Eve to put Adam to sleep'. Track after track follows the same course, disguising its ultimate intentions behind a curtain of ambient tones and string pads, before the drums come dashing in a minute or two into the proceedings. Having enjoyed the healthy diversity of musical strategies employed on compilations such as Routes From The Jungle, I confess myself baffled by the sameness of Timeless, which is like a particularly dull ambient/ trance album with schizophrenically hyperactive drums. Perhaps it's the sheer number of beats involved per track, but they all seem far, far longer than that, an eternity of stuttering snares and hissing hi-hats. But what gargantuan tracks: 'Timeless' itself clocks in at a whopping 21 minutes, and few of the others come in short of seven or eight minutes. Way too generous - even though the entire package only stretches to 12 tracks.

A double-CD of drum 'n' bass? No, no, Mr, you' re too generous.

Primus stuttering song