REVIEW: Moby, Everything is Wrong (Elektra)

- Joe Silva

Don't be fooled. In that seemingly small niche of the musical spectrum where the colours of techo reside, there are more than a handful of sub-genres to contend with. Granted, most of the partitions are still established by small packs of finicky British club rats who insist that all their beats be pure and should they deviate a BPM in either direction, they'll take their devalued pound notes and spend them elsewhere. "Jungle" techno is coming, so they say, but for the moment, I wouldn't lose any sleep over it. But if you need a more concrete illustration of the disparate factions, just take a juxtaposing look at the spliff toting Alex Paterson of the Orb and Moby. The former sticks to his blissful washes of sound and Pink Floydian cum spaceman extravagances which put him at the top of the ambient heap while Moby..well, Moby's a synth patch of a different colour. Anytime you take a severely pissed, militant Christian vegan and arm him with a Mac, a keyboard and major label, there's bound to conflict among the faithful. When the hordes filled Madison Square Garden (!!) for a techno fest that Moby took part in circa his last release, (1993's Move EP), they were more than a little stunned when he showed up onstage with an electric guitar and actually used it. And while he's made no secret of his past affiliations with all manner of musical styles, six-stringed and otherwise, they had yet to surface in the very up front manner that they do on Everything is Wrong. All bets are now off. Deceptively stepping off with the elegiac "Hymn," Moby lunges from the disco bent of "Feeling So Real" to a Doc Maarten-ed harcore version of his "All That I Need is to Be Loved" and back to the Erasuresque feel "Everytime You Touch Me" in under ten minutes. No, the transitions aren't necessarily smooth (sort of like a compilation tape you make ten minutes before you head out for Spring Break...), but as a portrait of someone who's making a valid attempt to display any amount of their musical depth in the space of one project, you've got to figure the options to be somewhat limited. And while most wouldn't dare turns up their trendy snouts at the Beasties for mixing in their punk heritage with the hip-hop sensibilities that they copped later in life on Ill Communication, Moby will likely be skewered by the ravin' masses who labeled him a messiah ages ago. But to hell with that. Let Moby stradle as many genres as his hard drive will store. For those who have dared to labour through a couple double CDs worth of billowing, undefined ambient landscapes peppered with the odd organic and earthy sample or two tossed in for flavouring might appreciate Moby's struggle for diversity. From the delicate structure surrounding Mimi Goese's elysian vocals on "Into the Blue" to the dance-purist smack of "Anthem" there's enough here to forever yank Moby out of the techno pigeonhole he might be lodged in.