Yeah, don’t bother. Having followed the beefy, gospel-stoked body-rocker that was ‘Play’ with records of downtempo electronica and acoustic strummery, Moby here turns in a concept album of Eurodisco and ’90s house charting the emotional trajectory of a night on the NY club scene. There are looping piano chords, elegiac female vocals, strings as synthetic as its new-dawn spirituality and lyrics about love, stars and winning. ‘Degenerate excess’ has never sounded so weedy.
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