Moby - Destroyed

Continuing down the post-punk realm that was so prevalent on Wait For Me, Moby returns with his ninth studio album-a fifteen-song collection composed and recorded during bouts of insomnia while touring behind his last album.

It is a novel idea on paper, but think for a moment at how productive you feel under the tortuous state of sleep deprivation. I can personally attest to staring at the glare of this laptop, trying in vain to come up with one final paragraph, or worse, thinking more minutes on end for some clever adjective that is seemingly on the tip of your tongue.

During those moments when I have actually felt that I defeated insomnia’s barrier to my own creativity, I come back to the results after a good rest only to find an incoherent jumble of poorly structured words, repeated ideas and bits of nonsense. Whatever “progress” that I made during those moments of wandering attention and heavy eyelids are almost immediately erased, as they provide no real service to me under the clear glow of a new day.

With Destroyed, I wonder if Moby returned to his laptop after waking up, giving his late night musical exploits a fresh ear. Then I wonder if Moby is strong enough to hit the delete button, or at least consider the fact that maybe the entire thing needs to be gutted and brought back to the drawing board after warming up a fresh pot of coffee.

Destroyed is not as glossy as its predecessor Wait For Me, which makes the feeble attempt at channeling the British post-punk and new wave touch points of his youth a pointless endeavor.

The closest it gets is “After,” which sounds like a life of Eurythmics’ “Greetings From A Dead Man,” a (mostly) instrumental gem from their criminally overlooked soundtrack to 1984, a mid-80’s interpretation of the Orwell classic.

“Sounds like,” that is, until Moby chimes in with his limited range voice-an abrupt buzzkill when you’re channeling a dream that Annie Lennox will complete the nostalgic nod.

Thankfully, Moby restricts his own vocal contributions, occasionally allowing them to be manipulated with a half-broken Korg vocoder and letting the bulk of the vocals handled by female guests. The talents he’s chosen for collaborations are fine by all accounts, but getting back to the Lennox references for a moment: Destroyed could have really been something with a few guest spots with some actual ties to the era he seems to be favoring as of late. What is Allison Moyet doing lately? Hell, I’d even take a song featuring the vocals from the dude from Bronski Beat.

The irony with Destroyed is that its ultimate selling point would be that it’s a damn fine record to fall asleep to, and as smug as that may seem to be, it’s the most positive thing that I can say about the fifteen songs that move at a somnambulist pace for well over an hour.

There are moments of beauty-“Stella Maris” is a heart-wringing ballad with haunting backing vocals by Annie Maria Friman-but the vast majority of this record is forgettable and uninspired.

Destroyed also is tied in with Moby’s upcoming photography book by the same name, and judging by the photos included with the cd version of the release, it’s clear where Moby put the majority of creative talents. They are stunning, and the cover to Destroyed-the tail end of a security warning at LaGuardia airport (“Unattended baggage will be destroyed.”) marks the quick eye of very good photographer. If similar focus-an oxymoron given the conditions of these recordings, I know-were provided to the music, this record could have ended up becoming a major event.

Instead, like many other Moby titles before, it falls flat.

He calls his late night activities “repurposing insomnia,” but after hearing Destroyed, you will know it by its more common name: sleepwalking.

Moby - Wait For Me

The problem is when Moby begins paraphrasing David Lynch’s speech about how creativity is too often judged by its commercial results, you begin to remind yourself of his own brushes with commercial outlets This is, after all, an artist whose creative apex (Play) was the same record that he pawned nearly every track to commercial interests.

It also seems like he’s saving face, an attempt to prepare us for another album with diminishing sales returns, just as every album he’s released since Play has done. This way, when the album fails to hit 100,000 copies sold, he can come right back and say “Well, I knew that would happen. Wait For Me is my intensely personal creative statement. A piece of work that wasn’t designed for mainstream appeal.”

Bullshit. Moby’s ego has been on display for years and it’s obvious that he cares what you and I think about him. And for all of his punk rock posturing, he has bought into a lifestyle that can’t be funded by selling a few thousand copies of product. Those kinds of sales figures can’t buy your way into hearing David Lynch speak at the BAFTA awards, let alone a plane ticket to get across the pond to begin with.

But beyond all of the hyperbole of Moby’s press release is the quiet and unassuming voice of Wait For Me. If he wants to attribute its origin to a David Lynch speech, then another way to view it positively is to remember that this small, bald man of self-righteous contradiction was, in fact, born out of a Twin Peaks sample for Moby’s first taste of stardom with 1991’s “Go.”

In a sense, it closely resembles the dark atmospheres of Lynch’s long-time musical collaborator, Angelo Badalamenti. Moments roll slowly by as Moby fiddles with reverb, minimal chord progression, and warm minor-key tones.

The album is sonically gorgeous; listeners will do themselves a favor by staying awake and studying the subtle intricacies found in Ken Thomas’ mix. This is the man that’s provided the icy sheen on Sigur Ros and more recently M83. He’s found another winning collaboration with Moby and has established himself as one of electronica’s most creative producers.

Wait For Me is obviously intended to be taken as a whole, which will also not bode well for strong sales results; there are very few tracks on it that work independently enough to be considered for a single.

Those that could be actually picked for focal points may be the two weakest tracks on the album. “Study War” mirrors Play-era gospel and Sunday morning preaching. It’s credible enough, but its technique is become too much of reliable crutch for Moby to fall back on.

“Mistake” is just that: a half-hearted attempt at New Order with even weaker vocals than Bernard Sumner could muster. A misguided side step is yet another piece of evidence that Mr. Hall needs to distance himself from any urge to step in front of the mic during the recording process.

Aside from these two minor quips and apart from the baggage that precedes Wait For Me, it is exactly what he intended the album to be: an atmospheric long-player that’s unified in its moody approach and full of rich, beautiful textures. There’s very little that you’ll actively recall after its done, but there’s even less that will have you reaching for the “pause” or “stop” button while it’s playing. It may be true that Wait For Me is little more than a precursor to your nocturnal hibernation, there is something to be said when Moby manages to find melodic beauty when he finally shuts up.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.