I hate how I’ve been about Kig Britt. Here’s how it always goes: a King Britt album comes in, I love it, then another 300 “deep house” albums come in and they all suck, and since Britt is often lumped in with the deep house crowd, I, being worn-down from all the suckage, make a snide remark about him in some hurried, no-rewrite review someplace.
That stops now. Word to the ages, his music is sexy, cool, awesome and great, and cripes, I didn’t know the guy won a Pew Fellowship! What else needs to stop is even remotely associating Britt with insects like David Guetta or the disgusting old-school Warehouse disco garbage that’s now an old skeleton in Britt’s closet. Yes, there are Baptist-sounding chick singers hanging around, but this, like everything else I’ve heard from him recently, is terrifically progressive. Even more so, considering that this tuneage – his last “conventional dance” album of original stuff, purportedly – was pieced together from hundreds of tiny digitized scraps mined from all over the place, tossed into an Ableton, and get this, all those little pieces are going to be released at some point as inspirational fodder/clip-art for the lowly poodles who will attempt to follow in his footsteps.
Get this album, now. Stop what you’re doing and buy the thing. If you need some sexy chill for the blind date or the beach or the pool, or if you’re just wanting something to make you feel all What Not to Wear in the car, you’ll thank me later. A+