Always room on my plate for trip-hop, but if you’ll pardon, I don’t approve of DJ Derrick Daisey – er, Vitamin D, in this impulsive moment anyway – drowning his self-run label’s Web site in disaffected ADD posturing. I’m sick of rusting-down ravers (this dude actually admits to having hearing damage) crawling out from the primordial ooze of the last millennium, fronting like they’re too rebel-famous to provide any background on themselves and then expecting people to give a crap about what they’re trying to do now. I mean unless you really feel it necessary at age 35 or whatever to pose as a drum-n-bass toddler out to bore a couple of Facebook friends to death with your 95 IQ, post your stupid biography on your stupid site and spend a paragraph explaining why you shouldn’t be written off immediately as one more human boombox. I don’t know your history of bouncing records at “important” raves, and there are by my count 9 billion other people in the same boat, so grow up and make like a record-label guy if you’re going to kind-of try to sort-of sell records, at least for the sake of the equally pretentious dorks you’ve signed to one-off record deals.
Past all that ridiculous garbage, which has accomplished zilch for both of us, D’s music is OK, like Massive Attack’s little brother packing a new funkadelic record collection and a few weird hi-hat and blaxploitation-dialog samples, stuff like this, savvy? Whether our guy here is disaffected or not, he crafted this more in the manner of an antique-store proprietor than a junk dealer, a hint at something I’m too jolly important to waste time thinking about. B- — Eric W. Saeger