Caught in the Carousel

Moby

Wait for Me
Mute

Moby

Poor Moby.

I suppose one should forgive him for wishing the world was still cocooned in 1999, for still wishing to be the conductor of that sad electronic waltz of all those ravers racing the moon home.

Too bad, though, that it's 2009 and the darker landscape of the world is a constant reminder that it is always night somewhere; no one owns it more than another. And if one still thought nights were exclusively meant to be affairs to be drunk in, to get fucked in, to be Ecstasied away, then one deserves the scorn of a ridicule usually reserved for Grateful Dead fans.

After failing at artistic growth after 1999's hugely successful, and often elegant, Play, Moby has come back to the tried-and-true sound of that album. But it's all so free of any charm this time around. It seems an incredibly naïve bit of posturing, a ridiculously pretentious supplication to the adoration of those daring creatures of the night, wandering the dusk-lit hours, fueled by Pharmacopia. It's little different than that 25 year-old Deadhead who buys an orange bong and names it Naranja, and then ten years later-when it breaks and when he has slightly matured-buys a new one, a bit smaller, and names it Tangerine. The only difference is that there is an attempt at humor with the latter. This latest Moby offering is so devoid of humor that when I went to the Amazon page to look for some info that wasn't included in my press kit, the Amazon data-capturing spin machine referred me to products to help with depression: St. John's Wart. Early-career Woody Allen DVDs. Your Big Book of PUPPY Names!

The few tracks that work here, "Division," "Pale Horses," and "Study War," do so only because they make you pull out and listen to their far-superior inspirations: Satie's "Gymnopédies (1888)," Alpha's "Somewhere Not Here," and Moby's "Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?"

One hates to sound so cynical, but the rest of the album frankly sounds like a soundtrack for the pilgrimage to the Moby shrine Moby built for Moby. Makes me want to pop a pill. Is it X or E? I can never remember.

—Thomas Cooney