Muso wisdom has it that traditionally, experimental techno producers are a dour bunch- the aimlessness and joylessness of their autistic-spectrum fiddlings with algorithms and polyrhthyms clearly signposted by the restrained typographics of their cover art, opaque systems of track naming and the choice of the forename “Thomas” over the more matey “Tom”
In his latest act of iconoclasm, deliberate or otherwise, Dusseldorf’s Thomas Brinkmann has here moved on from his days of art-school expulsion; multi-armed turntable construction and hand etched record faces to shatter this myth, constructing an album from field recordings of Tokyo city life that bewilderingly, manages to be a hell of a lot of fun.
After a tastefully boompteboomp start to the collection, the machine-gun stacatto editing kicks in on track three, where tiny loops of unrecognisable city sounds are suddenly interrupted at 1 minute 13 by a hilarious little burst of eurodance.
From here on oddly funky patterns skitter in on crazy Detroit hi-hats or bash their way through the chirpy hubbub of Tokyo and while there are certainly uncomfortable patches, nothing is ever so overwraught as to suggest it was meant for anything other than a 21st Century human audience with a 21st Century human attention span.
Like a rather more erudite, less bratty Kid606, Thomas Brinkmann wants to make us smile, make us squeal with the ticklish delight that can only be reached through the application of insistent hammering electronic music production and sampling technology to the incessant peripheral noise and mindless sounds of the idioteque that otherwise jade our auditory palate.
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