Floating somewhere in the Indian Ocean, just off the coast of Madagascar, is a mysterious island whose coordinates never remain the same. Against all proven scientific evidence, strange currents eddy around this island, which for the purposes of this review, is called Africa Hitech. An offshoot of the Agulhus Current brings a hectic, syncopated style direct from South Africa, whilst somewhat improbably a current from Chicago and Detroit, has been detected brushing the mysterious islands – fair shores. The Gulf Stream, bringing the bass weight and urban pressure of the hardcore continuum from far away London makes its influence felt, as well as a combined Brazilian/Jamaican current bring more fire from the dancehall and favela. Inhabited solely by two inveterate producers, Pritchard and Spacek bask in the warm currents of media attention and fierce tribalism generally lavished only upon house godfathers, the latest global dance music diaspora phenomena and Boy George. Actually, forget that last bit about sordid 80s pop stars… so far, a few artefacts have escaped the inexorable gravitational pull of the island, coasting into little white ear buds and booming out of big black bass bins throughout the cosmos. The latest to come to us from the currents of Africa Hitech has already travelled 93 Million Miles (at least that is what the speedo says, although personally I am suspicious that it could have possibly been round the block a couple of times).
If the recorded history of dance music from the early 80s onwards was shoved into a blender and left to congeal, I suspect that Africa Hitech’s 93 Million Miles could be the resultant product. The duo explore the latest dance music niches, from Chicago juke to South African house, weld them to a chassis of dubstep and IDM, and add a sprinkle of nu-jazz/broken beat/downbeat vibez. Pritchard and Spacek’s first album length offering kicks off in a mighty muscular fashion, all pumped up, ready for a night tearing up the floor or maybe just brandishing a screw face, as on “Do You Wanna Fight”, where a bashment boogie for cyborg-Rastas squelches and panics in equal measure. There’s four solo Pritchard outings, including the Ini Kamozi sampling “Out in the Streets” where the familiar refrain is given the footwork treatment – looped, truncated and turned inside out, whilst a shimmering, drum and bass style production, with an off-beat dubstep swing, hammer it home. Like Pritchard’s “Elephant Dub” on Deep Medi, he manages to imbue “Out in the Streets” with a curious stasis, maximal anticipation and little longed-for release. Maybe I should be careful, mind. Another reviewer of 93 Million Miles over at The Quietus was labelled a munton for putting forward a similar view. In my defence, I’d just like to mention that I lived on and off in Sarf London for five years, and have put a few miles on the trainers whilst running on the spot, having my innards massaged by pure bass. Steve Spacek’s only solo outing on the album, “Footsteps” rinses out the more mellow manoeuvres of the second part of 93 Million Miles, with a hefty does of proto-grime techno, circa 2002-04, complete with a Digital Mystikz-style medieval synth line.
“Cyclic Sun” nods towards the heliocentric worlds inhabited by Sun Ra and his Arkestra and the cosmic consciousness of Alice Coltrane. A deep soul roller, with acoustic instrumentation and some muscular yet understated jazz flourishes, this tune heralds a confluence of certain currents of both players’ musical heritage. A tropical garage riddim similar to Geeneus circa Tempa Allstars Vol. 2 emerges on “Spirit” a veritable hothouse of hand-percussion, cackling macaws and a late-night, smoky feel. Rounding the album out, “Don’t Fight It” seemingly can’t make its mind up if Kaidi Tatham, or Kruder & Dorfmeister are at the controls - not surprising, given Spacek’s history in Nu Jazz/Future Beats circles. If there was one word that would become overused, stuck out on a floating island in the Indian Ocean, it would have to be “Glangslap”. This early noughties two-step in the vein of Horsepower and Mark One, meets sub-aquatic Drexciyian impulses, and the odd electro flourish, is a perfect example of the craft of modern beat making. Whereas Tom Hanks was stranded with only a volleyball called Wilson for company, Pritchard and Spacek have each other, and the word “Glangslap”, which shall enter the modern lexicon, if I have my way.
Oliver Laing
