Dubstep, as a dancefloor genre, has had an amazing run of full-length releases over the last several years. Burial, Kode9, Scuba, 2562, Martyn, Pinch, Disrupt, Benga . . . the list continues on. While filler material has begun to roll in from around the world, no other genre has positioned its heroes in such a deserving spotlight as dubstep has.
Now add Silkie’s entry to the list. City Limits Vol 1 starts off with an introduction for the uninitiated – “Concrete Jungle” splays out jazz guitar over a slow-bounce funk line while a vocal stab hits just once between a sax riff. Around, through and between, drum beats skitter, forcing the mind to decide between mid- and up-tempo.
“Turvy” is buoyed by a deep, glowing synth pad that hangs out just above the rolling wave of funk bass. Low-end hydraulics keep the attention on the ride, smoked tint as the top drops – a smooth breeze of synths hangs an arm lackadaisically out the passenger side window.
The wobble finds its place on “Spark”, shaking Jeeps beneath a jar of fireflies synth progression. As the track moves into the meat of the matter, filtered chords sit mid-distance back and the whole thing fills up like a drunken late-summer pool party. After the first two tracks’ relative low-burn creeper funk, it’s smart of Silkie to wake us up a bit here.
Post-party creeping commences in the park to the eerie “Sty”. While the wobble makes a return appearance here, this one is for the late-nighters. An incessant snare-hit makes the perfect cue for the white kids to do the “slap that ass” dance move, and for everyone else to actually slap that ass. Fast enough to keep the grinders grinding, but chilled enough to keep the heads nodding – a right balance.
“Quasar” kicks in with classic Good Looking/Metalheadz drum rolls, something straight off of a Golden Age Peshay or Doc Scott number before heading into a glitched light-saber of a bassline and dust-chime dub chords ringing in and out. The up-pitched vocal snip becomes a rhythmic element while half-paced keys cascade between synth-strings. “Time, space – what is that like?” – indeed.
Six tracks in and we get “Purple Love” dropped. The filtering on the intro sequence sets the tone – something’s going to be gettin’ on in a few seconds – and when that bass, those drums, and Silkie’s hook drop right off, you know it’s going to be a party. If you’ve ever needed an invitation to grab someone by the waist and two-step shuffle up close, consider this a pre-approved RSVP to the slip & slide of the future. The sex-funk never lets up, and while the track is just full of things trying to catch a hold on your periphery, the focus stays right where the eyes meet. Straight jackin’.
“Planet X” starts off with a straight-forward natural kick and watery, wavering synths. As the tension builds, feet stay on the ground but the head heads straight to the stratosphere. Soul-glo synths give this a ‘ploitation feel, with surging drums and a nicely processed woodblockish sound providing GPS for the feet. Again, the track gets busy – there’s a lot of stuff competing with a tuffed-up bassline, and by the end, things might be getting a bit heady, but this is a peak-time number for the folks still rockin gold chains and aviators with no irony.
Silkie gets dangerous on “Cats Eyes”, giving plenty of space for the reverbed snare and wobble-bass to follow the easy mark synth lead home in the shadows. Street lights drift by on mid-range pads as the LFO moves in patiently. Skittering and nervous, the lead knows it took a wrong turn down the wrong alley, but it’s too late, and the end is played out in a hundred words of the paper’s crime report the next day.
“Head Butt Da Deck” is quite a name, and has got thug posturing all over it. This is the sort of thing I bump in my ancient 3-speed 4-cylinder to feel like I’m rolling with the homies from Training Day. That’s a compliment. Dre in a submarine here, as if Carl Craig had been on the boards for The Chronic – substitute Kool Keith for Snoop, I can only imagine what craziness he’d put on top of this. When the piano hook drops mid-way through, you know it’s a crusty-eyed sun-up in the urban wasteland.
The back fourth of the album kicks off with “Techno22″. The lead-in builds around an expanding mid-range bass progression and arpeggiated synthline before hitting chopped up rhythms of two-step snares and hand drums. The business at hand gets dealt with when the whole thing ruptures up to a minimal break point just before the three-minute mark, spills over, and comes bursting out onto the street in an overflow of slow-motion jungle funk – the kind that can still find you in the wrong place at the wrong time at 10 in the morning.
Mid-afternoon is a very under-rated time of day for a party. The best ones are just beginning or just ending or just continuing in the heat of the afternoon. “Matazz” gives us a drinks-in-the-air shuffle – it’s the sort of jam where a guy like me finds himself thrown in the pool for the entertainment of the cognesceti, but what can I do but smile it off and enjoy the cool water. Silkie’s mellow Latin shuffle is perfect for half-dressed hip shaking – there’s no doubt if this is the pre-party, the rest of the night will be stunning.
A skittery beat and piano chords open “The Horizon”, giving it a feeling of intimacy that’s been a little bit lost ove the last several tracks of the album. A bit of a wild jazzy samba/salsa/something rhythm drops and there’s something very innocent about it, redeeming and private. The track has an overall sound of nerds in love, of an awkward grace, of adolescent dance lessons paying off. Again, to Silkie’s credit, the focus is where the eyes meet.
“The Horizon” serves as a welcome reminder that the people behind this music are capable of taking us to the deepest, most remorseful parts of the human existence and, within minutes, take us on a Harrison Bergeron-esque whisk around the sophisticated dancefloor.
“Beauty” outros the album by picking up right where “The Horizon” left off, the culmination of a dusk-to-dusk day in the life ride from the mean streets to the champagne ballroom. Syrupy wobbles mean the tux jackets are off, while the bling blings amidst the g-funk chirps and deep bass kicks. Smooth horns grease the slide – listen to the ladies giggle drunkenly.
This is the sound of Silkie. While Joker and the new breed of wonky/funky/whatever is credited with looking to the beat conduction of Dr. Dre, it’s Silkie who has captured the washed out haze of southern California, even in the dead of night. Indeed, Silkie updates the sound but the sound is still the sound, and the sound is still, most definitely, nothing but a g-thing, baby.
