Transcendental Drift. Black Dice, Mr. Impossible.

A protracted while is required to get into the swing of Mr. Impossible, the debut effort from Brooklyn noiseniks Black Dice on Domino imprint Ribbon Music purely because it takes a prolonged period for the trio to proffer much discernible "swing" to "get". Each of the record's nine pieces is best described as musical motion in place of intrinsic song, with the collagist approach of its sleeve artwork reflected in its hack, paste and pummel approach.

Perhaps most engaging is the fact that these motions fade in and out of one another with a startling fluidity and especially so given the way in which the album flickers disorientatingly from one disparate aesthetic to an entirely contradictory genre lurking down the other end of the spectrum. Consistently too such transmutation occurs within the single composition: opener Pinball Wizard is a fraught amalgam of glittering rhythmic spacks and ever-descending synth dementia, the result sounding somewhere along the blurred lines of Primus re-imagining Richard D. James in that now-distant epoch during which MTV2 embodied an encyclopaedia of alt. Its Bookish samples again nod to the aforementioned collagist impressionism; entirely unintelligible and warped beyond any coherency prior to the pace increasing exponentially to resemble the whacked-out intro music for some lost Nickelodeon toon. Rodriguez takes off on a more mechanised trajectory, whilst Pigs is mechanical gobbledegook punctuated by swinish squeals.

However the fictitious Mr. Impossible experiences a beastly metamorphosis over the duration of its tracklisting and it's the emergence of Spy Vs. Spy that intimates evident maturation, its sci-fi blurts of colourful chord adding further facets to the already-overwhelming mélange. Having graduated the teething phase Black Dice are ready to bare them calcium pearls and by Christ does it show on Outer Body Drifter for were the impertinent clacking reduced from foreground to background, a cocksure glam track would reveal itself. Glam in its most rudimentary, prototypal and again almost impenetrable format that's intermittently endowed with the gritty squelch of Benny Benassi's Satisfaction but glam nonetheless. As it's predestined so to do given such designation, it drifts into the gloopy splurge of Shithouse Drifter that's perpetuated by what sounds like an untameable stylus rampaging the repeated length of a brutalised Stylophone that's been reduced to just three plates, before protofunk jazz slump lumbers up to the fore on the segueing Carnitas. Reminiscent of much of Gloss Drop (or indeed Dross Glop for that matter), it's a bright and unpredictable roll of the Dice as Mr. Impossible, by and large, lands on many a right note.