A key figure in a rising cadre of underground producers, East Londoner Logos is taking dance music – specifically jungle and grime – and utterly annihilating the conventions, with chums like Mumdance, Rabit and Dusk + Blackdown acting as his droogs. Logos is currently riding two hulking waves of cutting-edge sound - 'new grime specialists' Boxed and the '130bpm family' Keysound; whilst there are fragments of genres you'd find Tyres tripping to on Logos debut LP (entitled Cold Mission), this is generally a minimalist, sample-heavy post-electronica doomfest. Logos' m.o. is focused on discovering fresh frontiers; you can put the glowsticks away.

There's only so much bending and stretching and warping and twisting of the word 'dance' before you come to realise that although Logos' intents and/or inspiration may lay in the big bad world of club music, this couldn't be further removed from it. Any beats that are sustained longer than mere fractured passages tend to be frenetic, tense and anxiety-riddled percussive swarms. It's often a sparse sonic landscape Logos conjures, pockmarked with bouts of agitated silence, and we're forced to visit planes of existence not built for hedonism or raunchy debauchery, but for lonely, pensive overthinking. For sitting in the pitch black shivering. The noises on Cold Mission wouldn't be out of place next to Doldrums or early Grimes on Arbutus.

'Menace' opens with dislocated off-kilter rhythms, jerking in angular ways underneath a spray of shattered samples. The synths themselves are almost like those found on Azekel's recent Circa EP - but sans smooth, silken melodies. It's the ravaged aftermath of an assault on futuristic R&B. 'Seawolf', littered with 8-bit blip-bloops and gun-cock beats almost fizzles into a post-dance mould, but the eccentric way that the rhythms lurch and contract ensures that you'll find it hella difficult to shake any part of your body with conviction, without just looking like you're convulsing.

Much of this album feels like a needless rebellion against what makes music music, in the traditional sense anyway. Without getting too far into semantics, aesthetics or asking questions like 'what is music?', it's generally agreed that some form of melody or perhaps even just a set of rhythms, are easily identifiable as music. Some set of sounds, arranged in a pleasing (in some sense) order that elicit an emotional reaction. Yes, yes, you get people like John Cage or whatever making statements, but how many people actually listen to that outside of an academic scenario? Unfortunately, Cold Mission doesn't really contain melodies. The rhythms are skewed, infrequent and random. It doesn't elicit much of a reaction either, it just sort of exists, ready to be picked up by AQA and slapped into a listening exam at GCSE or A Level.

'E3 Night Flight' however, with its shimmering, twinkling synth arpeggios and tidal samples, is a serene few minutes of respite on the record. Minimalism-esque robo-glocks provide a kind of fairylike percussion; it's a cut that could be described as fantastical, otherworldly, or sweet (that is until the looming shadow of droning thunder rolls in).

Logos himself has explained some of the thoughts behind his record: "I'm interested in tracing the links between classic Metalheadz productions and early grime, especially the more angular stuff Slimzee played, but integrated in to a roughly 130bpm club context. A lot of the album is informed by nostalgia for pirate radio grime and the sense of loss I feel for that period - 2002 felt like a much simpler time." In reality, he errs more towards a kind of gloomy industrial territory, bound by urban dystopias or a post-apocalyptic perma-night. It's art music, in a way, opting not to morph into any real norms of music as we know it - on that front, he's wildly successful. This is a record that's intensely experimental, delving into sonic trenches that even music's most obstinate ne'er-do-wells daren't touch. But, in doing that, Logos coats his debut in a layer of frigid ice. It seems deliberately unrelatable, awkward and standoffish. There are moments of charm, but they're fleeting.