Head here to submit your own review of this album.

A middle-class kid goes to the wrong side of town to buy drugs; he ends up in the flat of a seven-foot-tall dealer with a head like a customised bowling ball, an air rifle and a dart board hung on the front door (which opens every now and then to admit another kid with a £20 note, who is greeted by the sight of a seven-foot dealer aiming a pistol at his head).

The Dealer takes pot shots at squirrels in the park across the road. He keeps large amounts of drugs lying around his home; talks about his mate who's just been sent down for a one punch kill. Doesn't seem that bothered about getting caught.

Somewhere in the flat, there is always the poster of Bob Marley laughing hysterically, surrounded by milky blue smoke. There is always a cheap Ikea coffee table, and martial arts DVDs. Music is rattling the plaster from another room. It sounds like Mo Kolours.

There is a certain brand of music that only plays in really odd and threatening situations. The debut album from Joseph Deenmamode, aka Mo Kolours, a half-Mauritian, half-English producer and multi-instrumentalist is a dusty treasure trove brimming with the simplest and most blunted of melodies gloopily combined with a soulful pulse and a prickly sense of humour.

Recalling a Dilla-produced Cymande record, it's a confident progression from the fantastic three EPs he has released so far. Each of them showcased another combination of the producer's wide circle of influences, mixing Caribbean, Western and West African flavours and projecting the whole through a distinctive, husky prism.

Any successful album creates its own rules and then proceeds to interrogate and bend them. Mo Kolours lays the groundwork in its opening tracks: 'Little Brown Dog' is a catchy dub soul piece, introducing the producer's Peter Tosh-esque righteous vocal lines. It's a short, sharp collage of the key elements which will appear again and again; misty funk, breaks and sound field backdrops laced with nicely muddy lo-fi vocals and basslines that reek of beach soundsystems. 'Curly Gurly' adds a twist of romance, while 'Mike Black' showcases his lyrical eloquence, adding into the mix some downbeat House by way of A Guy Called Gerald.

Amongst ingredients that suggest the influence of the artist's Mauritian and wider Caribbean roots, as well as West Coast hip-hop and African flavours there is a strain of uniquely British humour. On 'Play It Loud (In Your Car)' he name checks a dozen or so much-maligned 'classic' cars, including the Seat Leon. You get a picture of our young ne'er-do-well blasting out KnifeHandChop while blazing it up, stuck in traffic outside a KFC. Similarly to Young Fathers, there's a knowing glint in Deenmamode's glazed eyes.

While everyone is having so much fun, it's almost a shame when the album comes to a close. I remember the days when you could rely on a hip-hop record full of miniature, grizzled jams to run to 16 or 17 tracks. Maybe it's better that the producer decides to leave us hanging - living in his world can be a scary throwback to the days of a youth spent in the Wild West, knocking on doors that you're not entirely sure you want to pass through, always keeping a tough expression ready in case somebody finds you out for a kiddie.