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A try hard EP that feels like a cheesily tattooed part of a dismembered whole, Late will find an audience with fans of Seal and anyone who can relate to the loneliness of a private jet ride to a private gaming table in a Vegas casino.

We've all been there. You've had a long week in the studio, the tension in your neck is twisted up like steel wire, your $1000 J-Crew shirt is hanging accusingly from the platinum framing around the blown-up, signed photograph of you with Nelly at Ouest back in 2001, the collar nagging like a question mark: come on man, why not take a little trip out to the desert? Maybe get your drink on. The tables are calling.

So to hell with it, you throw a few things into a Sak Kendra satchel, flag down a cab and head to the airport. Bubbles on the plane, a couple of hours downtime in Business class, watching the new Daniel Radcliffe picture. Read a little Dan Brown. Far below, the lights wink out over the desert.

Late has all the verisimilitude of a silver plate tie pin, along with its sum total of soul and social conscience. Love songs based around the construct of a lonely weekend drinking champagne and eating steak served with elaborate foams on the strip might count as perfect soul food for somebody, somewhere. Reviewing the results from my own context, it all smells pretty funky.

Casino paean 'Lonely Roller' aside, 'Just Ride' makes with the arpeggiated cosmic synth as it weaves a tale of our Steve's sojourn with a pretty, astrologically-inclined honey. Apparently the casino meet-up went well, now they're touring the sights in his rented silver Chrysler. But wait, Steve's having some self-doubts. Problem is he's an awkward bugger. He has these conversations going around inside his head. He questions himself. Doubts nag him like annoying cellphone ringtones (doubts related to what, we're never told).

So into the vehicle it is, and off they drive past the city limits to look at the stars and share a blunt. He knows the names of constellations. It's sexy as fuck.

But wait, my narrative train of thought is derailed. Groove Armada cast-off 'Seashore' is set by the sea. Either this isn't the miniature concept album I gave it credit for or he’s rented a superfast jet or, I don't know, maybe they're in Atlantic City. Or Blackpool. Wherever he is, it won't float.

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