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The latest from freaky breaks producer Tobacco riffs on past works while delving even deeper into the gelatinous melt of modern living. Like sniffing petrol fumes, the initial rush is swiftly followed by a long, hollow comedown.

Surprisingly a resident of Pennsylvania rather than Los Angeles (which feels like it should be his spiritual home) the camera shy producer calls in Beck contributor Brian LeBarton to bring some Midnite Vultures skinny pimp chic to play on his third long player Ultima II Massage. That milestone record's attention deficit breaks, Hollywood-baiting lyrics and frequent stylistic left turns are aped on Tobacco's 'Eruption', which, at a weighty three minutes-plus, comes in as one of the longest freak-outs on display. In general, Tobacco likes his musical models to have copious bootys, waspish waists and short life spans.

With that in mind, a little over two minutes are more than enough to digest variously the neon bumps of 'Self Tanner', 'Dipsmack' and 'Creaming for Beginners'. There isn't the genre panentheism of a Prefuse 73, but there is invention, humour and satire in equal measures. Each track grows from the same pallet of synth, tape effects and drum machine, with disguised live drums scattered throughout to introduce some high fidelity to the pulpy mass. There are quite a few moments where the mother ship flies too close to the lodestar and crosses over into parody. 'Blow Your Heart' is just too similar to Daft Punk for comfort, and upsets the junky agenda. Tobacco tends to succeed where he goes for the nutty disjoint, and is less distinctive on the more genre, pastiche breaks.

Which isn't to say that genres are not knowingly, and sometimes successfully tackled. Shoegaze gets strung out in 'Creaming for Beginners', 'Omen Classic' is a terrifying, nightmarish late night murder cruise with College and M.I.A. in attendance, and 'The Touch Within' out-Odd Future's the whole interminable collective.

Battle Flag, made famous by the late, lamented Lo Fi Allstars. Death Disco tropes straight off a post-Scorpio Rising Death In Vegas album are trotted out and painted as chaotic and fresh, without even a sense of wry irony.

The spectre of electroclash is even more worrying. The neon punk hipster artwork that Tobacco favours does him no favours in this respect. More than one track feels like a throwaway beat with barely discernible progression and those trademark pitch bent vocals frequently employed seemingly in the absence of any better idea.

The producer describes Ultima II Massage as his own Stereopathetic Soul Manure, which is a weird comparison to make bearing in mind how openly in thrall it is to other, more important Beck albums. In its less self aware and more truly bizarre moments, it makes some compelling technical points and justifies the long hours he spent 'breaking it in all the right places' - when tracks start to disintegrate even as they progress, you can see the dark glint in his eye come to malicious life. The message behind the music is much more clichéd, and much less interesting.

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