Kish Kash is the perfect example of the kind of dance music open-minded people who were raised on the British punk rock ethic make. Existing somewhere between what you would hear in a London fashion shop, a cool London club, or a good U.S. radio station (lots o' luck with this cleer-chanel fuck), this album may very well be, as the accompanying press so boldly proclaims, the party album of the year. In fact as I write this I am indeed at a "party" and am playing Kish Kash; people are looking away from the chips, dips, DDR remix(es) and grooving (maybe more so) to what's on the track by track by the Jaxx.
Sleek discotheque beats that pound and breathe like a night with good drugs and dance floor nookie; warm, almost holographic fuzzy bass hooks; and a healthy smattering of guest spots create an atmosphere perhaps not rivaled since the Dust Bros. turned their fateful early solo album into the now legendary Paul's Boutique (after the Beasties supposedly turned up and started throwing down over it at a house party where the Bros. were previewing the material).
The album kicks off with "Good Luck," a track that goes from a musky, night club number complete with soulful strings to a thriving Gloria Gaynor-done-by-Jamaroqui dance floor anthem. Lisa Kekaula's Christianly sultry voice ripples with underscores of the pain of failed commitment, inevitably bringing an authentic feeling of dismissal to the grooves you will no doubt trace with your hips as you sit listening in your car or cube (or spaceship, if the Jaxx happen to hit their intended audience).
Then there's a track like "Lucky Star," where Britain's vertigo inducing, cartoon-lampooning rapper Dizzee Rascal slams through a nice solid slab of groove, beckoning even the most conservative to rethink their views on modesty and move their asses along the way. "Supersonic" is without a doubt my fave, somehow immediately bringing to mind the unexplained image of a young Prince feeding William Burroughs ecstasy and then taking him dancing through the magical markets of Marakesh.
Prince's influence and undertones saturate this album, just proving that the Jaxx have all the right feedings to compile a work that will move you, groove you and get your fucking party guests to toss their pants in the soup and dance dance dance their asses into the early, early morn! Or at least well into the next day, when they get a load of Siouxsie Sioux sexing her way through "Cish Cash," another dance-floor homage to the days of garbage-strikes-and-fire-bombs-turned-profit glory.
Blimey, put this on, scream "Cheers!" and don't forget to throw down when this shit shows up on the next DDR.
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