Paradise

Stereo MCs 1993 breakout album, Connected, was the record that suggested indie and hip-hop could enjoy a beautiful friendship together. Since then, they, and the rest of the world, have struggled to find anything else to say on the topic.
Following a genre-defining LP requires guile and nerves. The worst thing a band can do is offer pale pastiche. Lurching erratically between rap, soul and anaethisised funk, Paradise feels in need of a blood transfusion.
Songs sound as though they have been pieced together by a group of indifferently talented technicians instructed to concoct a facsimile of Connected – by the weekend, if it isn’t too much trouble. Beats possess a second hand air, melodies flutter and flap purposelessly.
The cruel irony is that the qualities that made Stereo MCs so essential in the early ‘90s conspire today to drag them down. The guttural delivery of rapper/singer Rob Birch, for instance, is no longer a calling card, it’s a cliché.
Here, he gives the impression of having just wandered back from a Spiral Tribe rave circa 1989, too sodden with cider to speak in proper sentences; sorta interesting 15 years ago, kinda’ embarrassing today. Should hobo-chic take off, someone will be in touch, Rob.
Elsewhere, there are lumbering bass-driven funk workouts that don’t appear really to know why they exist and lame forays into 21st century dance-hall. Only when it shies away from Connected territory – on the Latino jam of ‘Sun’ for example – does Paradise rise above the status of tired tribute record.
Dance may not be dead, but in the bedraggled embrace of the Stereo MCs it seems to cry out for a mercy killing.