The first thing you’ll notice about Roland Tings’ new album is the wetness. Douse yourself in it. Get it all lathered up in it. Slap it on like sunscreen. Because it is wetter than any tropical rainforest/sexual experience that your sick and twisted mind could conjure up. After pressing that little sideways triangle, you will be plunged headlong into a myriad of synths, beats and samples that are squelchier than biting down on fresh cherry tomatoes.
Don’t take the notion of wetness to mean that Roland Tings’ debut LP is a case of sluggishness, or something soaked beyond recognition. Instead, each song is immersed just far enough below the surface so that it springs back with extra force. Gravity is suspended as illegitimate forces of nature lay in suspended animation, blipping off each other in quaint excitement. It’s like a game of Space Invaders got stoned and all the aliens just decided to be friends – each lil’ neon fucker that was hellbent on destroying earth now just chirps in unison.
What makes Roland Tings so fantastic and easy to listen to is his ability to subtly ramp his songs into new gears, a feat that, in the age of the DROP, is remarkable. Instead of lambasting the listener into a seizure, or straying too far into ambience, he is able to warp his way between both worlds, creating an eyes-closed sphere of magnetic pulsations of electronica.
Roland Tings makes dance music the same way that Giorgio Morodor made dance music. He makes it feel effortless, endless progression of nuanced lushness that is ripe to be utilised for the soundtrack of baby making. However, closer inspection showcases the sheer amount of sounds that are being incorporated into a single track. That might sound like an obvious factor for electronic music, even necessary. But a song like “Devotion” or “Floating On A Salt Lake” spews forth such a myriad of intertwining jungle beats and dazed synths, you’d swear a Hydra had just discovered Todd Terje and was trying their hand at DJ’ing.
Simply put, Roland Tings makes dance music loveable again. Shit, I’m terrified of anything that raises itself above 90 BPM, and Roland Tings makes me want to dive headfirst into a STI-infected club in Ibiza, just so I can boogie the night away to “Pala”. Imagine the shapes that his warped whistles will make YOUR body contort into.
Listening to just one Roland Tings song is liable for intoxication – an entire album is cause for unholy celebration. A sole figure behind the decks manages to be vibrant, serene, exhilarating and unpredictable at the same time. His music is shimmering, about as reliable and delicious as jelly on a plate. ‘Roland Tings’ consistently amazes, an album that you can focus on a million times over and still be thrown by a niggling noise that probably doesn’t exist outside of a single recording session.
It’s Italian Disco from the Future. It’s Groove No.1 carried from the depths of the Amazon. It’s rave music for the Tumblr generation. To summarise – it’s an album that you fucking need.