James Blake - Playing Robots Into Heaven

Republic/Polydor

James Blake's sixth record plays with damp mood-boards and every shade of grey known to the human psyche; a spectrum of mirror-balls which reflect back that which offsets your soul, upsets the groove, but sharpens the view that you set your sights on. 

A vibrant and fiendishly coruscating record caked in interesting feats and treats. Quite thick, sonically - phat. Deeper than jet black and brighter than night. A flower that blooms in the dark. The petals cry. It doesn't know what's wrong. Never knew what's right. Feels left out, but was never a part. A robotic soul. Surfs the outskirts. Perspective with no emotion. Intelligent, but detached. 

When it comes to vocal manipulation and its many ways of contorting the human voice, no other plays like James Blake. The man could squeeze something interesting out of silence; squeeze the juice out of jam. As much as sweet melodies come and go within Playing Robots, full clouds firmly remain above the sounds below. You can feel the drops of rain pitter-patter somewhere akin to your skin as the clouds make their way to the West. The mood has changed and the atmosphere is at a steady warm. Slowly melting like candles on a birthday cake. The cake covered in hot wax. 

A stretch-y sound palette is put on show. Drenched in molasses-like electronic tinkerings, Playing Robots Into Heaven feels like its coming undone as it comes together - chopped and screwed and slapped with urban skies; uniform grey split by electricity. Spectral flares of phosphorescence imprint behind the behind. On show at all times, though only sensed at certain times. Permanence in an ephemeral way.

James Blake finds solid footing with his most consistent release in pretty much a decade. 

Where are my wings? They're loading.