"You know this boogie is for real", proposes the devastatingly slick, disco-revival opener 'Canned Heat'. It's a bold statement from Jason Kay and one which begs a question: what kind of concept of funk reality do you have when you're the 29-year-old Aston Martin connoisseur jet-set lord of 72 acres of swan-nibbled Buckinghamshire real estate, just back from Bermuda and dallying with a supermodel on the cover of Elle?
Soft spot for the work of Stevie Wonder not withstanding, sonically the groups muse is growing. 'Planet Home' mashes keyboard bass lines of a Bernie Worrell P-funk vintage into a steely-slick vehicle of a song that puts you in mind of prime Talking Heads, even if can seem a little like slicked up Level 42 at times.
The tunes flow even if lacking in a genre-defining moment. It is convenient to pick on Jay for being a self-congratulatory rich white guy with a hat problem, but the real issue is conviction rather than cash. Lazing around his home studio, waxing about better days, almost dipping into Tracy Chapman's community plate, and then the disco ball Mick Hucknall thing...scary. Then, just at the point where disinterested parties are about to get their coats, something wonderful and radical happens. Kay stops singing. The five minutes of 'Destitute Illusions' is given over to a sublime, languid, instrumental porno-acid lounge piece and for a moment it sounds like JK's got something homegrown to offer.
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