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Your worst fears about ‘Nothing’ are probably right. The late-year, post-album extended-play sounds like the runoff of a few constructions that didn’t make the cut for ‘Dedication’. It’s cobbled, it’s tangential, it’s missing some pieces – transcendence isn’t where it aims – but it also isn’t embarrassing – Zomby is the kind of guy whose emptiest victory laps still offer something to gander at.

The grimy raga-chant jungle on ‘Labyrinth’, the duelling 2-step synth-beams that flare through ‘Equinox’, the delightfully vintage break at the core of ‘Ecstasy Versions’ – like before, Zomby manages the obscure task of reflecting ancient tropes in stylish ways, enough to turn the kids who were born after ’92 into revisionists. It ain’t perfect – these things rarely are – but even in his slightest form, Zomby makes the rest of the world’s producers seem boringly normal. Will he ever get with the times? No. Is that going to be sabotaging towards his continued relevance? Perhaps. But his time-faded, dance-music geek aesthetic can feel pretty goddamn singular for all its pastiche.

By Luke Winkie

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