Hype Williams are, ostensibly, a London-based duo comprised of one Inga Copeland and one Roy Blunt. Except Inga's name might be Karen Glass, and Roy Blunt may actually be Roy Nnawuchi. It's possible neither exists; some have suggested Hype Williams may in fact be a much larger collective, while others have offered the name Denna Frances Glass as a potential culprit. When they perform live, they don elaborate masks, and are notoriously-- albeit understandably-- interview-averse. The vinyl version of One Nation, their latest, is a white record, tucked into a plain white sleeve in a glossy white cover. Even their name, Hype Williams, seems less an SEO-piggybacking attempt at easy nostalgia points than a pun on the very idea of "hype." There's an intentional blankness and an almost post-punky spirit of deconstruction to Hype Williams' image that does well by their stark music, a spacious, hazy, hip-hop-influenced electronic dub.
As you'd imagine, Hype Williams don't exactly provide credits for One Nation, but they do take the time to shout out a couple of special guests: MDMA and blueberry kush. Despite a certain stoney splay, there's a weird solemnity to One Nation that belies the presence of these mood enhancers, an unsettling ominousness even in its floatier moments. Snatches of smeary g-funk, synth-pop, and monster-movie soundtracks sneak into the mix, but One Nation is sparse throughout, with most tracks consisting of little more than a beat and a bit of queasy synth. There are few vocals, fewer hooks; it's not quite ambient enough to slip completely into the background, but nothing's quite fleshed enough to demand full attention, and you're better off losing yourself in the drift of One Nation in total than attempting to settle on a highlight. In their rare interviews, Hype Williams have done what they can to distance themselves from this kind of half-there hypnagogy, and their aloofness sets them apart from much of the bedroom-borne haze of late. Melodies don't just waft, they meander, beats shuffle into unlikely grooves, and any hints of prettiness are suffused with a looming dread.
But there's an intentionality to every gesture on One Nation. Even when the melodies threaten to lose their shape, they seem to bend just so, and the notes they're not playing seem every bit as important as the few they do. The negative space envelops like a fog; whoever's making this music has a producer's ear and editor's spirit, excising all unnecessary details while embellishing what little's left. At its best, One Nation sounds like a beat tape left to crackle for a decade in somebody's garage, a kind of post-Chronic spin on one of those far-out late 70s dub-inflected collaborative krautrock LPs. But other times it feels like a series of conceptual curios that seems to think holding the listener at arm's length might even be too close.
