Emerging from the ranks of low-budget London beatsmiths who subscribe to a post-garage sound called "Eski Beat", Wiley made himself the pirate radio vanguard of his scene, founded the genre's dominant group Roll Deep Crew, and affiliated himself with Dizzee Rascal, the hottest blue-chipper in the game. Now, on his solo debut, he attempts to bring one of the British urban landscape's few legitimate youth beats to a wider international audience.
But before we go any further, let's establish something: Wiley is not Dizzee, and those who approach this record expecting highwire vocal acrobatics and dirt-merchant bass/synth blasts will likely be caught off guard by Wiley's more pop-orientated approach and comparative stability. Additionally, while both artists hail from the same crew, their methods of dealing with problem are markedly different: Wiley seems to feel remorse for his days as a young gunslinger on E3, while Dizzee still appears perfectly content to take out those who oppose him, despite his distinct comprehension of society's ills. Wiley's music also falls closer to a straight amalgam of rap and dancehall than Dizzee's icy curveball beats and synth stabs, dictating his verses with crystal clarity while riding a bouncy, repetitious style that complements his undulating basslines.
"Goin' Mad" shows the Eski Boy in top form, taking to schizophrenic self-help over tetherball ragga bass and rubber duck sounds. Here, he relates money as a gateway to insanity ("Money is paper, how could paper be evil?/ It must be people, doing those evil things with money/ But you'll go mad"), coaxes himself from a bout of crippling apathy ("Pick... yourself... up/ Get up, stand up/ Dust... myself... off/ Realize I' m someone/ Yeah, yeah"), and triumphantly regains his stability. "Reason" stands out as well, with one of Thin Ice's most explosive and technical beats. Wiley once again shirks snares, dressing his kickdrums with top hi-hats and handclaps before sailing into a typhoon of mercurial synth bass. Lyrically, he attempts to reconcile with both former love interests ("I'm real, I wouldn't do anything directly at you/ Come on, this is me we're talkin' about") and rival crews ("I know you hate me 'cause you think I write lyrics/ And I aim them at your crew/ Come on, blood, that's not true").
Much of the grime scene's draw can be traced to its unusual production, and Wiley's solo inauguration is no exception. Whether taking a rusty cleaver to an SWV track ("Special Girl"), leaving a synth bird loosely caged in a blizzard ("Treddin' on Thin Ice") or conducting a robotic version of Fat Albert's Junkyard Gang ("Wot Do U Call It?"), Wiley proves an incredibly technical street professional that's only now hitting his stride. Although his beats do tend to err a bit on the repetitive side (there are a few sounds in particular he seems quite fond of), subtle and intriguing variations quickly distinguish themselves with repeated listens. I could probably have done without Thin Ice's various instrumental interludes, and would have enjoyed more topical and lyrical diversity, but ultimately, Wiley's snapshot of London's ghettos proves worth the trip across the pond.
