It's hard to talk about up-and-coming turntable composer Diplo's first full-length without referencing the original godfather, DJ Shadow, and current champion Rjd2. From the outset, Shadow's chiaroscuro hip-hop draped a decidedly somber shroud over the genre he christened; even his most unbound, overdriven stomps emphasize the down in downtempo. Rjd2's Deadringer and Since We Last Spoke followed suit, stubbornly dejected albums that drew much of their soul from sadness. And the thing is, this marriage of and technique works beautifully: A sense of apocalyptic uncertainty and dramatic tension emerges from minor chords stirring pastiche beats and ghostly vocals haunting overcast arrangements.
So, Diplo. Short for Diplodocus, the tragic prehistoric behemoth, large beyond comprehension, invincible but doomed, felled by that silent predator called evolution. The Diplo in question is actually a tall, skinny kid from Mississippi that's established a home with Philly's streetwise Hollertronix crew. For a couple years now, Diplo and his partner Low Budget have run Hollertronix as a sort of crunk Underground Railroad, stealing away big-balled, white label southern rap into the seemingly sophisticated environs of the Northeast. He's built a reputation as a party-starting, rabble-rouser DJ, fearlessly mashing Prince into New Order, greasing up Nirvana with Lil Jon.
But with Florida, Diplo takes a cue from his lauded predecessors and forgoes the debauchery for melancholy. The album's downcast gaze frequently finds nuance in minor tempo changes, intersecting instrumental lines and well-placed vocals. Diplo also shows the same reverence for vintage soul samples as Shadow and Rj-- slinky Rhodes lines abound here-- and, at least for the first part of the album, puts a lot of stock in a unique thematic cohesiveness. Initially, Florida is wrought by heavy string and woodwind sections and a slow, cinematic pacing that oozes with brackish mystery, but eventually, Diplo abandons this sticky, vivid sensation for more self-conscious stylistic diversity.
Diplo spent part of his childhood in Florida, and the Sunshine State's flat, muggy landscape and wide skies are present in "Big Lost", the album's first proper song. Coming after an abstract intro, it stands as its most identifiable track, embodying Diplo's steamy Jurassic funk vibe. But there's no brontosaurus bass or weird caveman chants-- this instrumental gallops in on regal, repeated strings and garage-soul organ. "Sarah" rides a similar mood infused with a fuzzy, Tony Iommi-ish guitar line and tranquil piano for some dizzying contrast.
But after that, Florida stalks out of the swamp and hits I-95, speeding north with no particular destination in mind. Vocals by UK it-chick Martina Topley-Bird are rendered abstract and murky, squelched beneath backwards horn samples and a lackluster beat, while the orchestral brass of "Way More" gives in to shivering electrobreaks. And though "Diplo Rhythm" benefits from a tight rundown from Jamaica's Vibez Cartel and Brazilian crew Pantera Os Danadinhos, its shallow jungle rhythm is too studied. Still, even while these tracks fail to impress in light of the album's first third, they reflect Diplo's ambitious (if unfocused) compositional skills.
Later, Diplo manages to pull things back on track with "Indian Thick Jawns", a tabla 'n' bass sizzler manhandled by the underrated P.E.A.C.E., formerly of Freestyle Fellowship. Scratching out one of rap's best monotones, P.E.A.C.E. is something like a West Coast ODB, half-singing/half-speaking his lunatic spiel. And finally, "Summer's Gonna Hurt You" revisits the seminal track off Diplo's Epistimology EP, its languid strings and soulful male vocals returning to the quintessential evening hues of Shadow and Rjd2. If a finale can be both warm and chilling, this is it. More concerned with the thrill of the hunt than putting up the trophy, Diplo's Florida safari never quite bags the big game, but it often comes close.
