What do people want from Moby? It's a question worth asking not just because of the lukewarm reputation he carries among many music fans but because Moby himself has spent so much time trying to answer it. The answer appears to be, resoundingly, "not what you've been giving us," and I'll wager that it's not the "innovative microsite" or photo book that arrive concurrent to his latest album, Destroyed. Recorded as he toured, late at night and lonely, the record finds Moby sober and living in Los Angeles (nice digs). He still possesses that particularly 1990s strain of self-loathing that doubles as egoism (he's @thelittleidiot on Twitter), and he's probably two facial tics away from being a living, breathing David Lynch character.
One of the disappointing things about Moby is that his records and ideas are very simple even when he thinks they're very complex. Moby is 45, wealthy, and has deep thoughts about religion and food and friendship, but his umpteenth album is "a soundtrack for empty cities at 2 a.m." (his words). Do you find dark urban environments stark and eerie? Does air travel make you lonely? Have you ever felt isolated even when you are physically surrounded by buildings and people? You're either dealing with these questions privately or you're Thom Yorke. This is fertile territory, though: Artists have been mining flickering desolation for decades. Moby's key error is that while he was inspired by these scenes, Destroyed is the type of low-stakes atmospheric mush that lounges and airports and bars play to make you forget where you are (on "The Low Hum" a female voice intones, "Like a tourist in some strange hotel," moving on before she can get to "...listening to Moby"). It plays like a facile representation of these beautiful/melancholy environs instead of an exploration of them.
Moby still has only a few building blocks: sawing strings, hissy breakbeats, cantering pianos, dusty samples. He sings too, but thankfully not often. It's a good mix, actually, featuring shades of Derrick May's symphonic fantasies, the Orb's beatific ambience, and Air's relaxed dens. It's not exactly a fashionable style these days, and with a small amount of hustle it could become interesting again. Moby's more focused on Destroyed than on recent efforts Last Night or Wait for Me, which is just to say he's less likely to play punk or indie rock dress-up. But this is a dry and flat recording, which is inexcusable given both Moby's resources and how much even a Further-level return to form would benefit everyone involved. The strings flatten into the drums like hair kept too long under a hat. Those samples-- their sentiments unchanged since the late 1990s-- dully brush against the percussion. It's hard to believe that the feeble clacking that underlines "Rockets" took more than 10 minutes to program. There is no scrape, no tension, no noisy bullshit, and Destroyed is eminently un-replayable as a result.
In a recent interview with The Quietus, Moby speaks to "The humility that comes from being hated." Moby's had his punk-ass moments, but at this point he isn't detestable; he's ignorable. It's a trade-off that would break any true rock'n'roll heart. Moby's made it clear he doesn't have that inside him: Fine, but we're still waiting for the moment when the wisdom, experience, and comfort he has earned manifest itself on record. We have lots of great music about the big, lonely, urban world-- some of it's by Moby. What we don't have is lots of music about the perils and contradictions of being a conscientious, horny, middle-aged millionaire. And if Moby's still wondering what people want from him, he's encouraged to start there.
