If "The X-Files" ever chose to explore the early-1990s rave scene—truly, a bunch of kids wiggling around to alien noises in rural fields would've proven fertile ground—Danny Wolfers might have served as the episode's comic reveal: a harmless longhair making old machines whoosh and pump in his den. This is part of the fun of Wolfers' Legowelt alias: he's the rare producer whose personal mythology enriches his music instead of distracts from it (see also: Omar S). Crystal Cult 2080 is Wolfers' latest album, and it's a lot like his last album, 2012's Paranormal Soul, as well as the dozen or so singles and EPs he released in the interim: richly melodic, forested techno and house erected with vintage gear both fetishized and pulled from the scrap heap.
Crystal Cult 2080 takes its title from Roland's somewhat obscure JV-2080 synthesizer and, more interestingly, a "germanium crystal compressor" of Wolfers' own making. Crystal Cult 2080's particular blend of swampy synth pads and shaman-y samples lends the album a rave-y feel, as if all the hokum of early-90s techno-gypsies like Spiral Tribe has been distilled so that you can experience a crusty field rave while browsing Twitter. Indeed, Wolfers seems to be injecting his persona into his music more so than on past albums. On Crystal Cult's best tracks—"Excalibur R8MK2", "Psychotic Endurance", "Cyberspace Is Still Happenin' for Real"—his fake occultism seeps in. When, on "Excalibur", he turns a manic's chant (presumably sampled from the 1981 flick) into a mantra—"Drink from the chalice / And you will be reborn!"—he finds an earworm worthy of his fantastic, mystical bullshit.
Legowelt is unique amongst house producers in that he invariably cares more about melody than rhythm. Most of his tracks feature a bog-standard 4/4 beat, with all of the sternum-popping compressed kicks and ticklish hi-hats we've come to expect. It's a very Detroit way of constructing tracks, and Wolfers owes plenty to early techno stalwarts like Anthony Shakir and Derrick May. Wolfers' melodies are luxe and abundant, and he stretches them over his simple rhythms with the fastidiousness of someone cinching sheets over a made bed. Wolfers definitely makes dance music, employing all of the proper idioms and tempos and textures necessary for inclusion in that sphere, but the balance of melody and rhythm in his work—especially on his albums—can make it seem like he merely chose the most socially acceptable forum in which to generate spaceship noises. Which is great: a man this adept at spaceship noises should not be stifled.
Wolfers' greatest talent is the ability to conjure a bunch of distinctly early-'90s feelings—barely disguised cheese, plasticine futurism—without peddling nostalgia. His music has plenty of antecedents, but Wolfers is just, like, in it for the tunes, man. "I am just recording tracks all the time," he says. Crystal Cult 2080 offers 10 more of them, replete with all of this frills we've come to expect from Wolfers. Crystal Cult 2080 isn't weirder than Wolfers' previous albums; it's just better at being weird.
