Anonymity is the new black. Whether you're the possibly-outed-but-probably-not artist Banksy, his Portugese counterpart Phelgo, or the recently Mercury Music Prize-nominated Burial, hiding behind a cloak of obscurity generally means more column inches than your more identifiable cohorts - whether it's an intentional publicity ploy or not.
Liverpool-born DJ/turntablist Sonny J is one such man. Shrouded in mystery, information on the bloke who insists his name is 'Sonnington James III' (it's not) is uber-difficult to come by. Perhaps, in part, inaccessibility to such information is what makes a band or musician extra-exciting; that said, Disastro wields just enough vibrance to hold most listeners' attention.
The Go! Team, DJ Yoda, Junior Senior and The Avalanches are very obvious reference points for Sonny J - which means that practically nothing on Disastro sounds original. These are mostly cut-and-paste, sample-heavy mash-ups with a thick streak of pop running though the middle; the opening brace of Enfant Terrible and I'm So Heavy are sexy, summery pop stomps, while Handsfree (a cover of the Donna Hightower track) freshens up its original's soul flavour nicely.
These are songs made for summer, y'see; songs made to soundtrack a movie montage of kids playing hopscotch on a scorching hot day in Brooklyn, a burst water hydrant creating a fine spray behind them (Belly Bongo); songs that utilise elements and samples of your favourite '70s soul and disco sounds to great effect (Cabaret Short Circuit, hit single Can't Stop Moving); songs that take the crackle and hiss of vinyl, and meld it with subtle Mediterranean dance shimmies (Doing the Tango).
This is far from the perfect album, however - or even the perfect summer album. Unadorned acoustic guitar number Sorrow is disastrously out-of-place here and ruins the building momentum, and as the album meanders towards its conclusion, the lack of diversity begins to grate somewhat. There are two or three great pop singles within Disastro's boundaries, but perhaps Sonny J should keep that metaphorical mask on - at least until he finds his own sound.
