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Jimmy Edgar Majenta Review

Album. Released 2012.  

BBC Review

Edgar’s sweaty-palmed beats are as saucy as ever on album three.

Rich Hanscomb 2012

It’s impossible to describe Jimmy Edgar’s recorded output without quoting Alan Partridge: “It’s basically sex music.”

I Wanna Be Your STD, young Jimmy told us a few years ago and, judging by the album title’s reference to a lurid hue of pink and the gaudy, third-eye dilating blow-up doll that adorns its cover, not much has changed in his sweaty palmed world.

In the interim, Edgar has been slapping his bass betwixt New York and Berlin whilst developing an interest in Transcendental Meditation (other notable musical exponents: The Beach Boys’ equally insatiable Mike Love).

Only Indigo Mechanix (3D) recalls the future-fractured grooves that comprised his Color Strip record of 2006, one that announced an audacious electronic wunderkind to the world. Majenta is cut from a different bit of Kleenex, but still has much to commend.

Too Shy is pure Egyptian Lover, all vocalized percussion and irresistible hooks, whilst the disconcertingly titled This One’s for the Children also pays tribute to Greg Broussard, waacking itself into a frenzied clarion call of “We don’t like television! We don’t like celebrities!”

Indeed, Majenta is aimed at the dancefloor as keenly as it’s aimed for the crotch. As such, Let Yrself Be could have featured on side three of Soul Jazz’s recent Voguing and the House Ballroom Scene compilation had it been released 20 years ago. Sex Drive is an autobahn-cruising, noir inversion of the blue-skied rockisms and autoerotism of Prince’s Alphabet Street: “Windows down, legs up high,” commands a disembodied female voice with all the allure of a lobotomized Zooey Deschanel.

Attempt to Make it Last comes replete with slowed-down groans to evoke the taunt efforts of restraint, drums doused in gated reverb whilst a squelchy keyboard ejaculates P-Funk melodies into your cranium’s aural orifices.

Touch Yr Bodytime sounds like an amorous Autechre producing Montell Jordan, but it’s not all smut: Hrt Real Good yearns with Detroit melancholy and an aura of 4am clarity at odds with the rest of the album. Order is restored with Heartkey’s righteous Motor City groove before In Deep acts as the album’s obligatory slow jam, a computer-blue Jodeci.

As difficult as it is to take Edgar seriously at times, so earnest is he about his sexualised sonic seercraft that resistance is futile. In short spurts, Majenta’s cosmic perv-core satiates.

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