18

18 has been made for those who enjoyed Play but wouldn't mind going off on a few new musical tangents.

He has created a record that might not be as wildly eclectic on the surface as Play, and it certainly lacks club hits on the level of "Bodyrock" or "South Side," but it's a warm, enveloping, humanistic record with real emotional resonance, which surely is a noteworthy artistic step forward.

18 makes Play sound like a what-if experiment in techno blues; now Moby sounds like he means it as much as his sampler does.

Moby has had some awful ideas. Thankfully, this isn't one of them.

It enchances rather than advances his previous approach, proving superior to its predecessor because its music is more sensitive, its emotions more personal, and what's on offer is a closer, more inviting experience.

18 is neither a retread of Play nor a departure from it. It's pop music the way Moby has always heard it: a frantic dance of different sounds and styles, banging into the wall a time or two but hitting sublimely beautiful highs along the way.

Perhaps 18 should have been called 13 and ended with the eerie yet comforting sentiments of “Sleep Alone.”

The production and commercialistic elements are perfectly executed, but the excitement has all but evaporated.

The lead single, the excellent, Bowie-ish wibbler 'We Are All Made Of Stars' is a total red herring. The other 67 minutes and 17 tracks are 'Play' Redux; familiar-sounding "oh-lord-my-dog's-just-died" samples over shopworn pianos and strings, straining to be epic but lacking the crucial element of surprise that made 'Play' sound so innovative.

A mostly thin and needlessly morose album.

As a follow-up, 18 plays it safer than a quadruple-condomed fundamentalist Christian at an abstinence rally.