Word: oakenfoldã
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Credit where credit is due: before Paul Oakenfold??s mug and shades graced MTV’s cotton candy airwaves, the man was a bona-fide pioneer. As the DJ behind such culture-defining parties as Future and Land of Oz at London superclub Heaven, Oakenfold was once at rave music’s very forefront. His production work on the Happy Mondays’ Pills ‘n’ Thrills and Bellyaches foresaw Ecstasy culture’s invasion of pop art, and his genre-hopping 1994 Goa Mix broke boundaries. Let no one question...
Without his trusty shades, most of Paul Oakenfold??s celebrity sheen seems to vanish. But when I ask him how much his life actually resembles that of a glorious jet-setting DJ, he answers “80 percent” matter-of-factly enough to douse the glimpse I might have had of an everyman who just happens to enjoy spinning records. Oakenfold??s living the life of a superstar and enjoying it. I venture to wonder how he feels about being called a sellout...
...sentiments are fair enough, if somewhat confusing, coming from someone utterly immersed in the industry. When we get to his exploits, however, Oakenfold??s face brightens considerably. He cites opening to an audience of a 100,000 for U2, headlining and selling out Red Rocks in Denver and supporting the Red Hot Chili Peppers as his fondest moments. He namedrops clubs in Singapore, Buenos Aires, Miami, San Francisco and Boston’s very own Avalon as favorite places to spin. “The Irish are fucking great, man,” he muses...
...Hence Oakenfold??s new album Bunkka (the title alludes to being underground), which he says is meant to represent his true sound. “It’s melodic. It makes you feel good,” he says. He’s right on one count; the album is saturated with melody—but not powerful, ethereal, or even trippy melodies, as in earlier trance before the whole genre went to corporate hell. Rather, these are the sort of cumbersome, echo-laden melodies that typify modern film scores. In fact, the whooshing sound effects, smiley...
...effects, their voices ride the uncomfortable line between being reduced to cogs in the machine and struggling to stay afloat. Tricky, whose unearthly growl once spoke volumes, sounds here like an incomprehensible animal. Only the weathered grain of Ice Cube’s voice manages to triumph somewhat against Oakenfold??s ponderous vision. By the end of its 51 long minutes, Bunkka, grandiose and spotless, strikes one as the musical equivalent of Pearl Harbor—it’s the hollow, echoing sound of big budget, big names, and art-as-spectacle...
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