Turinn - 18 1/2 Minute Gaps (Modern Love) Outta the shadows and into the strobe-light, Alex Lewis aka Turinn debuts on Modern Love with a highly rinsable debut double-pack of sawn-off brukbeats and anxious, nerve-riding grooves brewed in the ravines of North Manchester. Turinn emerges from a new generation of producers in the city that include longtime spar Willow, and upcoming producer Croww, soon to offer up his own debut recordings. Crooked and rugged AF, but tempered by an acute emotive sensitivity, 18 1/2 Minute Gaps renders a bleedin’ cross-section of mongrel, hybrid style ’n pattern in a breathless, deceptively freehand fashion that comes riddled with an electric blue energy all of its own. Committing ten trax of fractious, mutant funk and sore feels, 18 1/2 minute Gaps serves to cap Turinn’s formative phase of production like a lead lid on a nuclear rave implosion; trapping original ‘ardcore ‘nuum, Detroit booty and dank post-punk elements in a perpetual flux of in-the-pocket grooves which ravenously attempt to split at the seams, alternately pushing into Muslimgauze-like buffer zones of distortion or resoundingly wide ambient dimensions, and often both at once. On the first plate, this ambiguous dichotomy is epitomised between the rare surge of quick/slow torque in Ovum, which almost sounds like Chris Carter sparring with Burial Hex, and then in his nod to the Italian new wave with Elba, which seems to find the square root between Lorenzo Senni and some skudgy as heck Kassem Mosse grind, whereas the bittersweet soul of 1625 finds compatible links with his close peer, Workshop’s Willow as well as Japan’s Shinichi Atobe and scene enabler Move D, while Parratactico swaggers into quantum dancehall meters.The second disc is no less deadly: the album title track runs at a nexx level Detroit momentum like DJ Stingray flipping Derrick May and Carl Craig’s Kaotic Harmonies, before ESO cuts in like a super cranky El-B wearing itchy Primark underwear, and the bone-rattling hardcore jungle of Spawn soon enough gives way to the sweetlad couplet of Petrichor and Ondine, where his elusive, distressed melodic touch really shines thru.
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