Hopkins’s last album was an intriguing meld of expansive and introspective compositions, hitting a sweet spot between Nils Frahm and Four Tet. Where Immunity was the soundtrack to an imaginary big night out, Hopkins delineates a natural psychedelic experience on Singularity. To get you to share his trip, he weaves wordless vocals around warped found sounds in his pointillist, semi-improvised productions.
Strangely, this creates an album pretty similar to its predecessor. Intricate floorfillers dissolve into austere piano pieces and recombine, with lots of longueurs. Even weirder, Hopkins deliberately starts and ends Singularity on the same note. Being brought back to where you began is what you want from a hire van, not a psych trip – it’s why the Merry Pranksters didn’t get the Circle Line.
What he’s brilliant at is creating a strong palette of sound. The satisfying plate-glass crunch and angry-bee crackle of the title track is uniquely Hopkins, while the astonishing Emerald Rush is reminiscent of Aphex Twin’s best work. Too often, though, you’re left wishing for the thuggish bass and head-severing hi-hats of less cerebral dance music. There’s not enough food for the brain or fuel for the feet here.
