The underground electronic producer Powell has caught some sun in the past year with a couple of playful/terrifying singles, as well as a commendable willingness to butt heads with his heroes like the dance-despising Nirvana producer Steve Albini. Sadly, the aggressive discordance of Powell’s kitsch-glitch aesthetic drags horribly on this debut. It’s all treble, no bass, all foreplay with no follow-through. If only it had more of the intensity of the anti-faker spoken-word track Skype, or Jonny’s antic joy, which effectively upcycles dusty gothic riffery. Sport sounds lost, neither serious enough for IDM connoisseurs, nor crass enough for the EDM mob, and lacks the otherworldly melodies of pioneers like Gold Panda or Nicolas Jaar.
