Yahoo! Music Album Review

Released on 06/10/06
Label: Mute

Of course, it's very easy to hate Moby, isn't it? The ubiquity of the beautifully crafted "Play" album courtesy of the whoring of every single track to the advertising industry (last count: 420 + adverts) did much to damage the vegan Christian's reputation as an artist of vision and integrity. But his insistence on following its global success with a series of tired retreads in the form of the "18" and "Hotel" albums did little to repair the damage. If anything, "Go: The Very Of Best Of Moby" merely serves to confirm whatever prejudices are held against him.

The problem with this collection rests with the somewhat obvious and predictable selections, with two-thirds of its contents being culled from "Play" and the albums that followed in its wake. Which is a great shame because, playing to the gallery as this compilation does, Moby's greatest works of dancefloor excellence are air-brushed from history in an almost-Orwellian fashion.

That only the euphoric Angelo Badalamenti sampling "Go" and gurningly bonkers hands-in-the-air joy of "Feeling So Real" from Moby's pre-"Play" days have made it to this collection is a disgrace (we'll overlook the cover of the "James Bond Theme" - what the hell can you do to that riff?). Whither the panoramic "Hymn" or the uplifting "Every Time You Touch Me"? To the casual observer, Moby's existence was a sporadic blip barely worthy of mention, until "Play" appeared everywhere from dinner parties to supermarkets.

"Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad?", "Porcelain" and "Natural Blues" still sound like the quantum leap forward from the hedonistic delights of "Everything Is Wrong", as Moby skilfully fused ancient blues and gospel samples with electronic pulses and beats, while "Honey" and "Bodyrock"'s kinship with the big beat of Fatboy Slim were the last time that Moby's fingers were firmly on the pulse. As displayed by "In This World" and "In My Heart", Moby adopted a policy of "if-it-ain't-broke-don't- fix-it", as elsewhere "We Are All Made Of Stars" and "Slipping Away" conclusively prove that his place remains behind a microphone rather than in front of one.

Quite who this collection is aimed at is anybody's guess; owners of his last three releases will already have the majority of this stuff and the appearance of Debbie Harry on the camp romp of "New York New York" isn't a sufficient enough call to arms. If this is what Moby wants to be remembered by, then perhaps he should just take the advice of the album's title.

    by Julian Marszalek