By now everyone is familiar with the preeminent sound of Ibiza: it’s often garish and flimsy and rarely worth over-analyzing on a site like this. It serves a purpose and given the isle’s ever-increasing popularity amongst jet-setting punters, it’s serving that purpose just fine. Every so often though, a release that falls under these thinly constructed but still very real confines warrants commentary, either by way of being offensively phoned-in or, as with this single from Brighton-based producer Sam Watts, being undeniably savory. Very much a pop song in construct, the brunt of its gravitas arrives from Name One’s vocal contributions, which excel in both execution and content. Bearing an unassuming Rat Pack-cool croon, he commandeers attention through a subdued narrative that finds him falling back into it with a love interest despite his best attempt at convincing himself that otherwise is best. It’s relatable in its ethos, catchy in its simplicity, and if all was right in the world, it’d be owning radio airwaves.
For his part, Watts launches the effort with a glimmering and celestial minute-long intro before giving way to a drop that reveals the track’s backbone: a rigidly compressed synth line that only further punctures your heartstrings. It’s strikingly kindred to the technique employed by Tom Demac on the recent Critical Distance Pt 2, and that they’re similarly seeing release on Hypercolour is hardly coincidental to say the least. Both reappropriate the guttural warble that we’ve come to most associate with the brostep movement, placing it in the context of far more admissible house fare. But whereas Demac’s effort aims to level, Watts curtails the chaos around Name One, allowing the singer to casually fall over himself in time with the beat. The flip finds Matthew Herbert stretching the synth and supplanting the crunch with a flutter. Though left untouched, the vocal takes on a new meaning here. Passive and pleasant, it no longer elicits angst. And while not greatly dissimilar from the original, it’s more conducive to eyes-closed meditation rather than sing-songy exaltation. Whether this cogitation occurs within confines of your apartment or on a sandy dance floor is really your call.