Rocket Juice and the Moon – Rocket Juice and the Moon

Dreamed up on a plane en route to a festival in Lagos where Albarn, Allen and Flea were due to perform separately, Rocket Juice and the Moon is centred on a great idea: a cultural/musical mash-up cooked up quicker than anyone can have time to express any doubt as to whether its multiple elements – Fela Kuti-authored Afrobeat, dub reggae, African pop forms, hip hop, murky soul, sweaty funk, New Orleans horns, freeform keyboard odysseys – can possibly coexist harmoniously.

Rhythm rules supreme on Rocket Juice and the Moon. Placed front and centre by mixer Mark Ernestus (from the stable of electronica/roots reggae revival pioneers Basic Channel and Rhythm & Sound), Allen has never sounded better, tackling the drum kit with a nimble artistry that suggests the master of Afrobeat polyrhythm packs more arms than an octopus. Flea is a revelation. Implying it’s no mere accident his name’s an anagram of “Fela” in a way you’d never dare to dream on the basis of the needless showing-off that accompanies his day job, the subtle, expressive and hugely funky aspects of the bassist’s virtuoso chops, hitherto obscured by the arena rock bluster of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, are given free rein.

There are some brilliant cuts here. ‘Hey Shooter’ welds dub horns to Afrobeat bounce and Erykah Badu’s smoky vocals to splendid effect; Afro-funk gem ‘Follow Fashion’ achieves lift-off courtesy of Ghanaian MC M.anifest and Malian singer Fatou Diamara’s beautiful melodies; the tense instrumental ’Check Out’ – possibly a tribute to great reggae/dub riddim workouts such as the Observer All-Stars’ ‘Sir Niney’s Rock’ – is on the prowl for a suitably white-knuckled chase scene to attach itself to. But too many of Allen and Flea’s undeniably funky foundations simply don’t wind up anywhere near diverting enough. The rumbling count-in ’1 2 3 4 5 6′ is a delight, but when 18 tracks later, via some of the most annoying synth sounds known to man, we’re still stuck with half-formed jams in the Hypnotic Brass Ensemble-enriched closer ‘Leave-Taking’, it’s hard not to feel a bit underwhelmed.

It’s not a coincidence that the definite highpoint, the twilit ballad ‘Poison’ (imagine a vintage Albarn lament à la ‘On Melancholy Hill’ or ‘Kingdom of Doom’ aired as the last dance at the legendary Shrine club in Lagos, with Bootsy Collins popping in on bass), is the only moment here that has Albarn step up to the microphone from behind his bank of keyboards.

Albarn’s musical adventurism is clearly driven by a genuine love of music and the people who play it, as opposed to calculating bandwagon-jumping or cool point-scoring. There’s no ego-massaging on show here: Albarn’s name might draw in the customers, but he remains very much in the shadows of Allen and Flea throughout. You can’t help feeling that the emphasis placed on genre-hopping guests and collaborators diverts attention from Rocket Juice and the Moon’s meatiest bit of potential: Albarn’s talents as a songwriter and a singer.

For once, in fact, you wish a famous musician had less appetite for musical democracy, and more hunger for the spotlight.