While "Obia Intro" undoubtedly serves as the abstract to
ununiform, it's hard to locate Adrian's thesis. The purpose of the album was defined in more than a few ways around its press release, but there's never a moment in the actual run time that makes a definitive argument for what it stands for. I mean sure, the inclusion of Martina Topley-Bird on the final song suggests the album is the fan-begged nod to his past. And perhaps the inclusion of so many
other guests shows Tricky yet again acknowledging his debt towards collaboration. But this is pure conjecture, and I can't help but feel it's intentional for two main reasons: the album's title suggests a
purposely unorthodox composition, and Tricky's music brain is certainly more layered than his image credits.
And to be honest, it really plays into the strength of the record. It allows a write-off of the scattered, barely knit ideas this collection of songs provides. Maybe I'm just easy to deceive, and it could be argued that this is a gilded tactic, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't cover some of its own warts. Because it's a pretty bumpy release. I absolutely can't stand “Blood of my Blood” and can't fathom how he confidently included this on the record; it is nothing more than 'a woe is me' electronic ballad featuring a terrible offering of a guest vocalist. But it is a valley between a few mountains. Tricky hasn't dropped some of these highs in quite some time.
The claustrophobic presence of Adrian's thoughts bleed into each of the songs. It disassociates the record from start to finish, disconnecting human vocals from tangible surroundings. His actual musicianship is more interesting than it has recently been, producing trademarked Bristol beats out of Russian and German studios. The unorganized nature of the album lends itself to a much needed variation. The stunted guitar riff of “Dark Days” provides the adrenaline shot to the meandering and shuffling of the bassier downtempo cuts, the plethora of female vocals balancing out Tricky's demonic gargling. It all feels like a patched fabric made solely out of restlessness rather than for functional purpose. And there's some sort of ugly beauty in that, somewhere.
With his 2016 album,
Skilled Mechanics, I found myself asking what Tricky's intentions were. The album begged for the questioning of his motives and where his footing in musical relevance stood as he refused to regift his best offerings.
ununiform is a fitting response to this, his comfort becoming less of an unjustified condemnation of his fans and more of a “fuck you, I owe you nothing”, while still including various references to that one album we all think of when we hear his name. Typical, sure, but a fitting extension of his career. And once again Tricky can be found actually translating something he cares about. He has shaken off convention and is self aware in doing so, providing a spectrum of both substance and shit because he's just writing what he wants, rather than a desperate attempt to hit what we're looking for from an artist who unquestionably peaked at the beginning of his career.
