I admit it -- I was "that guy". You know him; he was the indie-rocker turned electronic freak who, upon trip-hop's mid-'90s emergence, announced the glorious coming of history's greatest epoch. Well, after five years and Tricky's last few pathetic releases, I've come to accept that Bristol might just have been a blip on the underground radar. But as I listened this week to Bows' strikingly modern (and also strikingly trip-hop) album, I couldn't help but feel a tinge of nostalgic hope flutter in my now tried and true indie-pop heart. This disc is good. Really good.

I was first seduced by the enchanting bass on the disc's second track, "Cuban Welterweight Rumbles Hidden Hitmen"; its resemblance to just about every intro on Portishead's Dummy is apparent -- until it switches over to lush textural exploration as Signe Hoirup Willie-Jorgenson's heavenly (as opposed to haunting -- an adjective forever owned by Beth Gibbons) vocals kick in. (Incidentally, I'd like to take a moment to praise Wille-Jorgeson's vocals. She utilizes a technique that Tori Amos perfected on Boys For Pele, in which the final syllable is over-enunciated, giving the listener the feeling that every word is powered by the one preceding it.) "Cuban Welterweight..." merges into "Man Fat", which applies Ruth Edmond's comparably compelling and ethereal soprano to Luke Sutherland's background experimentation.

Featured on the following three tracks, the Cream Team mark the disc's only down-point; their consciously sensual deep-breathing would find a better home on Bristol Does Barry White than on this otherwise wonderful collection of modern lullabies.

Taken as a whole, Cassidy makes its intricacies -- and its rewards -- obvious. Sutherland's angular machine splurges create the ideal tableaux for this predominantly first class collection of vocalists, while his drum and bass experimentation deserves its own album, notably eclipsing many of the bloated efforts of certain Thrill Jockey bands (Chicago Underground Duo, Isotope 217). The disc isn't designed for the headphone crowd, but given its propensity to envelop the listener, you should listen to Cassidy on the most bad-ass stereo system you can find. I did, and I'm still recovering.