‘Ice On The Dune’’s saving grace is Steele’s airy falsetto, occasionally adding cred to what is otherwise a spiked Bacardi Breezer of a record. The last thing a 28th century shamanic wizard should sound is dated. It smacks of La Roux and Ladyhawke, of 2009 trying to be 1984. When they’re not recreating the shimmery synth sheen of a million Molly Ringwald roller-skating scenes for the dubstep era (‘Concert Pitch’, ‘Awakening’, ‘Old Flavours’) they’re hooking their unicorn-skin space-boots to the bandwagon of acts ripping off Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Everywhere’ (the reverb-swamped ballad ‘I’ll Be Around’). After a mood-building cinematic splurge of an intro called ‘Lux’, EOTS’s attempt at a theme to The Mummy, it’s straight into 11 repetitive bursts of whoomp-laden chart pop pitched firmly between Calvin Harris and Wiley’s ‘Heatwave’, every track crying out to be used on a Coke advert.
And unfortunately, ‘Ice On The Dune’ is a four-to-the-floor electro-pop album that has literally nothing to do with the cheesy fable invented to go with it. The problem is, when you project a futuristic, magical and otherworldly image, you’d better have the sounds to match. One that asks: has an evil force for darkness stolen the jewel from the Emperor’s crown, robbing him of his powers to guide rivers and direct rain, demolishing his temple and casting his four animal spirit priests to the far corners of Earth? How can we track down this wicked King Of Shadows, defeat him in worthy battle, reclaim the jewel and save the world? Okaaaaay.
And it was good.įor album number two, there’s a bullshit Zelda-style backstory. Album one, ‘Walking On A Dream’, came in 2008. So when The Sleepy Jackson went on hiatus in 2007 and Steele re-emerged dolled up like a 28th century shamanic wizard from Planet Whiteyes as the Emperor with Empire Of The Sun – alongside Pnau’s Nick Littlemore, aka The Prophet, decked out in wolfskin waistcoats like a feral, space-age Wolverine – it actually seemed like a natural progression. In interviews he’d go on about his songs being surfboards he rides into the ether to kiss God’s balls, or some such hallucinogenic crazy-talk. Even when the Australian was in The Sleepy Jackson he’d sing about wearing miniskirts into town, priests with sewn-up eyes and Satan trespassing in his back garden.
Luke Steele’s career has rarely made much sense.
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