Moby: 18

From his early days as a fresh-faced rave icon, Moby has built his reputation on unspectacular fusions that add up to precisely the sum of their parts. His name-making 1991 hit, "Go," grafted rave beats to the Twin Peaks theme—nothing more, nothing less—and his work since has been almost counter-revolutionary in its literal approach to reconciling dance music with traditional songcraft. Moby's unadorned tactics have made him an easy handle for those usually put off by electronic music, but whether approachability equals genius is another question. The same earthen modesty weighs on 18, an admirably humble but middling album that betrays both Moby's techno ambassadorship and his status as a new breed of 21st-century pop star. Half of the album revisits Play-style soul-sampling almost verbatim, with songs like "In This World" and "In My Heart" straining impassioned hollers and velvety croons through a more sedate, less moving filter. The other half casts Moby as an unwitting Zelig figure mapping the space between glam and sadness. Some of the material works, including "We Are All Made Of Stars," a crushingly human affirmation made all the more touching by Moby's conflicted vocal optimism. Elsewhere, he dilutes his beautifully stirring dirges ("At Least We Tried," the ghostly Sept. 11 hymn "Sleep Alone," the Sinéad O'Connor-sung "Harbour") with overripe shimmer that remains one rainstick-shake away from the kind of New Age music sold at The Nature Company ("Signs Of Love," "Fireworks"). At its best, 18 is a mesmerizing negotiation of the gap between mainstream tastes and underground allegiances. As a whole, though, it's too stuck in its in-between space to step beyond an uninspiring middle ground.