For eons he has brought music to mankind. I, myself, was first acquainted with his material when I was cutting my teeth as an Egyptian mummy-smuggler for hire in Rome around AD 195—quite an interesting period, that. It was just about the time that weekly hours spent in-orgy began to outweigh time spent working, for the average citizen… things were getting a lil out o’ hand. Yes. So. He’s been around for quite sometime; however, if was ‘99s Play with its southern gospel singers-meet-dancefloor melancholia that burned his name into the hypothalami of the mainstream American populace. You’ll find a very Moby-hued palette in Destroyed; from the deep-sigh-future-fate-of-humanity-introspection that has comes to color much of his recent work via “Rockets, to well-greased and linear synth-driven progressive spanners—look to “Sevastopol” here—a single which ostensibly takes its name from the WW2 Axis siege of said city which lasted the better part of a year, all told, and ended with the German Luftwaffe crushing the Soviet port town. A history lesson? Hey, I didn’t start it. Luckily for Moby he’s back on Mute, the heroic and loveable label which he left for major majors for a couple of LPs after a his early millennium ascendancy. But I cannot begrudge him the fact that we are lucky to have him. He gets “the” word out. This LP may well draw criticism from purists, but unlike a good deal of electronic which gets radio play, his music has real tone—it is identifiable as Moby. Destroyed informs, it is both sentimental and topically immediate, and it moves—love him or loathe him you can’t deny that the muscles in the human leg respond well to Richard Melville Hall’s (best guess as to his real name) musical sensibilities. There have been few other than this chap from Harlem who have the clout to title an album with an imperative verb (Move) and pull it off. And so on.