It's hard to imagine improving on this year's bounty of electronic music from the likes of Four Tet, Floating Points, Fred again…, Jon Hopkins, Kaytradana and Jamie xx — but here we are. Canada's own Dan Snaith makes top of class with his seventh Caribou album Honey. Snaith, who crafts music under both the monikers Caribou and Daphni, is a veteran of the scene whose capital has never gone stale. His latest release affirms this fact and offers a veritable buffet of bangers.
Snaith has long played around with duality in his music. As Caribou he explores the swells of human emotion and as Daphni he farms the rich soil of dance floor beats. Each exists to contrast the other and provide an avenue for further experimentation more than two decades on. The kaleidoscopic nature of Snaith's approach is dazzling, perhaps no more so than on Honey, where it feels like both Caribou and Daphni collide in a purposeful Rorschach blot. The interpretation, as always, is up to the listener, but there's no denying the vividness of Snaith's vision.
Honey begins with two back-to-back heavy hitters ("Broke My Heart" and "Honey") that pulsate with club beats that would be at home in Berghain. It's quite the active start for a Caribou album and signals a fresh direction from the get-go. Other tracks ("Do Without You," "Come Find Me" and "Only You") mimic the soaring emotive heights of tried-and-true Caribou classics. The fusion of the two personas opens up additional possibilities and hypothetical avenues to contemplate. While elements from Snaith's personal life have often informed his music, Honey feels much more abstract. The upbeat dance influences encourage an outright physicality; get out of your head and into your body.
Ever the innovator, Snaith describes his affinity for creating and finding new sounds as a kind of "manic curiosity." Several songs on the album ("Broke My Heart," "Come Find Me" and "Do Without You") break newfound ground (and are sure to raise some eyebrows) through the use of AI to manipulate Snaith's vocals. While many artists would risk scorn for dabbling in the world of AI, Snaith's use of the technology feels relatively harmless, another tool for creative expression. However, things get a little dicey on "Campfire," when Snaith's AI manipulations lead to a sort of racially ambiguous rap verse — it's a troubling reminder of the knotty questions we'll need to ask ourselves as use of this technology becomes more and more common.
Snaith has always been curious, and it's precisely this curiosity that's led the producer to expand his horizons. The end result is something that is both real and not real; Caribou and not Caribou. Duality strikes yet again.
In the album's presser, Snaith offers a little insight into the fire that continues to light his passion: "There's more equipment in [the studio] than there used to be, but essentially it's the same as ever: still chasing that thrill of when something hits really hard and finding myself jumping up and down or the hairs standing up on my arms in excitement. How lucky am I that that's never gone away? That the chance of making something new and exciting is still as exhilarating as ever, and as much fun as ever?"
Snaith's work is meaningful, and it pushes music forward in a way that's genuinely exciting. Closer "Got to Change" feels optimistic and celebratory; Change, evolution, renewal are all necessary components of a life well lived. Snaith is acutely aware of this salient truth and stares it down with ardent, manic curiosity.