GUY CALLED GERALD
Fuse Club, Belgium

IS Gerald Simpson jungle's answer to Derrick Carter? Despite his giant frame, AGCG's vocals are suprisingly gossamer-thin, translucent even, allowing the plangent ballistics of "Alita's Dream" to shine like sunbeams through torn silk. It's like Romanthony accompanying Goldie and it's gorgeous.

Or is he the jungle Prince it's okay to dance to? "I know a few of you aren't too sure how to dance to this stuff," he offers, as the fractured shards of "Cybergen" spiral out of control. "Well, this is how we do it up in Manchester". And damn it if he doesn't shimmy out from the safety of his mixing desk and cut a woven Persian beauty of a rug alone on the stage. The words "complete chap" spring to mind.

Or perhaps he's the Carl Craig of the cybernetic breakbeat? Ironically, Craig plays prior to Gerald, but even he knows when he's licked. After the show, he tells Gerald that he'd kill to have played half as well. The way that Craig twists electronica sideways into the future is similar to what Gerald is doing with breakbeat. Together, they make the perfect black science orchestra of the 21st Century.

Tonight we get no "Finley's Rainbow", no "Energy", no "Voodoo Ray". Just A Guy Called Gerald, an hour's exposition of scintillating drum `n' bass straight from God's bedroom and proof that jungle can work live. With a little modesty and one helluva Guy.

[Reviewer: Calvin Bush]