The London producer loosens the reins for a guest-heavy, party-starting album that doesn’t feel pressured to do or say too much.
Move over Calvin Harris, it’s Alex Crossan’s shot at a breezy, good vibes record with high-flying collaborators paging in from around the globe. Whereas the precocious British producer’s 2017 debut as Mura Masa was a tropical-sounding homage to the London underground, and his 2020 follow-up was a collection of scruffy guitar anthems that proclaimed his generation’s disaffectedness, his third album, demon time, skips out on a big concept. Dejected during lockdown, the 26-year-old Crossan made some contemplative, inward-looking songs that he wasn’t quite happy with. Then a 2000s UK garage hit steered him toward revelation: “I started remembering what it felt like to be excited about music where the essence of it is just [having] a good time, that doesn’t have to say something remarkable about the human condition.”
So drink up and let loose. Guests like the Jamaican dancehall artist Skillibeng, Japanese rapper Tohji, and reggaeton princess Isabella Lovestory convene for an album that strives to be flirty and feral; as Crossan explains in an interview, “I wanted to soundtrack the weird 1 a.m. to 5 a.m. time when you’re up to no good.” Contributing to the irreverence, titles are written in textspeak; pre-touchscreen cell phones bleep at the beginning of songs, like you just got a “heyyy” from your homegirl.“Go demon! Go demon!” newcomer BAYLI chants over dribbling, 2000s pop-rap production on the title track, as if she’s egging her friends to get a little nasty at the block party. It’s proof of how delightful the project is when it really commits to unseriousness. “I know I’ve been a really bad girl/I’m just trying to birth a King like Coretta,” BAYLI raps with a smirk.
demon time’s main offerings are fizzy, lowkey numbers about romantic misalignment. PinkPantheress, Shygirl, and Lil Uzi Vert trade off duties on “bbycakes,” a pastel-hued song with steel drums and a subtle drill beat, inspired by the 3 of a Kind smash that shook Crossan out of his creative slump. It’s cute, if a bit inert—and the same goes for the minimal reggaeton track “tonto,” featuring Isabella Lovestory. The silky UK garage of “e-motions” fares much better, with Erika de Casier accusing a love interest of carelessness over digital harp and funky turntable scratches. “I crossed the ocean/You wouldn’t even jump puddles for me,” she sings—and while there’s turbulence in the lyrics, the track sails along oh-so smoothly.
demon time hits a low at “2gether,” a too-moody guitar anthem about love troubles that includes chiptuned vocal snippets and a wobbly, unnecessary EDM breakdown. It’s like having your mood killed at the club by the presence of Mr. Polo Shirt. The songs surrounding it are not as heavy-handed, but still tonally off: “slomo”’s future bass production and Auto-Tuned murmuring makes it two steps away from a Jane Remover song. “up all week” sounds like a pump-up anthem for the gay club—but instead of Cakes da Killa or Azealia Banks, there’s slowthai delivering social critique. “Brain like mush, always staring at screens/They’re selling us dreams/Mouse with some cheese,” he shouts, a dial tone sounding as if signaling a conversational dead-end.
Mura Masa is best when he sticks to the script and cranks up the heat. Pa Salieu and Skillibeng are a great pairing on the squeaky, horned-up collaboration “blessing me,” but by far the standout on the album is the house and R&B-inflected “hollaback bitch,” on which Shygirl refuses to be at someone else’s beck and call. “Backyard bully in bed/Don’t give a fuck about giving no head/Take what comes ‘til a rudeboy dead,” she raps cooly—and surprisingly, the lyrics weren’t written by the master of smut herself but the more PC-presenting Crossan. After the snap of a whip, a saxophone melody wafts in as if you’ve opened the window to a live band and a courtyard of people swaying their hips. The song swelters like the last days of summer, glorious enough to shake the next young producer out of creative torpor.
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