You get your guitars, sitars, and Singh's tasty subcontinental breakfast of a voice. But you also get slapped with a dosage of bad opium. The album's amazingly nonsensical lyrics might have been intended as some sort of social criticism of the dance music world, and end up just plain funny. For the majority of its duration, Disco merely simmers when it should be sizzling. The general rule for this disc is, if you don't like what you hear in the first 30 seconds which is going to be a lot of the time you're not gonna like the rest.
Some tracks are comatose, others are dead on arrival.
Clinton works best when Singh stays on his feet long enough to lay down his vocals and the beats aren't smothered by the overzealous synth nanny. Disco has got a handful of bright spots, and brimful of rough edges. Likable elements of Cornershop persevere, while funk marinates them in its inescapable juices.