18

It's a formula, but damn if it isn't still effective. [17 May 2002, p.74]

The most poignant artistic statement of his career. [May 2002, p.70]

A more coherent album [than Play], it enchances rather than advances his previous approach, proving superior to its predecessor because its music is more sensitive, its emotions more personal, and what's on offer is a closer, more inviting experience. [May 2002, p.105]

He has created a record that might not be as wildly eclectic on the surface as Play, and it certainly lacks club-hits on the level of "Bodyrock" or "South Side," but it's a warm, enveloping, humanistic record with real emotional resonance, which surely is a noteworthy artistic step forward.

For the most part, the formula still works fine. [Jun/Jul 2002, p.107]

18 makes Play sound like a what-if experiment in techno blues; now Moby sounds like he means it as much as his sampler does. [May 2002, p.77]

A sprawling, ambitious 18-track effort that's hardly the cash-in it could've been. [May 2002, p.115]

Most of 18 is pleasant but unchallenging and unremarkable.

So 18 is neither a retread of Play nor a departure from it. It's pop music the way Moby has always heard it: a frantic dance of different sounds and styles, banging into the wall a time or two but hitting sublimely beautiful highs along the way.

Moby continues to do on 18 what he’s always done best, and that is to fuse disparate musical styles with a pop sensibility, while maintaining a moody, almost gothic theme.

You finish listening to 18 feeling as if you've heard a decaffeinated version of Play. [June 2002, p.98]

At its best, 18 is a mesmerizing negotiation of the gap between mainstream tastes and underground allegiances. As a whole, though, it's too stuck in its in-between space to step beyond an uninspiring middle ground.

The follow-up to 'Play' is, essentially, 'Re-Play', a cynical rehash of the melancholic-yet-strangely-uplifting schtick which sold ten million albums and soundtracked every single advert of the last three years.

An attempted retread that feels more driven by commerce than conviction and suffers as a result.

The lead single, the excellent, Bowie-ish wibbler 'We Are All Made Of Stars' is a total red herring. The other 67 minutes and 17 tracks are 'Play' Redux; familiar-sounding "oh-lord-my-dog's-just-died" samples over shopworn pianos and strings, straining to be epic but lacking the crucial element of surprise that made 'Play' sound so innovative.

A mostly thin and needlessly morose album. [Jun 2002, p.108]

Nearly every song sounds like either a redux of or reject from its predecessor.

It still wouldn’t come off so badly if Moby took his old sounds and improved them, but he doesn’t.

As a follow-up, 18 plays it safer than a quadruple-condomed fundamentalist Christian at an abstinence rally.