You’ve got to give it to Factory Floor, the English duo never sits still for long. At least stylistically. With a string of singles and EPs to its credit, the group started off as a fairly familiar post punk factory, morphed into a British synth and dance unit and now lands in something darker, more sinister than previous outings. What is this throbbing, gristly substance before your ears? Some call it post-industrial, others call it a further manifestation of synth pop. It’s certainly not for the faint of heart, or those seeking musical excitement.

The greatest task anyone faces is surviving the sheer monotony of it all. Most of these tracks find a simple, infectious beat or keyboard figure, then pound-pound-pound it well beyond the point of return so that the listener comes to wonder if any pleasure can be derived from the constant thud-thud-thudding. Even if you’re hoping to find some dancefloor utility among these eight tracks you’re likely to question your sanity before it all comes to an end.

Not only is there a sameness evident in the individual pieces of 25 25, there’s a sameness across the whole. You could view them as one masterfully constructed minimalist piece that wants you to bow to the gods of electricity. There’s enough imagination within those small variations to suggest that Factory Floor wants you to reach some sort of power-driven state of ecstasy while taking in “Dial Me In” or “25 25.”

There’s even a little room for some Euro humor in “Ya,” seven whole minutes of a driving beat that bangs its way into the center of your brain like a railroad spike, then leaves you for dead. It’s lighthearted, maybe even some geezer’s idea of fun when you take into account the glitchy keyboard sounds and the deadpan vocal sample. The same might also be said for “Wave,” an eight-minute foray into the frustrating pulse-pulse-pulse of a busy signal. Or at least something that evokes the feeling of not being able to break through to another party or another spot on the disco floor.

Despite the tracks being laden with what would be hooks in a pop song, there’s not much that sticks after the record has wound to a close. The truth? Most of the compositions hang out long enough to be amusing, maybe annoying, then disappear into the great digital wasteland in the sky. You won’t think about them much in the future because they’re only about as memorable as the time they take to whirl by your eardrums.

There’s nothing particularly bad or offensive about this music, but it only has the staying power of a drop of water in an open sink. If there’s an audience for this, it’s one that’s using the music for something else: a mystical, hallucinogenic trip in the wee hours of the morning or as an excuse to shake their groove thing. At best. For the rest of us, it’s another dust-covered record in the racks or a whole bunch of ones and zeros that we won’t think of twice once we’ve clicked delete.

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