The indelible stamp on this album is the genius of producer Trevor Horn, which is remarkable by itself given that, so far as I can tell, Horn had nothing whatsoever to do with the first nine tracks on the album. They're  nine nicely produced, if not particularly interesting songs: the textures  are wonderful, the rhythms are intricate - they sound like outstandingly  recorded tracks of high-class 80s funk.
Well, they do until you listen  to the tenth, which Horn did produce, a ditty called 'Slave to the Rhythm'.  Somehow this track makes the rest sound like they were recorded using tin  cans strung together with gardening string. Just how could Slave to the  Rhythm be so much better? Search me. If I knew, maybe I too could have  coaxed an album as good as 'Welcome to the Pleasure Dome' from a bunch of  talent-free Liverpudlians - after all, that's what Trevor Horn did. 'Slave'  is forty miles wide, it's got a bass deeper than the Grand Canyon, and  intricate little percussive fills and chinking guitars ripple around the  soundstage like golden winged angels. It's a groovy song, too, which can't  be said for much of the rest of this material. Fifteen years on much of  Island Life sounds hopelessly dated - which is only what you'd expect:  Grace Jones was an artist of the time, and on the whole Island Life doesn't  transcend that. 'Slave...', on the other hand - perhaps thanks to Mr Horn -  does.
The indelible stamp on this album is the genius of producer Trevor Horn, which is remarkable by itself given that, so far as I can tell, Horn had nothing whatsoever to do with the first nine tracks on the album. They're  nine nicely produced, if not particularly interesting songs: the textures  are wonderful, the rhythms are intricate - they sound like outstandingly  recorded tracks of high-class 80s funk. Well, they do until you listen  to the tenth, which Horn did produce, a ditty called 'Slave to the Rhythm'. Somehow this track makes the rest sound like they were recorded using tin  cans strung together with gardening string. Just how could Slave to the  Rhythm be so much better? Search me. If I knew, maybe I too could have  coaxed an album as good as 'Welcome to the Pleasure Dome' from a bunch of  talent-free Liverpudlians - after all, that's what Trevor Horn did. 'Slave'  is forty miles wide, it's got a bass deeper than the Grand Canyon, and  intricate little percussive fills and chinking guitars ripple around the  soundstage like golden winged angels. It's a groovy song, too, which can't  be said for much of the rest of this material. Fifteen years on much of  Island Life sounds hopelessly dated - which is only what you'd expect:  Grace Jones was an artist of the time, and on the whole Island Life doesn't  transcend that. 'Slave... ', on the other hand - perhaps thanks to Mr Horn -  does.