Floating Points’ Vacuum EP is what happens when a classically trained neuroscientist decides to score a disco for introverts. Sam Shepherd (a.k.a. Floating Points) delivers a three-track EP that sounds like the musical equivalent of trying to explain string theory to a cat—it’s elegant, confusing, and purrs in weird places. This record isn’t trying to be liked; it’s trying to be understood. And even then, it’s judging you for needing help. Three stars, because brilliance should come with a map and a cocktail.
“When Jazz Met Jargon”
Sam Shepherd didn’t stumble into music—he surgically implanted himself into it. A Manchester native and a PhD candidate in neuroscience, Shepherd entered the electronic music scene with the quiet arrogance of someone who could probably rewire your brain while programming a Moog. Before Vacuum, he’d already released a few vinyls that whispered sweet, synthy nothings into the ears of vinyl purists and record store gremlins.
The Vacuum EP dropped in 2009 on Eglo Records, the label he co-founded, presumably while making eye contact with a particle collider. This wasn’t just an EP—it was a statement: “I’m here, I’m weird, and I’m bringing chord progressions with more layers than your mom’s lasagna.” While his peers were still stuck in 4/4 time, Shepherd decided time signatures were a suggestion, not a rule.
“Minimalism, Maximal Effort”
The production is meticulous to the point of madness. Listening to the EP is like watching a genius organize a spice rack alphabetically, then by frequency of use, and then again by flavor profile—because art. Shepherd’s approach blends analog synths, dusty grooves, and live instrumentation, carefully assembled like IKEA furniture but with fewer allen wrenches and more obscure time signatures.
The title track, “Vacuum Boogie,” feels like the result of a jazz band trapped inside a modular synth and told to “dance, but with restraint.” The kick drum shuffles, the hi-hats flicker like a migraine aura, and the melody floats just out of reach—taunting, teasing, occasionally seducing. Meanwhile, the sonic palette is clean and crunchy, like a salad tossed by a sound engineer. It’s both lo-fi and pristine, minimal but meticulous.
Track Analysis: “Three Little Tracks That Could (but Sometimes Wouldn’t)”
Vacuum Boogie – This is the crown jewel: a seven-minute groove odyssey that loops, twists, and teeters on the edge of funk without ever diving in. It’s the musical equivalent of being flirted with at a museum—classy, cerebral, and you’re not quite sure what just happened. The bassline bounces like it’s avoiding commitment, and every added layer seems to both explain and obscure what came before. A dance floor slow burn—if the dance floor is in a lab.
Truly – A spacey, meditative interlude that feels like jazz got lost on the London Underground and decided to enjoy the ride. It’s tender and cerebral, like a Miles Davis solo performed underwater. It doesn’t build so much as it hovers—ambitious, yes, but emotionally inert. Like a Tinder date that goes on too long, it’s interesting, but you’re not calling back.
Argonaut – Closes out the EP like the final movement of a dream someone else had. It’s warm, slow, and slightly melancholy, which is to say: it’s jazz if jazz had access to Ableton and a therapist. The track eventually dissolves into ambient swirls, leaving you unsure whether to dance or cry—or just restart the EP because you still don’t get it.
“A Cult Classic in a Cult of One”
Critics who could spell “modal counterpoint” loved it. DJs swooned, bloggers frothed, and every art school grad with a vinyl habit added Vacuum Boogie to their DJ crate. Gilles Peterson and Benji B played it like it was a rite of passage, and soon the EP was less of a release and more of a credentials check—“You don’t know Vacuum Boogie? Get out of my coffee shop.”
Yet outside the sanctified walls of vinyl nerdom, Vacuum EP struggled to connect. Too academic for club kids, too funky for minimalists, too jazzy for house heads—it lived in the liminal, awkward middle ground. Like the cool professor at a rave, it intrigued more than it inspired. But its influence lingers, quietly shaping the edges of nu-jazz, deep house, and whatever genre you’d call “smart groove.”
“Three Stars and a Raised Eyebrow”
The Vacuum EP is a flawed masterpiece or a perfect curiosity, depending on your level of patience and your fondness for syncopation. Floating Points didn’t set out to make friends—he set out to make music that thinks. Sometimes, it thinks too hard. But even when it misses, it misses with style. If you want catchy, look elsewhere. If you want complex, confusing, and occasionally euphoric—this is your ride.
⭐️⭐️⭐️ (3/5)
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