At long last, you can sleep tonight happy in the knowledge that your fantasy hybrid of Prince and Detroit house music has finally come to be. Throw open your windows and scream for the whole world to hear, ?Chelonis R. Jones has arrived, and I have just pissed myself with glee!?

Chelonis R. Jones is a contemporary renaissance man. He has many leather bound books. His apartment is covered in rich mahogany. He writes devilishly sweet poetry. He is a painter. He has a slightly Terrence Trent D?Arby look to him, with perhaps a little taste of Eartha Kitt thrown in for good measure.

I am not a fan of techno, not a fan of house, not a fan of dance music, or dancing for that matter. I am interested in people who tread somewhere well beyond the beaten path, and in that sense, young Mr. Chelonis delivers.

This is an album that speeds away so far into the unknown, that trying to apply any sense of reason to this collection is a complete waste of time. The liner notes add to the fray by painting a picture of complete confusion and dreamlike goofiness.

Were you the type who cares to shake your backside to the beats of madness, Chelonis R. Jones is the man for you. This is spacey, electronic, nerdy dance music, which is something that can only be truly enjoyed under the influence of pharmaceutical drugs manufactured in a clandestine lab in the Netherlands by bald men in white coats.

It?s the soundtrack to the chill-out room in Hell. Let Chelonis be your guide to salvation as the drugs begin to leave your system. The sun will come up, and you will learn to follow the way of the ?Dislocated Genius?. 5/10 -- John Cramer (27 June, 2006)