Existentialist electronic Frenchman Jackson simultaneously does Camus and Rimbaud proud, wasting not one fantastical yoctosecond of precious album space. Crammed with synapse-shattering digitalia like a towering Atkins-unaware cannoli of death-Smash features layer upon impossibly imploding layer of visionary sound-its brilliance physically hurts. Jackson manages the near impossible feat of boasting guest vocalists, yet assimilates their contributions into an bricolaged treatise. Even Mike Ladd‘s not annoying in this context-his pouty, prep-school rap is treated as aural ammunition. Smash introduces Jackson as a formidable talent.