he genius of dub music is its triumph of space. It is a sly grin, opening to reveal an embracing blackness punctuated with singular, bold effects that engulf and affect the viewer into infinity. If music is communication, then dub woos; it speaks low but carries a lightning bolt, its thoughts sporadic yet emphatic. Although the producer defines the style, the ego acquiesces to the listener's experience. For each furious anthill busily scratched into the hard platter, lean circles of deserts surround it. For each decadent plate served steaming with EQ and echo, the diner is given ample time to digest. Dub wafts ceiling-ward to the beat of peeling paint, expanding into a transparent cloud to be inhaled by all within breathing reach. Like Jimmy Cliff's character in The Harder They Come, it cackles at the thought of permanence, of appearance, and instead embraces disappearance, the unseen, because it has been and always will be everywhere.

Broadly speaking, this manipulation of space can be just as much personal perspective as it is genre specific. Like when sculpting from a large block, the process can be likened to allowing the shape to be revealed rather than removing layers to mold the piece; the being is found, not made.

Steve Spacek continues this tradition with a new set of tools on his solo debut Space Shift. Though he mixes sparkling melodies with muted hits on “Logic,” his concoctions still embrace the idea of less is just right. Spacek makes a sensible progression from the work of his namesake trio and continues to find sublimity in space. Here, he emphasizes compositions that are lean in arrangement yet supple in performance. Lead single and album jump off "Dollar" is rolled thick with a buttermilk harmony, but the melody barely kisses the surface like an upward curling meringue. The intricate Jay Dee bass percolates as Spacek's anthem du jour surges skyward, leaving the listener to imagine the love below. The sun-baked "Thursday" and angel doughy "Slave" soften the album's texture, gradually revealing the sharp shimmer of a lick-lips glaze. There is an admitted sweet immediacy to this trifecta, but they serve to tease out Spacek's essences.

The core of Space Shift is an extended flirtation. Less about individual courses than ruminations of fragrances, each track is an ingredient conjuring fragments of taste. "The Hills" unlocks wisps of provincial winds, only to stop cold against cobblestone streets and the passage of "Reverible Top" carriage sideshows. As the smoke clears, a peek in the neighbor's window reveals "3 Hours of Fun" undulating against the hay before switching positions to "Love Yu Better," nary missing a beat. Over subterranean throbs, "Slow Baby Dubb" reels another lover in with a curling finger and rewards him and/or her with a bump, a kind grind, and tender whisper of "I'm Glad You're Here." This middle movement admittedly skips almost too breezily at first, second, even third pass, but leaves hints of intrigue.

The album wisely closes by easing back from the flutter and settling into breathy caresses. "Smoke" and "Callin Yu" rise slowly under a watchful heat, harmonies bubbling like enzymes in motion. Master chef Leon Ware (writer of Marvin Gaye's "I Want You" and Minnie Riperton's "Inside My Love") adds the key sugar and yeast to push the album over as a sheer tease. In this manner, each serving progressively overwhelms the senses as a Dolby 5.1 wet dream.

Subsequently, Space Shift's payoff centers in the experience. Permanent residency and repeat visits are required; no tourists allowed. Its strength is its refusal to speak directly with a familiar palette. Instead, the record is a hushed affair, all long gazes at hunks of velvet cake in between played notes, sung melodies, and struck beats. Space Shift is graceful in its nakedness, making it a welcome descendent of the, shhhh, y'know...