By the time Earthling’s debut album Radar appeared in May 1995, the sounds of Bristol’s nascent trip-hop movement had already captured the wider public imagination. Massive Attack had firmly entrenched themselves with Protection, Portishead reflected the spiralling political mood with Dummy, and Tricky had pushed into darker corners, hissing poetry for seamier sections of the scene through a ghostly broken telephone. Into that swirl, Radar landed almost imperceptibly—no big campaign, no heavy hype—just there for whoever spotted it.
Earthling comprised three members: Mau on vocals, Tim Saul producing, and Andy Keep handling an array of instruments and soundscapes. Their combined approach gave the record its layered, uneasy energy. I first happened on them through a late-night TV performance of ‘1st Transmission’—the memory is grainy, but it was possibly on Channel 4’s cult show The Beat. Mau’s verses were sharp but avoided standard MC bravado, his cerebral, stream-of-consciousness flow sliding through Tim Saul’s intricately arranged, jazz-infused rhythms. Keep’s multi-instrumental textures added further depth, moving restlessly beneath the surface. Even in the mid-’90s, when every album purchase felt like a gamble, Radar just felt worth it. Once it entered my CD changer, I barely took it out for weeks.
Even after thirty years, something about Radar still resonates. While it shares elements with Bristol’s other contemporaries—stoner tempos, murky samples, the occasional scratch from Geoff Barrow—if you dig deeper you can hear the broader influences, including NY hip-hop and classic jazz sensibilities beneath the smoky vibe. Keep’s eclectic instrumentation, from muted brass flourishes to subtle guitar loops, and Saul’s cinematic sense of pacing elevate songs beyond simple genre labels. Tracks like ‘Ananda’s Theme’ bend jazzy chords and odd grooves into intricate shapes, while ‘Nefisa’ drifts into a subdued minor-key space where Mau’s storytelling holds court amid Saul and Keep’s sparse arrangements.
Radar’s shifting tones made it oddly unplaceable for some, swinging from the playful bounce of ‘Soup or No Soup’ to the stark emotional depth of ‘Planet of the Apes,’ a track about childhood abuse and trauma conveyed through tense storytelling and empathy (“Six years old and she was told to keep a secret, ten years on she was… and she keeps it”). Mau’s lyrical approach ranged widely, from surreal playfulness (“Aeroplanes in my room and I don’t know who’s flying them… there were men on the moon, but they killed them”) to existential reflections (“Time trickles through your fingers, cup your hands, try and hold some”). That lyrical eccentricity helped set Earthling apart, Mau freely referencing an eclectic cast from Harvey Keitel, Juliette Binoche, and Edie Brickell, to figures like Leonard Cohen, William Burroughs (“Lost in my head, on the road until tomorrow, I’m double demented like William Burroughs”), Marcus Garvey, Michelangelo (“I’m Michelangelo working on a totem pole”), Galileo, and Shostakovich. Philosophical and pop culture nods also surface—from Frantz Fanon’s theories to Tripitaka from Monkey and the cult film ’33 Degrees in the Morning’ (aka Betty Blue).
Yet, the album’s eclectic charm equally rested on Saul and Keep’s compelling arrangements. Saul’s nuanced production choices—meticulous yet spontaneous—interacted seamlessly with Keep’s instrumental palette, moving gracefully between the moody introspection of jazz-inflected tracks and atmospheric layers of trip-hop-infused beats. Essential too was vocalist Moni, whose soulful, understated delivery provided warmth and melodic counterbalance to Mau’s sharp-edged flow. Tracks like ‘By Means of Beams’ showcase Mau and Moni trading verses over rolling rhythms, while the reflective melancholy of ‘I Still Love Albert Einstein’ creates a late-night intimacy. The closing track, ‘I Could Just Die,’ combines Saul’s restrained production, Keep’s delicate instrumentation, and Moni’s emotive vocals, leaving the album on a softly haunting note.
Some critics argued Earthling lacked the tighter cohesion of their contemporaries, suggesting Radar’s experimentation diluted the polish found on records like Blue Lines. Yet this very rawness provided Radar its distinctive personality. Others recognised the appeal immediately: Melody Maker called it “refreshingly diverse,” NME highlighted Mau’s unusual vocal flow. Commercially, Radar charted at #66 and quickly faded from mainstream view. As trip-hop’s prominence shifted, Earthling’s second album, Humandust, finished in 1997 fell into label limbo. It wouldn’t emerge until 2004 via a small French imprint, long after the scene had dispersed. Without major-label support and with a style too intricate for easy marketing, Earthling were set adrift. Mau later recorded under the name Soda-Pop, appearing on Télépopmusik’s hit ‘Breathe,’ while Tim Saul moved into film scores, and collaborating again with Geoff Barrow on projects like Stephanie McKay’s debut. Andy Keep shifted into academia, teaching music at Bath Spa University, quietly influencing new generations.
But Earthling weren’t entirely finished. In 2011, Earthling self-released Insomniac’s Ball on Bandcamp, a record I completely missed at the time. Listening now, it still sounds unmistakably them—perhaps more worn-in, yet grounded by the same creative tension. Their brief Bandcamp bio feels like the mission statement that was always there:
“We started this band to stand on stage in front of an audience of people who just seem to happen upon what’s happening… who have taught themselves how to be invisible.”
That modest, unobtrusive arrival mirrors exactly how Radar entered my life. It wasn’t set up as a defining statement, but it found me anyway. Three decades later, it brings back memories of combing record-store shelves or staying awake late at night, hoping something might spark a new sense of possibility.
Returning to Radar today feels comforting yet also a bit strange. Learning the rest of Earthling’s story satisfies some old curiosities, but inevitably peels away some of the mystique. Oddly enough, knowing more just reinforces why Radar mattered—and still does. It might look like a footnote in Bristol’s celebrated timeline, but I never saw it that way. If the city ever had a “golden age,” Radar sat off to the side determined to do its own thing and driven by instinct rather than commercial planning. It was powered by Mau’s restless creativity and equally supported by Tim Saul’s thoughtful arrangements and Andy Keep’s instrumental depth. A combination that was probably what first cast its spell on me, and why I still look out for albums and artists that deserve a second glance or signal boost.
Radar continues to carry an understated, cultish mystique. You’ll see scattered mentions of it in the music forums and comments sections where those in the know exchange recommendations. Even now, it quietly seeks out—and finds—its audience. And ultimately, that’s all it ever needed.
