On Clay, Matthew Herbert and Momoko Gill have delivered an electronica record that feels as tactile and human as it does experimental. It’s club music in form, but soul in spirit, with Gill’s voice floating featherlight at the centre of every track as she delivers tender, plaintive melodies. She sounds effortlessly classy as Herbert gives her acres of space to shine, stripping the production to its barest, most essential parts, evoking calm water one moment and a smoky, subterranean groove the next. There’s no thumping four-on-the-floor here, or reliance on familiar Rhodes pianos. Instead Herbert populates these tracks with textures that sound like bubbles popping, as cavernous groans rumble and tambourines shake beneath Gill’s harmonies.

This is music for cool, intimate spaces rather than crowded, strobe-lit clubs, with twinkling piano notes and groove-laden warmth. Gill’s voice is the angelic heart of Clay, flickering between soft, plaintive longing and airy, multi-layered harmonies, her high-register vocals forming an ethereal choir. Herbert knows when to disappear, letting Gill’s voice dominate, and exactly when to surround her with unexpected sounds that lend emotional shape. Clay is the perfect meeting of two artists: a veteran sound designer reimagining what electronic music can be, and an emerging voice whose softness carries astonishing emotional weight, and together they’ve built an exquisite soul record within the skeleton of house music. It’s at once groovy and murky, experimental and accessible, not shouting for attention but drawing you in quietly and inviting you to lean closer to catch the most delicate inflections. Clay sits in a curious musical space between house and soul, and it’s all the more compelling for it. A quietly stunning collaboration that’s well worth your time.