In Dan Snaith’s Daphni project, taste typically outpaces narrative. Off-kilter loops do most of the talking; a track can be “about” nothing more than what it does to a room. This is music Snaith makes primarily to play in his DJ sets, with “slower, weirder” cuts reserved for the right club. That approach came to a peak on his last full-length, Cherry. Each song was an eclectic singularity: precise, glassy, poignant, and cool as hell. Cherry unveiled like a mood overture: Every winding synth line, chopped vocal shard, and sudden genre swerve felt like a distinct scene—time-traveling without losing a grip on the floor.
On Butterfly, Snaith’s fifth album under the moniker, the Daphni project is still chiefly identified with his proclivities behind the decks. But Butterfly, unlike Cherry, promises technicolor dancefloor certainty, the kind of clean, stadium-ready churn that’s become the default for contemporary DJs who sell the underground as a feeling. Where he might’ve previously snuck in weirder cuts like “Cloudy” or “Ye Ye” for discerning clubgoers, here he trades in his cool chip for mainstream appeal. The problem with Butterfly isn’t that it’s functional. It’s that its function feels pre-determined: The record moves like a sales pitch for what a Daphni album can cover in 2026, an immaculate presentation and walk-through of dance-music convention, rather than an unfolding journey where the destination remains unknown even to its creator.
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Butterfly is Daphni’s attempt at serving overground house with an edgier toolkit: sub-heavy four-on-the-floor with flickers of acid, dub, and jazz. “Waiting So Long” barrels along at a techno-leaning tempo while sticking to disco-house basics—four-on-the-floor, clean bass, and a vocal sample positioned like it’s supposed to be the emotional hinge. The track introduces its big idea and cashes it in immediately, which is why it falls flat: The hook is dropped in, looped, and left mostly unchanged. Then it hard-cuts into “Napoleon’s Rock,” a sub‑minute jazz interlude that briefly interrupts the album’s 4/4 monoculture but refuses to act like a real pivot. There’s no meaningful handoff—no mood recalibration—just a quick palate wipe that clears the tongue without affecting the appetite. So when “Good Night Baby” arrives with its springy, bright arpeggios and high-gloss positivity, it doesn’t read as contrast; it scans as a reset to the record’s marketability, engineered for video clips and crowd shots. The feeling isn’t released—it’s the crowded-room annoyance of a tech bro squeezing past and spilling a drink all over me.
Butterfly’s club ecology is immediate: Most of the album lives around that mid‑130s churn where mixing is effortless and momentum is guaranteed. “Clap Your Hands” and “Hang” arrive as efficient engines—tight percussion, bright surfaces, big-room pacing; tracks that behave like they’ve already rehearsed their lighting cues. “Goldie” follows with a harder face—metallic, blunt, built around weight—and the title nods toward a UK lineage of rhythmic menace and soundsystem culture. But even here, Butterfly treats reference like a wardrobe: a darker texture put on for a scene, then swapped out before it can stain the record’s picturesque pastures.
