t’s almost too easy to conflate Wiley and Dizzee Rascal, both members of Roll Deep Crew (Dizzee formerly) (and, now, XL labelmates). Two boy geniuses, both pushing things forward for the resolutely, frustratingly underground grime scene, both MCs chatting about what’s really happening. It’s a useful comparison—insofar as Dizzee is actually most relevant to Wiley’s music as an oppositional figure. They may share a genre—though this is a red herring at best, given the huge sonic disparity between Boy In Da Corner and Treddin’ On Thin Ice—but their aesthetics are as contrasting as possible.

Like Dizzee, Wiley’s concerned with girls’n’rivalries’n’stress’n’life—and sometimes, he seems just as confused. "Special Girl" lists all the qualities of Wiley’s ideal girl: she understands life, she has brains, she’s ambitious, she provides sex on demand. Essentially, this is Alanis Morissette’s "21 Things I Want In A Lover" rewritten from a male perspective and with a better grasp of the irony of the situation. "Pick Ur Self Up" opens with a brilliantly hectoring answering machine message—"get up, get a fucking life, get a good fucking career, you’re not even motivated, get up off your fucking arse and do something"—before launching into a tirade which skirts around the line between pumped-up motivation speech and quasi-Thatcherite contempt for lazy scroungers. Unlike Dizzee, though, Wiley doesn’t seem bothered about being confused; his infamously monotone MCing isn’t as inexpressive as expected, but Wiley’s tone is rarely anything other than laconic and relaxed. Where Dizzee seems permanently on the verge of implosion or explosion, frustration sparking off every syllable, Wiley just takes the piss. "I’ve got so much on me plate, I’m sure I’m goin’ mad mate," he drawls in mock-emo tones on "Goin’ Mad"; self-help mantras slow the song to a halt whereupon, bored, Wiley launches into a thrilling assault of braggadocio instead. He’s not going mad; he’s sorted. And like any sorted bloke, his best tricks are his jokes (the layers of irony on "Special Girl" coupled with its swooning R&B backing, the chorus of "Pies", where he chants "there goes Wiley, there goes Wiley, he ate all the pies!" over delicate, elegant string phrasing).

Which is, ultimately, the most significant difference between our two heroes. Dizzee calls his music ‘grhyme’, and it’s a perfect moniker; Wiley shies away from the grime label, for equally good reason. Because if this is grime, it’s coffee table grime (not necessarily a negative): there are no scary beats, no juddering bass rumblings and no abrasive industrial sounds to be found here. This isn’t grimey, this is pristine. The disjointed urban Charleston of "Wot Do U Call It?" and the lackadaisical reggae strut of the title track are about as sonically uncomfortable as Treddin’ On Thin Ice gets. Crisp and sharp, Wiley’s production is abstract and otherworldly; at its most skeletal, it’s chamber music for the streets (the plucked strings swaying like lightbulbs over "I Was Lost", the glacial interludes which hint at unused ideas). This all makes Treddin’ On Thin Ice more commercial than Dizzee ever was—but paradoxically less so, as well. There’s very little force to the album, nothing which stamps its foot and demands attention; Wiley doesn’t possess Dizzee’s need to be heard. Because he’s sorted. So sorted that ultimately, the most striking thing about him is how normal he makes his music sound despite itself.