“Grime.” It sounds like some rogue idea born in the technology-addled brain of William Gibson: music composed on PlayStations and disseminated by pirate radio stations (which serve the same function in London as mix tapes do here). Raw UK, Rinse, Freeze FM: you can tune in the future on these stations. It’s the music of the ghetto, “estates,” “the ends,” the Sprawl.

“New York, you’re not ready for this,” said the 17-year-old British MC called Ears from the Rothko stage Friday night. He was there, along with rapper D Double E and producer Jammer, to promote “Run the Road,” a grime compilation released last November in the U.K. (679 Records) and last week in the United States (Vice). He’s hoping, of course, he’s wrong. He’s hoping America is ready for this.

The British press has anointed grime its answer to American hip-hop. And what a relief it is. After years of copycat MCs and derivative beats, Britain is celebrating its first original contribution to the form. “Make no mistake, the MCs on this compilation – Kano, D Double E, Riko, Sovereign, Dizzee, Wiley – are our equivalents of Rakim, Chuck D, Ice Cube, Nas, Jay-Z,” states an exuberant review in the Observer.

But the question remains: Is America ready for grime?

Judging by the response at Rothko: maybe, maybe not. A long warm-up set by a pair of DJs calling themselves Bangers & Mash acquainted the crowd with the music. People were eager enough, but a little baffled about how to respond. Two skinny white boys in ducktails and modish ties danced as if to Erasure. A group of girls, all outfitted in the latest Vice-store fashions, performed ironic, college-party dance moves and goaded each other on: “Dance off! Dance off!” A drunken man and woman who just met gave up entirely and, shrugging, started slow dancing to the maniacal beats and heavy bass.

Grime’s first ambassador was 2003 Mercury Prize winner Dizzee Rascal. “Boy in da Corner”(XL), his debut, took American electronic and underground hip-hop circles by storm in 2004. Dizzee succeeded not only because he’s the most talented representative of the fledgling genre, but also because he’s the least familiar. He provided the cleanest break with American hip-hop.

“Run the Road” makes the case for the entire scene. The lyrical content in the music is familiar – beefs, guns, mic skills, hardships, wealth, sex, ambition – but the language is filled with exotic Cockney street slang, words like “rudeboy” and “screwface.” If you can make them out. Choppy and abstracted, the lyrics sound like bop solos. But the talent is unmistakable, especially on tracks by Kano, Lady Sovereign, and grime founder Wiley.

What really sets grime apart, however, is the sound. That sound! Unlike American hip-hop, which grew out of a culture of sampling, grime eradicates all reference. It’s determinedly monoglot and self-contained. The closest American music comes is bits of Neptunes and Lil’ Jon production. Imagine the low end of the Clipse song “Grindin'” or Trick Daddy’s “Let’s Go” and the high-end astral-synth on Usher’s “Yeah!” mashed together in one song, and you begin to get the idea.

The real thing isn’t as poppy as these comparisons suggest. At once dense and spare, grime beats incorporate woozy sci-fi synth, tinny drum machines, paper-thin handclaps, man-up video-game sounds, and bass. How to describe the bass? It’s seismic. Heart fibrillating. Plate-tectonic. It’s so deep it’s almost imperceptible to the human ear, but its power washes your insides.

It’s a distinct sound, but it’s a – singular – sound. Compared to the stylistic swings and varied production of American hip-hop, it’s brashly one-dimensional. All 16 tracks on “Run the Road” could be made by the same producer.

The reason is simple and understandable: Having discovered a distinctive sound, nobody wants to be left behind. Mimicking the production of pioneers like Wiley and Dizzee is the best way to land a prominent place on their coattails. D Double E, Jammer, and Ears are all among the best prospects in this second wave. (Rumor has it D Double E may soon join Dizzee’s Dirtee Stank label.)

Dressed alike in Ecko, Adidas, and Triple 5 Soul sweat suits, the performers were the only ones at Rothko that looked like American rappers. The performances, however, were marked by contrasting styles. An old junglist now making his way in grime, D Double E is skeletal and his rhymes are equally bony. He stood perfectly still and closed his eyes while delivering them, looking like a schoolboy reciting Shakespeare from memory. It was about as interesting to watch. He punctuated his songs with his signature “ooh ooh” call, but strained to project it over the music.

Ears, on the other hand, was bursting with youthful energy. He bounced up and down like a child galloping on a stick pony whenever he rapped, and his verses were greeted by loud cheers from the crowd. Jammer played the role of hype man, shaking his dreads behind the turntables and occasionally taking the mic to deliver overheated Lil’ Jonstyle shouts. He made an annoying practice of stopping a song after a few verses, demanding more of the crowd, then starting it again.

If there’s a lesson to be drawn from Friday’s show, it’s that grime is best taken in small doses. By the time the set ended at 2:45 a.m., the crowd had been reduced by half, and I stumbled out of the club feeling as if I’d just endured a session of Clockwork Orange aversion training, exhausted and nauseated by the barrage of percussive rhymes and flatulent beats.

Grime may well have a future here, but we shouldn’t expect too much too soon. Acclimation takes time.