CD Reviews

REMARC
Unreleased Dubs: 94–96
(Planet Mu)

Buried under the avalanche of British press for the slicker-than-your-average antics of L.T.J. Bukem and Goldie's prog-hop theatrics back in the day, Remarc (né Mark Forester) is one of jungle's true unknown soldiers. Wielding the "Amen" break (the neck-snapping, snare-heavy drum sample from gospel group the Winstons' "Amen, My Brother") like a six-shooter, Remarc forced dancers to hold on for their lives, through unbearably funky and insanely convoluted rides. Unreleased Dubs is the second collection in as many years on IDM lightweight µ-Ziq's Planet Mu Records. (The irony of IDM nerds returning like prodigal sons to the jungle they spent most of the '90s mocking is cheap but delicious.) Not as solid as 2003's Sound Murderer (some things, like the ugly stop-start anti-groove and rubber-band bass line of "Suicidal," were meant to remain unreleased), the best tracks here are still thrilling testaments to the golden moment when rave met hip-hop and dance hall. Gunshot-snares rumble, roll, duck, and dive. Bass lines trundle like Mack trucks through clown-car pileups of rude boys, g-funk synths, R&B divas, sirens, disco strings, and rappers grabbing their dicks. The highlight is actually the atypical "Ricky (Remarc VIP Mix)," a "panic song" collaboration with Lewi Cifer that samples Boyz N the Hood and some truly distressing screams over drums like hammers on sheet metal and a bass line that feels like being sucked through a wind tunnel. "Drum and bass" continues on, zombielike, through a tedious living death of syncopated trance, but Remarc's amphetamine-addled vision of an alternate hip-hop (or deranged dance hall) remains a future that still should have been. JESS HARVELL

FENNESZ
Venice
(Touch, U.K.)

The shoe-gaze semigenre that Kevin Shields inadvertently started with My Bloody Valentine—call it "bliss out"—has become an active continuum, thanks in large part to electronic musicians who provide both new blood and a real feel for Shields' unsettling chaos. Austrian performer Fennesz has moved close to the top of that heap on recent albums and side projects, and Venice is a striking summary of his work. The phased guitar haze of bliss out switches over to shimmering, slippery texture here, disconnected from more conventional methods of rocking out. "Rivers of Sand" stumbles woozily through a desert storm in a diamond mine, broken up by miniature percussion fills. The squelchy "Chateau Rouge" and clattering, crackling, metallically staticky "The Other Face" keep Venice from being run-of-the-mill ambient, while the disc's blurriness prevents it from being your average IDM record. Sometimes Fennesz keeps his guitars straightforward, as on the surging, floating "Circassian" or the reflective "Laguna." There's even a nod to early-'90s blissout-plus-beats pioneers Seefeel on the droning "City of Light." Meanwhile, Fennesz's recent collaborative work with David Sylvian continues on "Transit," the latter's elegant voice contrasting strongly with the crumbling, heavily distorted arrangement. NED RAGGETT

THE OWLS
Our Hopes and Dreams
(Magic Marker)

Scale is why the inside of a cathedral is bigger than the Grand Canyon and a Georgia O'Keeffe canvas is wider than the sky. The human body is art's standard of measurement, its yardstick—and when the unit is a human breath, a pop song can sound monumental as well. The boy-gal vocals on the Owls' debut CD have some of the somatic ebb-and-flow of fellow Minnesotans Low even on the more upbeat numbers: harmonies that inflate the songs' verses with the breaths of a body at rest and languid chorus refrains that release them like a lung's capacity slowly exhausting itself. It's a rhythm that feels right, to where it takes a few listens to discover the equally subtle arranging intelligence beyond the narcotic pull of the album's melodies. Piano, strings, and Mellotron lurk beneath "Forever Changing" (Sgt. Pepper–esque, and note the title's nod to Love), while "Baby Boy" evokes the multitrack alchemy of the Zombies' Odessey and Oracle, garnished with two pianos (one in tune, the other exquisitely not), well-placed tympani, and bells. Unlike a lot of indie-pop kitchen sinkery, you're left hearing the songs in your head instead of the band's cool gear, which makes Our Hopes and Dreams—25 minutes, eight modest songs, probably $1,000 of studio time—deeper and broader than albums that sound twice its size. J. NIIMI

VARIOUS ARTISTS
Kill Bill Vol. 2
(Maverick)

Listening to a soundtrack before you see the film is a little like reading Hamlet before seeing it performed onstage: You think you know what you're in for, but you really don't. No matter, since KB2 is a much stronger album than KB1, which relied a bit too heavily on the participation of the RZA and the sexy pathos of Nancy Sinatra's "Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down)." As demonstrated by previous soundtracks, Quentin Tarantino has an uncommon gift for reviving semi-iconic music and endowing it with new pop potency. The Pulp Fiction mix was ostensibly a peek at the director's own record collection, but say what you will about Q.T.'s self-absorption: What that album did for "Misirlou" and "You Never Can Tell"—crafting scenes that stuck like glue to the songs without the style-over-substance bullshit of bad music videos—was truly remarkable. This time around, Tarantino makes a few surprising choices, like eschewing the '60s and '70s for the more recent past: Shivaree's underrated 1999 single "Goodnight Moon," whose cheerfully sinister lyrics match Q's sense of humor to a T. After a rich fog of flamenco, Ennio Morricone, and Johnny Cash, the album's other great surprise emerges: Malcolm McLaren's "About Her," a gentle, euphoric electroscape that trounces all remaining expectations of what a Tarantino soundtrack should be. Unless the Bride has an epic acid trip midfilm, there's no way to predict what kind of scene this beautiful track corresponds to—and that's just the way I (and the director) like it. NEAL SCHINDLER