Take one alias-shifting DJ-programmer (Luke Vibert, a.k.a. Wagon Christ, a.k.a. Plug) given to bouts of minimalist sulk and lock him in a room with a legendary pedal-steel guitarist (B.J. Cole), and the results -- you know, this is the kind of the collaboration that you'd think should either bend the course of modern music or fall flat on its pretentious nose with a crisp snapping sound. But like most such projects, in flagrant defiance of expectation, this one simply lands on the grass somewhere in left-center: The tunes range wildly from grinning, chill-intensive genius to stilted and joyless avant-house.
We are quite convinced that on instrumental (or mostly instrumental) CDs, sequence programming can be a subtle instrument of psychological warfare. It can coax the let-it-play listener into one mood or slightly distracted associative mental fugue in one moment and pitilessly yank that vibe away and replace it with something entirely different the next -- joy to despair, introspection to party with the world, gloom to ecstasy, etc., etc., etc. This is either what you buy CDs for or the reason you leave some on the windowsill, unplayed for months, years, little eternities. Flow matters by its presence or absence, but in either case, you notice.
You get a lot of that here.
Consider the bouncy effervescence of "Swing Lite -- Alright," combining a signature Cole pedal-steel boing intro, a Crest-smile pop-jazz hook and throaty Vibert-supplied Charles Earland-isms underneath a series of bashful Cole solos. In about three and a half minutes, the pair craft a squeaky-clean little warped psuedo-country, pop-lounge pastry, neatly setting a tone and rhythm for the rest of the CD. Until the very next tune, "Dischordzilla," with its shoe-gazing synth grunting and minor-chord violin accompaniment, deep sixes the vibe entirely, and you're wondering whether the rest of this CD is going to be as disjointed and petulant. And so it goes.
For my admission fee, the disc hits its stride around track 7, with the gorgeous "This Stuff Is Really Fresh," which just about matches Vibert's programming and Cole's elastic pedal steeling perfectly. One is all tone and mechanical luster, the other breathing and organic -- different parts of the same beast. For us, this is really where this collaboration sounded like a single entity. Vibert gives in to some twisted sampling; Cole lets fly some overdriven guitar soloing. On its heels comes "Cheng Phooey," featuring some of Vibert's best programming and an icy, beautifully understated lead line supplied by Cole, suggesting both Oriental and Indian harmonic sympathies. Vibert evolves his lines and tonalities underneath Cole's lonesome melody, until the whole thing dissolves into a spinning mirror ball of tone and texture.
And then comes the peculiar "Baby Steps," which finds Vibert laying a series of chordal figures underneath a sampled, looped and otherwise twisted-beyond-recognition vocal performance by Holly Penfield about, well, baby steps. Cole lies back here, adding some pedal swells in the background, and lets Vibert play this strangely joyful and almost dadaist epic out to a none-too-hurried conclusion. The tune is vaguely reminiscent of something you might have heard from Kate Bush, had she not become well-known, or Jane Siberry, who is still (and lamentably) not well-known.
For our tastes, Vibert's near obsession with lounge and skittish, '60s-ish grooves wears a tad thin by the time all is said and done, and there's too much throwaway on this CD to make it a "buy now, kill if you must" investment. But when it works, it's a beauteous thing. If these guys work together again and put some of the best lessons of this CD to work, the follow-up will be awesome.
David Kirby | February 15, 2000
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