By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Then, by '96 or '97, the industry interceded in America, which annoyed people further. Christened "electronica" by marketing zealots, techno was shoved out there to eradicate goopy pop, guitar rock, and everything else. So by '98, when nothing like that had even remotely taken shape, electronica began to be discussed as a failureeven with Prodigy and the Chemical Brothers and Fatboy Slim all platinum. A parallel universe of electronic pop stretching from Rob Zombie to Air to D.J. Shadow had sprung up, obliviously establishing fleeting and lasting allegiances to guitar conceptualism or orchestral grandiosity or "' techno itself. These days, the field lopes along, hardly in any sort of panic or failing aesthetic health, proving that older artists who embraced itpeople like U2 and David Bowie and Garbage and Björkwere not, for once, merely jumping on the hoopla bandwagon, but rather trying to patch into the thing that techno-haters always missed: reality.
Techno nowadays isn't devising anyone's new rocket ships, exactly, or foreign-attack missiles. It's doing something better: offering a mind- bogglingly rich variety of recording pleasures that are crusty, experimental, cheesy, suave. Some of them, you might even hear on the radio. At the beginning of "Style," a track that ends The Middle of Nowhere, the ravishing new album from England's veteran brother duo Orbital, one of those nerdy old voices long familiar to house and techno fans turns up. "Let's listen to some of the effects you can produce with a stylophone," the guy offers in an official tone equally suitable for some 1956 How To Train Your Dog LP. "Just by flicking a switch, you can get a vibrato or tremolo effect," he continues, lightly amazed by the scientific-technological possibility of his hot new musical gadget. Orbital then pounce out of their antique spoken-word prelude into one of their contemporary glosses on '90s technosoftened in places, per the current vogue, with clarified statements of those shiftingly cinematic rhythms trip-hop bestowed on the game. Bagpipes (of course) parade around. Orbital end the piece with a hushed female voice confessing how she's "aching for you" a haunting reference, in this context, to traditional pop records from the Beatles to Backstreet.
Astralwerks/XL Recordings ††
Abductions and Reconstructions
Eighteenth Street Lounge Music
Memory of pre-microchip kicks shows up, too, in Todd Terry's "Let It Ride," the high point on the veteran New York dancemaker and remix honcho's Resolutions. The discernible sonic body of a really fizzy pop song is twisted, as if made of aluminum foil, and encouraged to dominate the middle of a slamming house track. Like in so much dance music conceptually born of hip-hop, contrast rules: The pop tune, which seems to have swung to Earth from Pluto, is sweetly harmonic and precocious, while the house track it vies with is bass-toned and thudding, even thick. The effect is like seriously organized Osmonds bent on commandeering a jeep.
The vibe on "Red Alert," the single from Remedy, the debut of Brixton duo Basement Jaxx, is post-cool happinessthe careful kind of swing-like delirium that has replaced grunge and hip-hop misery on the radio. Like Soul II Soul without the gravity, almost. The track, wherein an all-purpose diva advises against panic and hypes music that "keeps on playin' on and on," is the brand of house that, though technologically astute, aims to come off like pre-techno funk played in real time with traditional instruments. Nonetheless, Basement Jaxx rely on their favored ploy of slipping noises or loose sound effects above their rhythms, up where the listener might expect riffs or more developed hooks.
In contrast, the vibe on Gus Gus's "Polyesterday," one of the standout remixes on Abductions and Reconstructions, a collection by D.C. partnership Thievery Corporation, isn't vibe at all; it's mood. Dub-crazy, quietly insinuating, fond of isolating only a few lyrics and then trancing out over them as the repetitions gather force and mysteriousness, the track is dance music Sade would understand. As the Gus Gus singer keeps disappearing into and reappearing out of a reverb cloud of his own voicing, the reconfigured music subtly beeps and vamps and spins around, creating a seductive world of junk reimagined as luxury, secondhand rayon behaving like finest silk.