Three good comps.
NOBODY SEEMS to appreciate compilation albums anymore. In an age of soundbites, digital downloads and quick-fix hits, hardly anyone puts much effort into assembling them. At best, various-artist anthologies are schizophrenic and inconsistent; at their worst, they amass uninspired, cutting-room flotsam into tossed-off, marginal hodgepodges aimed at anal-retentive trainspotters. And so, for every ancient milestone like Nuggets, Flex Your Head or No New York, the used bins overflow with dozens of crappy live collections and obvious tributes to limp, not-so-classic rockers.
The oft-neglected point of a sampler is to economically expose an audience to first-rate acts that complement one another like favorites on a well-paced mix tape. A few familiar names should help attract listeners to the more obscure participants while a cohesive, logical theme, genre or scene should tie everything together. It's a simple idea, really.
Adhering to that philosophy, Painted Black is a conceptual triumph. Ten electronic and avant-garde icons unsentimentally dismantle the same near-sacred song. The catch is that the Stones' hoary "Paint It Black" retains virtually none of its signature lyrics or faux-Eastern melody. Fleeting, rearranged shards periodically surface, albeit blunted beyond recognition and copyright law. The German duo Troum gently and slowly smothers the composition, burying the 60s in a synthetic funeral of cathedral-worthy echo. Contrastingly, Japanese freakout co-op Acid Mothers Temple joyously clutter their version with guttural throat singing and dayglo lunacy. In certain respects, Painted Black demands a reference point. At least one uptempo, faithful interpretation?Mieskuoro Huutajat's a cappella Finnish football cheer doesn't count?would nicely replace some of the clinical laptop improvisations. But a shot of reverent angst might also ruin the holistic quality of this meditative CD, which could pass for a single band's entrancing, cubist suite based on Jagger/Richards' gastric rumblings.
Tryptaphonic Mind Explosion attempts to open "audio portals to hyperdimensional soundspace." Nodding to Altamont-style ugliness far more than it evokes the Summer of Love, its neo-psychedelic sprawl almost fulfills such lofty ambitions. AMT once again revel in their bamboo-commune shtick; North Carolina's Robot Vs. Rabbit announce themselves with several bracing minutes of chainsaw blare; New Escapade glide by on soothing, hissing post-apocalyptic dust clouds; and Massachusetts' At The Eat stagger like reformed hippies wizened by decades of dope withdrawal and punk. Even the disappointments don't detract much from this way-out head trip.
Both of the above discs contain music by Scandinavian hypnotists Circle, whose surgical guitars gnash ceaselessly on Tryptaphonic and invert "Paint It Black" into a sleek, cold processional. But the group burns brightest on First Steps' "Scotch," in which nagging, twangy riffs and a white-noise wah-wah drill holes into a 20-ton, Bonham-funk groove. The compendium itself occasionally sinks in its own eclecticism (Audiac's continental dance candy, Kangaroo Moon's quirked-out pop). More often, though, it exposes the unlikely links between diverse, uncompromising talents. In this context, the hardass glare of Dälek (peerless hiphop assassins from Newark) makes perfect sense alongside the equally terrific Nista Nije Nista (whimsical girls from Vienna using sewing machines as instruments). And don't miss Irmler's solo slabs of concrete keyboards, plus the most charged Faust number in years.
Two decades from now, nobody will cite Painted Black, Tryptaphonic Mind Explosion or Klangbad: First Steps as incomparable works of genius. Yet all three remain minor miracles despite their flaws?given the self-conscious, lackluster state of both mainstream and independent entertainment, it's a real pleasure to discover such smartly sequenced, lovingly constructed thrill rides through the international, experimental underground. Here's to digging deep within those truly overlooked nooks.