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Rarely has
a band been as appropriately named as Stereolab. Rooted in sixties
hi-fi lingo, suggestive of sonic experimentation, the name conjures
up futures past, and a resolutely, unabashedly, modernist sensibility.
Thankfully, the 'lab never fails to deliver on this premise,
and has secured a place as one of the signature groups of the
1990s. Led by co-composers Tim Gane and Laetetia Sadier, the
"groop" has spent the decade constructing a singular vision
of popular music propelled by pulsing rhythmic repetition, ethereal
vocal harmonies, and a battery of analog synthesizers. Like
many groups in these retro-fueled times, Stereolab draws inspiration
from the sounds of the 1960s, using the unfairly-maligned pop
of figures such as Esquivel, Burt Bacharach, and Moog pioneers
Perrey and Kingsley, as well the more avant-garde aesthetics
of the Velvet Underground and Can, to build a constructivist
sound which seeks to blur the boundaries of pop, rock, and more
experimental forms. On the cusp of a new decade/century/millenium,
their latest album effectively continues applies these principles,
adding another level of innovation to their trademark melange
of late-century sound.
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On Cobra
and Phases Group Play Voltage in the Milky Night, the group's
seventh full-length album, Stereolab continues its usual aural
explorations with typically brilliant results. Their music is
best called "avant pop," in its ability to forge sounds which
are new, reassuring, transcendental, disturbing, and resolutely
sincere. However, those looking for big surprises or big leaps,
like the reviewer of a few years ago who remarked that nobody
needs more than two Stereolab albums (any two will do), will
have to wait, or simply find a new group. Though they persist
as the premier advocates for innovative pop, Stereolab works
through careful exploration and exploitation of a relatively
small range of rhythm and texture, crafting little surprises,
in a kind of stealth mode: a long revolution, if you will.
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Continuing
the glossy, chamber-pop sound of 1997's Dots and Loops,
but sans its drum 'n' bass excursions, the group again crafts
the minimalist soundscapes of Gane and Sadier, emphasizing warm,
piquant analog keyboards and the bouncy vocal harmonies of Sadier
and Mary Hansen, embellished by the brass arrangements of regular
contributor (and sixties pop junkie) Sean O'Hagan, and the deceptively
restrained sheen of producers John McEntire and Jim O'Rourke.
Stereolab's journey from the lo-fi fuzz of early 90s singles
and albums like Peng! and Transient Random Noise Bursts
With Random Announcements to the clean soundscapes of Dots
and Loops and Cobra and Phases is in many ways archetypal
of the decade's most interesting music: i.e., away from guitars
and "rock" and toward keyboards and "pop." But rather than "progress,"
in Stereolab's case it should be thought of as a continuing
evolution. Their sound is getting "glossier," in some respects,
but only as another stage in their oeuvre; their innovation
and adventure have never wavered. They've engaged with everything
from shoegazing noise to alterna-pop to bossa nova to jungle
with equal degrees of success. Cobra and Phases marks
another significant contribution to this unending experimentation.
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New collaborator
and co-producer Jim O'Rourke crafts the lion's share of new
wrinkles on this album, delivering expansive mixes which are
simultaneously spartan and rich, clean and rough, warm and edgy;
the collage of the Beatles' "Revolution 9" seems an obvious
influence on several of his tracks, reinforcing the ideal of
modernist pop. The album begins somewhat conventionally (conventionally
for Stereolab, that is). But after a few familiar-sounding opening
tracks (including the cannily titled "Blips Drips and Trips,"
which could as well have been "Stereolab for Dummies"), along
comes "Italian
Shoes Continuum," marking a new stage for their brand of
dream-pop, with its stop-and-go alternating vocal phrases and
playful industrial noises which collapse on themselves and reemerge
about halfway through into a driving, wah-wah riff. Similarly,
"Puncture
in the Radak Permutation" sounds familiar enough at first,
but soon reveals new textures of percussion, keyboard, and voice,
exploiting both the middle frequencies and the band's passion
for minimalism to a new level; check out the vocoder halfway
through, and the beautiful string arrangement that drops into
the mix out of nowhere in the last minute. Another of O'Rourke's
mixes, perhaps the most beautiful track of the CD, "The
Emergency Kisses," puts Sadier's French murmuring front
and center of an open, breezy, keyboard-focused 60s-film sound,
featuring a harpsichord, jazz guitar, quiet marimba, reversed
organ, and a skillfully compressed fadeout.
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Of course,
no Stereolab album would be complete without an extended sonic
exploration somewhere around track eleven. Unlike Dots and
Loops' "Refractions in the Plastic Pulse," which shifted
gears like a Broadway medley over its twenty minutes, this album's
"Blue
Milk" goes back to the basics, discovering the limited variations
of one pulsing groove, thus letting the textures of the sounds
carry the track rather than any notion of melody. The result
is pure transcendence, and the nearest studio-recorded analog
of one of the band's justifiably famous live jams (though a
lot quieter!).
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Cobra
and Phases' expansive-yet-austere minimalism may disappoint
those listeners who cling to the melodic pop of Mars Audiac
Quintet and Emperor Tomato Ketchup; there is no "Ping Pong"
or "Cybele's Reverie" here to stick to your brain. In contrast,
Cobra and Phases sees the band continue a journey forwards
and full-circle. Its many rewards are in terms of pure sound:
clean percussion; shimmery, understated guitars, extra-delicious
vocal harmonies; warm brass; colorful keyboards; and the odd
burble and crash, all delivered with an ear to the groove. Stereolab's
long revolution continues, and I hope it never ends.
Derek
Kompare
Texas Christian University
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