Dub Warriors

Macro Dub Infection relays a genre where nothing is true, and everything is permitted

At the millennium, if musical scholars convene to discuss the past hundred years, they'll be faced with the most turbulent and ebullient period in history. From Stravinsky's rhythmical advances in "The Rites of Spring" to jazz drummer Art Blakey's polyrhythmic timekeeping; from John Cage's purely random music to the apparently random, but actually mathematical compositions of Karlheinz Stockhausen; from reggae and dub to dance and rap; from country and R&B to rock 'n' roll; the aural world of the 20th century is a true golden age.

Critics are already attempting to provide a context for such stylistic diversity in this century's social and technological upheavals. But the postmodern sensibility, which has indeed transformed truths into vicissitudes, is misunderstood. Ours is a time not of anomie, but of mystery. With its slippery cut-and-paste aesthetic and obliteration of all musical rules, what genre better encapsulates the spirit of the era than dub? Today, even notoriously unfunky indie rockers are hearing dub's call.

Documenting the expeditions of the most far-flung of '90s stylistic adventurers is a daunting job, but Kevin Martin is almost machinelike in his obsession. As a critic for England's The Wire music magazine, Martin is a relentless chronicler of musical wandering. In his three bands (God, Ice, and Techno Animal), he's a fellow traveler. And as an album compiler, he has mapped the new terrain he and his cohorts have discovered on two albums of forward-thinking music. Isolationism gathered, defined, and celebrated minimalist soundscapers whose music targeted the subconscious. While important to fans of ambient's avant-garde, the record reflected the narrow focus of its title. But Macro Dub Infection, Volume One is epochal, spanning the gamut of this century's musical modes, fusing their disparate elements into a cohesive whole.

In "Scientist Meets the Ghost Captain" (the collection of quotes serving as Macro Dub's liner notes), Martin frames the history of dub, dance, rock, jazz, and modern classical music with the commentary of performers, artists, and scholars -- and his own editorial remarks. Linear time is disregarded, as quotes from this era and those past are cut and pasted into an informational collage. An epigram from 11th-century assassin Hassan i Sabbah -- one that has caught the eye of artistic rebels from Albert Camus to Jim Carroll -- here epitomizes Macro Dub's postmodern ethos: "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

Martin opens Macro Dub with the traditional-style dub of the Disciples' "The Struggle of Life." Reggae rhythms are bathed with echo while a crazed MC spouts a revolutionary diatribe. Among the more traditional artists on the compilation, including the Rootsman, Two Badcard, and Iration Steppas, the Disciples stand tall, but their song merely illustrates dub's beginnings, in effect highlighting how much more inventive a form it is today. Nowhere is dub's development more evident than on the track that follows; Spring Heel Jack's "Double Edge Dub" is one of the collection's sharpest tracks.

The echoed, new-age piano sounds that start the piece do not bode well, but when drums and bass kick in, "Double Edge Dub" is drenched in a caffeinated rush of sound that kicks up a fierce fight between beauty and the beat. Skittering, spasmodic blasts of snare and visceral bass booms batter the phased, synthetic strings and tinkly piano accompaniment into merciful submission. But the energy that infuses the "song" is completely outstripped by that of the duo 4-Hero.

One of the originators of jungle techno, 4-Hero has cooked up drum, bass, and sound-effect experiments for several years, but the lab explodes on "The Paranormal in 4 Form," an everything-goes number that gleefully fractures musical syntax. The song is driven by a battery of computers, keyboards, and effects, yet sounds completely unplanned as it ebbs and flows in a quiet and completely negligible manner. Then a heavily reverberated, slo-mo dub beat drops into the background, only to be silenced when the spaciness resumes. After a few minutes, once the listener has virtually sunken into a stupor, a lightning-fast break beat, like loping hip-hop drums shifting into super-overdrive, leaps in, phasing through myriad permutations. Disorienting pitch-shifted sounds dislodge any complacency the lulling intro may have established. Then the track transforms again with gentle, electric piano chordings over a rim-shot rhythm, finishing with an early '80s electrobeat reminiscent of Afrika Bambaataa.

Other than the Golden Palominos, Macro Dub's only American contribution is by the Chicago collective Tortoise. Beginning as a Slint-influenced math-rock group, Tortoise has turned against the white-boy indie dismissal of samplers -- shunned because of the American premium on live performance -- not only accepting technology, but using it as an integral part of its futuristic compositions.

"Goriri" is a remix of a Tortoise single, and the treatment it receives here (in the spirit of Rhythms, Resolutions, and Clusters, Tortoise's amazing deconstructionist remix of its entire first album) transforms it into a wholly new composition. Like 4-Hero, Tortoise approaches "Goriri" from a different mind-set than other Macro Dub sound-sculptors. By embracing the malleability of song form allowed by dub, rather than concerning itself with the end function (i.e., a finished composition), "Goriri," whose off-kilter starts and stops move from hyperquiet murmurings to extreme blasts of dub grooves, creates a new form that does not rely on traditional tempos. It's Tortoise's collective inner clock that matters, not the steady tap of metronomic time.

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