Before the Abercrombie and Fitch-endorsing LFO, there was LFO. And I'm not talking about Lyte Funky Ones. This LFO's acronym stood for Low Frequency Oscillators, but their parents knew them as Gez Varley and Mark Bell. Warp Records more than knew them; they loved them: Varley and Bell provided the fledging Sheffield-based label with their first hit, "LFO." When I first heard the song, it was on the British chart TV show "Top of the Pops," and my tiny television speakers couldn't handle the 5Hz basslines. Fascinated by the machine music that my second favorite machine couldn't deal with, I bought the single. The frequencies contained on the CD were low enough to be inaudible to ear, yet felt by the body.
Years later, after I became a socially inept hi-fi enthusiast, LFO's "Love is the Message" EP became my battle weapon. I'd approach sales assistants and ask to try out their new Kef speakers, handing them the disc and standing back. Neither the Kef speakers nor the upscale Finnish hi-fi could register the low frequency oscillations. I would tell the assistant that his equipment just wasn't up to snuff and demand that my disc be removed from the gussied-up Best Buy system. I was truly obnoxious. Not even the CIA's psy-ops speakers could register the quake elements of LFO tracks. I was truly hated.
After two albums (Frequencies and Advanced), Varley and Bell dissolved their partnership. I'd like to think that was due to their brain chemistries being altered by exposure to sub-audible sounds, rather than the usual "Behind the Music" ego-tripping. Whatever the cause, Bell went onto become a superstar producer, accepting checks and air kisses from Depeche Mode, Deltron 3030, Björk, and, rumor has it, Tenacious D. Varley, by contrast, stayed low to the ground, where he's been ever since. Regrettably, most people just haven't noticed.
Bayou Paradis, Varley's second album under his (assumed) birthname, is unlikely to get him much attention beyond his usual audience. And listening to the flawless Chain Reaction-esque techno of the album, I get the impression he cares not. Varley's motivation has always been the groove. His fixation reached an early peak under the G-Man guise with the minimalist classic "Quo Vadis?" and its accompanying album, 1996's Kushti. The record still sounds coolly alien, like the irresistible funk of the interstellar medium.
Varley came back down to Earth with 1997's Gez Varley Presents Tony Montana, displaying more of his allegiance to the fuzzy dub-techno of the Berlin-Detroit Chain Reaction axis. Not straying from that hazy brotherhood, Bayou Paradis belongs to the same clubbier faction of the alliance as his previous albums. In fact, Bayou Paradis superbly matches Maurizio's self-titled Chain Reaction disc. Both albums relish shimmering percussion tracks and blindingly reflective surface washes, whereas others in the alliance fuzz everything out in a glowering haze.
Bayou Paradis begins in this radiance with "Le Soleil," which appropriately shimmers and pulses with the immense energy of a solar flare. The title track mocks the primitive percussion sounds of LFO's debut album by placing them in a sumptuous new dustless environment. The doomy "Violator" contrasts well with the title track. (Is Varley deliberately referencing the Depeche Mode album of the same name? If so, is Varley chiding Bell for his chasing of major label cash?) The track is a darkwave stomper, easily gloomy enough for the most morbid Covenant fan. The following cut, "Gardelle," returns to the Maurizio camp, but adds far more clippy and current hi-hat and cymbal programming. Underneath, there's the familiar and beloved rim-shot rumble that harks back to acid house, recalling Phuture's "Acid Trax."
This record succeeds in its modest aims. Varley has created another set of classy club-ready tunes that techno DJs will justifiably drool over. The man doesn't try for anything else. But whatever anyone thinks about Varley's old studio partner, no one could excuse Mark Bell of not thinking beyond the boxes arrayed in front of him. Varley seems to hide behind his equipment, letting the machines suck up attention. Regardless, if Gez ever plans to make the artistic leap that many have always trusted he could, Bayou Paradis shows no sign of it.
