Few of techno's names are as feted-- and rightly so-- as Basic Channel. The Berlin duo (Mark Ernestus and Moritz Von Oswald) and its eponymous label were among the earliest German outfits to interface with Detroit techno's first generation; its fame came from steadily whittling down house and techno to unprecedented degrees of minimalism while making explicit the links between techno and dub reggae. In recent years, Ernestus and Von Oswald have largely backed away from techno, turning their attentions to reissues of classic dub and a pair of new projects, Rhythm & Sound and Burial Mix, that approximate the sound of vintage dub reggae via drum machines, cool analog synths (or their virtual counterparts), and extensive effects. Each effort features vocal performances from singers like Paul St. Hilaire (aka Tikiman), Cornel Campbell, and the Chosen Brothers, who croon and mutter, alternatingly devotional and simply stoned, as though dancehall and gun talk never happened. It is, without a doubt, a kind of purist's music, approaching every cut as though trying to fashion, once and for all, the Ideal Dub Side; it's also all pretty great, and occasionally exquisite. But the sheer volume of the stuff, every record a version of a version of a variation, can feel like a glut.
So a remix compendium could have been tedious business; Rhythm & Sound have basically been remixing themselves from the beginning. Instead, See Mi Yah Remixes, featuring reworks of a number of tracks originally released on 7" in 2005 and later compiled as See Mi Yah, is deliciously eccentric: At once an homage to Basic Channel's dubwise legacy and a repudiation of reflexive brow-furrowing, it's also, in part, a welcome return to the dance floor.
Unsurprisingly, the most predictable versions come from within the Basic Channel camp itself-- although in no way should "predictable" be read pejoratively. Vainqueur, one of Basic Channel sublabel Chain Reaction's best artists, breaks a half-decade's silence with the blissful lapping of digital whitecaps laid over a pulse so steady it seems to come from the earth's core itself-- in other words, exactly what he's always done, and praise Jah for it. Chain Reaction artists Substance and Hallucinator-- both also mostly inactive for years-- and Basic Channel themselves offer more traditionally reggaefied versions; all ping and crackle and gently sloping skank, this is reggae from an ambient junkie's perspective, the sound of stretching out and wrapping yourself in a cocoon of filtered delay. Their tricks are dead simple, but you won't find music produced more subtly or generously.
Somewhat inexplicably, Francois K. breaks the unity of what otherwise would have been the year's best comedown albums with a drum'n'bass roller; I think this is what they call "liquid" d'n'b, but the effect is about as soothing as ice cubes thrust down your collar. Abandoning the 4/4 (or the 2/4) feels like an unnecessary provocation-- especially coming from a disco and house legend. And maybe he meant it as a provocation, or at least a reminder that dub isn't only music for stoners. But the dry, crisp breakbeats cut against the swirly, sodden motion of the rest of the song in such a way that doesn't feel so much schizo as merely arbitrary.
Minimal techno darlings Sleeparchive and Vladislav Delay both turn in serviceable, if uncertain, cuts: Sleeparchive's sounds like he's searching for a way to drape dub's ample flesh over his dessicated, skeletal rhythms, and Delay's employs a breaks-based two-step pattern that's just sort of inexplicable. But these take-'em-or-leave-'em moments are more than made up for by the comp's three most outré offerings, all of which count among 2006's best singles. Soundstream, aka Smith 'n Hack's Soundhack, harnesses a bevy of string vamps and horn stabs to turn "Free For All" into a gently controlled free-for-all of disco soul; if all deep house were this good, the West Coast would be a much better place to live.
Ricardo Villalobos goes predictably bonkers with his contribution, spinning bleating woodwinds, organ wheeze and rubberized drums into a dew-flecked web that catches Ras Donovan's alto croon (and baritone gibberish) like so many iridescent flies, the flicker of their wings slowing as the inevitable approaches. And Carl Craig trumps everyone with "Poor People Must Work". On the one hand it's simply Craig doing what he does best, stretching a riff to inifinity as though filters were invented yesterday and were still believed infallible enough to serve as a sky-bridge to Mars. Just as on his remixes of Delia & Gavin's "Relevee" and Theo Parrish's "Falling Up", those long. Chords. Just. Keep. Churning. But it's what he does with Bobbo Shanti's vocals that's so mindblowing, chopping them down to a truncated stutter and letting them strobe against the time, spitting and gasping and throwing sparks. Reset within the context of Craig's frantic rave-up, lines like "There is no place to sleep/ There is nothing to eat" lose the trappings of class solidarity and seem to speak instead to the frazzled clubbers of the neverending weekend-- proof that Rhythm & Sound's raw material proves more malleable than perhaps even the ascetic Basic Channelers might have guessed.
