When's the last time you browsed the "Z" section of your favorite record store? If it exists at all, it's a lonely place, rarely visited by anyone but new members of the Cult of Zappa. It's a shame, then, that Hector Zazou has a higher profile in the US than Dillon, thereby consigning this album to the end of the record store earth. Yes, it's important for Zazou's fans to be able to find his material, but wouldn't most of them be willing to search for it? Or even ask for it if they couldn't find it? Dillon's name appears first on the European edition of the album, which has probably helped the record's sales -- after all, people actually browse the Ds. The point I'm trying to make here, if you haven't figured it out, is that 12 (Las Vegas is Cursed) deserves to be heard, even if it means forcing Zazou to take second billing.
Haven't heard of Zazou? He's a French composer/studio artist known for his skillful genre splicing experiments and his richly textured electronic soundscapes. His list of collaborators reads like a hipster's wet dream, and includes John Cale, Suzanne Vega, David Sylvian, Brendan Perry (Dead Can Dance), Lisa Germano, Mark Isham, B.J. Cole, Björk and the ubiquitous Bill Laswell. In other words, he has a knack for attracting gifted, eclectic performers -- and for dropping them into dark, hypnotic and often frightening worlds of sound.
Sandy Dillon is Zazou's new secret weapon. Her range of vocal "characters" is impressive; she channels the alien sweetness of Björk, the cold and clinical precision of Portishead's Beth Gibbons and the fractured sensuality of Tricky vocalist Martine, without even breaking a sweat. And that's not all; on several tracks, Dillon unleashes a terrifying Delta Blues rasp, howling and muttering like a woman possessed. It almost seems too easy to call her a female Tom Waits, but that's really what she sounds like -- it's a furious, throaty holler that'll put the fear of God in you. Each successive song offers a new, more extreme vocal variation that simply can't be Dillon...but is.
Describing 12 (Las Vegas is Cursed) is difficult. As earlier vocal comparisons suggest, the album probably falls closer to trip-hop than to any other genre -- although describing it as a trip-hop album is rather like calling a Lamborghini Diablo a machine for getting from place to place. This is a furious, orchestral, beat-driven, hell-spawned dervish of a trip-hop record that -- like Spinal Tap's infamous amps -- goes to eleven. And probably well beyond. Vicious, rough-edged drum loops, courtesy of Bill Rieflin and Pat Mastelotto, jackhammer their way into tracks like "Channel 12" and "Still Moving in Fear", while guitars, horns and wind instruments fill the cracks with frenetic squiggles of nervous energy. On "Still Moving in Fear", the flute and clarinet chase between the beats like the Carl Stalling soundtrack to an ultra-violent absurdist cartoon. "Sandwiched #1" and "Sandwiched #2" cast Dillon as the heroine of a skewed film noir collaboration between Bertolt Brecht and Barry Adamson. "God Believes in Showbiz" and "Accident of Love" offer a brooding cabaret lead-in to the disjointed bad-dream floorshow of "I Saw You Fall", which should please fans of Nick Cave, Tom Waits and J.G. Thirlwell. "Excuse Me (If I'm Sad)" offers a measure of resolution -- you'll imagine it playing as the credits roll -- and "Squawk #2" throws in a last-minute stab of noise, drenching archaic video game sound effects and seriously overdriven guitar noodling in a lethal dose of reverb.
It's exhausting. It's astonishing. It's loud. It's overwhelming. It's ugly. It's painful. It's beautiful. 12 is all of these and more -- an album that's as hideous as it is compelling. You might not get all the way through it on the first listen -- it takes time to build up the requisite amount of aural scar tissue.
Two things make 12 (Las Vegas is Cursed) more than an hour of self-indulgent, painful sound-clashing. This isn't just noise for noise's sake; there's a constant sense that everything you hear has been carefully engineered and painstakingly fitted, like a complex interactive sculpture. There's also a comfortable level of unreality -- like accomplished actors producing a highly experimental play, Zazou and Dillon never attempt to push their construct all the way into the real world. This clamorous, dark world of paranoia, anger and fear will dissolve at the flip of a switch -- and trust me, that's a relief.
If you're ready to face Zazou and Dillon's challenge, your next move is obvious: it's time to launch an expedition to the unchartered backwater of your local record store. With an experienced guide and plenty of provisions, I'm sure you'll make it back alive.
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