John Cusack, drawing on all his previous experience playing comical losers who somehow end up scoring with hot chicks, is a co-producer of the High Fidelity soundtrack. In this case, "producer" simply means, "Guy who forks over big bucks and chooses what songs are used on the soundtrack," rather than twiddling knobs on a soundboard and getting stoned on hashish. Cusack and his co-producers take care to choose music that very specifically fits the themes, characters, and situations of the film. It's an ideal collection of songs for all us semi-geeky, under-sexed fellows who idolize Cusack, and sublimate untapped sexual energy in the form of esoteric rock lists, bitchy reviews, obscure album collections, and late-night rock-related trivial pursuits (such as: "Hey, man, did you know that Mike Nesmith's mom invented Liquid Paper?")

I was pleased to find that "You're Gonna Miss Me," the 13th Floor Elevators' 1966 semi-hit, was served as the leadoff cut on the soundtrack. The damn song still sounds as advanced as ever. No one's been able to come up with a better psychedelic gadget than that bubbly electric jug sound of theirs; its strange sonic emanations percolate up through the drip-drip-drip of the reverb guitar. And LSD-crazed Roky Erickson had a fire in his belly, set by some evil female arsonist. His voice is demonic, like a male Janis Joplin. He emits primal rock 'n' roll shrieks unequaled by few men or beasts, other than maybe John Lennon on that hellfire Plastic Ono Band album.

Arthur Lee's Love provides a potent combination of Motown soul and intelligent pure pop on "Always See Your Face." Lee's lyrics here make a straightforward and direct plea for help in a world that done him wrong. He forgoes the usual psychedelic imagery to assure an estranged lover that she'll never be able to forget his ugly mug.

Bob Dylan's last studio album, Time Out of Mind, was one of the best lovesick breakup albums he's ever released. Here, he continues in that same psychologically-shattered vein with "Most of the Time," a song about convincing yourself that the harpy you were just jilted by never actually existed.

And let's not forget those two Lou-less Velvets tunes. Get a load of the pathetic creatures that inhabit "Oh! Sweet Nothin'"-- the poor sods that keep getting dumped out into the street, and who "ain't got nothin' at all." And "Who Loves the Sun" is another lovably sappy sad-sack lament from the Velvet Underground's Loaded period, with Doug Yule doing his effete Lou Reed impersonations.

Laetitia Sadier's sexy French vocals are enticing as ever on "Lo Boob Oscillator," an extraordinary early Stereolab composition centered around a simple E-A change. The six minute- long track stretches itself out over six minutes, gradually evolving into an amazingly compelling rhythmic continuum-- possibly the musical equivalent to the kind of incredible sex the characters of High Fidelity can only dream about.

The Beta Band, a group I'm convinced is actually Gilbert O' Sullivan on Quaaludes fronting the remnants of the Stone Roses, articulate the soporific side effects of contemporary sexual frustration on "Dry the Rain." Laced with a little trip-hop and mesmerizing dobro slide guitar, the song begins at a trickling pace, then slowly and almost subliminally surges and builds in tiny increments, finally settling into the kind of pulsing repetition that turns you into a drooling, sexless vegetable.

And of course, there are a few songs here that simply should've been scrapped. The annoying Jewel-wannabe warbling of Sheila Nichols on "Fallen for You" belongs alongside the hellish croaking of Aimee Mann. Elvis Costello turns in one of his worst tracks, revealing the soft- hearted simp side of himself as he plods his way through the tuneless Bacharach-influenced "Shipbuilding." And Smog, current standard-bearer of indie rock impotence, yawns through some lugubrious funeral music on "Cold Blooded Old Times."

John Wesley Harding turns in a typical sorry-for-himself performance, in a song that sounds like every other one of his generic folky exercises in over-sensitive white-guy blandness. On "I'm Wrong about Everything," he capitulates to his ball-breaking mate. Someone must've advised him that his music would be more readily accepted by the kids if he learned and applied this all important commercial equation: bad folk-pop + repetitive neo-trip-hop beats = frighteningly sudden commercial acceptance.

Oh, and hey, let's not forget the "soul" portion of the soundtrack. "Let's Get It On," covered here by High Fidelity character Jack Black, is a male fantasy irrelevant to the sexual mores of today-- it's a too-direct plea for sexual satisfaction that hasn't worked on any woman since the sexually-liberated '70s. This naïve song overlooks the deception, manipulation and mind games required to get laid consistently in the contemporary High Fidelity society.

Overall, there's not that much to complain about on this one, though I'm sure there are a million other songs that would've been right for this soundtrack. Where's Iggy's "Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell"? The Standells' "Why Pick On Me"? The Rolling Stones' "Bitch"? Oh well, no matter. Wisecracking, obsessive music nerds with women troubles, this is undoubtedly the soundtrack for you. Wait for the movie to come out on video, though, so you don't have to sit in a movie theater next to 20 or 30 other self-conscious, lonely chumps with problematic body odor.

-Michael Sandlin