Driving home from work today, I passed some guy wearing no shirt that was driving a new, black- leather interior Mercedes sedan. Something about that just didn't feel right. I expect the shirtless guys in '83 Jeeps with airbrushed birds of prey on the hoods. I expect shirtless guys in the Volkswagen Things. I wanted to follow the guy to see if he was heading for a dry cleaner's or a pool. Instead I tried to take my mind off things by reviewing a CD. I popped in Pitchshifter's new LP, www.pitchshifter.com.

Driving home to Pitchshifter, I was assaulted by heavy drum-n-bass beats shellaced with layers of powersanding metal guitars and a snotty singer. Something about that just didn't feel right. There must be some specific genome in me that keeps me from enjoying the fusion of drum-n-bass and heavy metal. The genome is probably right down from the DNA sequence that keeps me from understanding shirtless men in Mercedes. It's just that in the process of fusion, integral parts of both parent genres is lost. Let's say a world- class rhythmic gymnast breeds with a pizza- chef who bakes a pie to die for. They expect a prodigy to pop out who can twirl a five- foot ribbon around with tear- bringing grace and finish off the performance by baking up an orgasmic 16" garlic and pepperoni. However, the poor kid just ends up having the uncanny ability to toss pizza dough in the air, pirouette, and catch the saucerous glob with supple ease. The kid ends up making a living performing deft tosses in the front window of a Carmel, Indiana Pizza Inn.

The beats of Pitchshifter are compromised by the standard verse- chorus- verse metal songwriting formula, whereas in their primal drum-n-bass form, they wander free. At their best they mimic the street boombox thump of Roni Size, but lose the thrill without the jazz- like structure jungle typically follows.

The guitar's full force is restricted by digital over- manipulation. This album reeks of Pro-Tools production. Guitars interrupt with harsh edges and audible editing. Whatever texture and color that may typically result from the instrument is bleached out with effects and pedals in the recording. The end result is cold, concrete, and over-masculine.

www.pitchshifter.com is too mired in 1997. In twenty years, you'll be able to pick up this CD and know its exact birthdate (kind of like those Dateline NBC Timeline Quizzes). The album's title is kitchy zeitgiest vernacular. The techno/ dance beats of Filter have been replaced with the flavor- of- the- month- in- the- year- electronica- broke jungle thumps. But it's still essentially the same homogenous goop. The entire project has an air of missed manipulation that jarringly points the listener towards the construction methods. It's similar to bad editing in film-- jump cuts, actors looking into the camera, etc. that throw the viewer from the imaginary world of cinema and remind them that they're just watching some piss- poor strip of film run over a bright light. As long as electronica keeps creating new sounds there will be new bands mixing it with metal with unimpressive results.

Driving up to Phat City nightclub I could hear Pitchshifter booming from inside. I could picture the goth go-go girls in suspended cages throbing to the beat of "Microwaved." I could picture the smoke machines, the strobes. I could picture how the entire inside of the club would look like the bar set from "The Crow" movie. At least Pitchshifter had found its place. Recommended only for rabid fans of Filter, Nine Inch Nails, people who live in Detroit, and people who drive Mercedes' shirtless.

-Brent DiCrescenzo