There's a corollary to theory of global warming that predicts a general increase in the "hotness" of music as the earth becomes more and more armpit-like. Greenhouse effect experts have recently come under heavy criticism for their stance on this hypothesis from those who say it's provided fodder for the theory's critics (most notably President Bush, who was overheard remarking that his illegal Mexican servants, even when provided with maracas and mild electrical shocks, still refuse to sing "that dang 'Loco Vida' song").

Still, as I sit here lying through my teeth in a record review and sweating my proverbial (oh, they're proverbial, all right) balls off, I wonder how well the metaphorical music-temperature connection holds. Sure, it's often pretty intuitive; virtually anyone can tell the difference between "cool jazz" and "hot jazz." But it also seems that we automatically classify music from hot places (Latin and African music are the two types that immediately spring to mind) as "hot." Is the connection so simple that the temperature of a place can determine the temperature of its music? Does it hold that Canadians make chilly music, or that most American music is just kind of temperate?

Because I'm tempted to call Violet Indiana's Roulette not just cold, but icy, frigid, even numbing. As they come from England, this should make some sort of sense, even if the previous work done by the group's two members (Robin Guthrie, principal provider of the now-defunct Cocteau Twins' woozy guitar ambience, and Siobahn de Maré, vocalist for the retro-ish electronic act Mono) never dipped quite this far below the freezing point. The crystalline minor-chord strum that announces "Air Kissing" pretty much sums up the album's path-- one that leads through a mostly uniform landscape that's as often pretty and immaculate as it is distant and sterile.

That first track, though, proves to be a bit warmer than what's to come. The song's chorus finds Guthrie disturbing the insular jazziness of the verse's understated rhythm with a stuttered series of chords as de Maré raises her voice above a whisper to echo him in a somewhat desperate chant. It's a bit awkward, but it gives the song a much-needed kick. The lyrics, however, stick pretty closely to the album's focus on isolation, distant relationships, disappointment, and deceit throughout, with de Maré's half-choked, "They watched you rise and helped you fall/ They left you for dead with no breath at all/ And still keep believing there's no one deceiving," slinking into the chorus's plaintive mantra: "There's got to be something more to you."

Perhaps it's a certain coldness in spite of everything else that strikes me the most. "Busted" begins almost exactly as "Air Kissing" did, with a rattly trip-hop beat thrown in to back the melody, but it soon breaks into a soaring, almost bubblegum chorus. As emotive as de Maré gets here, it's the chilly note of restraint in her voice (along with Guthrie's novocaine-thick background distortion) that partially saves the song from absurdity. I say "partially" because, here, and throughout the album, listening to de Maré's admittedly strong, few-frills, jazz-inflected vocals is something of a battle. Her restraint provides a good complement to Guthrie's atmospherics, but you get the sense that her real potential is never fully realized. Equally infuriating is the fact that we rarely hear her voice just being itself, unobscured by layers of multitracking (with the most heartfelt vocals being shoved into the background) and deep echoes.

In the end, the bone-chilling formula that Guthrie and de Maré have discovered (heavy on trembling, minor-chord arpeggios, underlined by quietly tense drums and descending bass parts) is a bit too perfect. Although Guthrie sometimes has the good sense to inject an interesting guitar sound or two into the glacial uniformity of the songs-- like the purring fret-slides in "Poison Gorgeous," or the gorgeous burbling effect that cuts in stereo through "Sundance"-- it's the coldness that kills. The icy sentiments of songs like "Killer Eyes" and "Little Echo" seem to freeze in the air long before they can pierce the heart; others tracks, like "Powder River" and "Liar," seem so distant that it's difficult to believe you're actually hearing them. In trying to portray interpersonal indifference, Violet Indiana loses its connection with the audience.

But the question remains: if I listen to this kind of music, will it actually make me feel cooler? Last time I checked, I was still sweating my balls off. But I'm not about to give up on this disc. It's been in the freezer for an hour and a half now, and I'm about to put it where it belongs. Right beneath my balls.

-Brendan Reid