I recently succumbed to temptation and purchased one of those Premium Cable Packages, rationalizing it as a vital and illuminating cultural window. As I surfed around, hoping to find something that would truly justify my reasoning (aside from the 40+ cooking channels), I came across Mark Kitchell's Oscar-nominated documentary, Berkeley in the Sixties. Though the film explored a number of topics, its theme seemed to suggest that the counter-culture revolution of the 60s was prone to fail because it lacked a single coherent vision of what the post-revolutionary world should be comprised of.

Having no first-hand experience with the 60s, I instead drew parallels from my knowledge of the infinetly more profit-oriented Seattle-wave of the early 90s. Both were adorned with seemingly anti-commercial sentiments which were flagrantly touted and oft-professed, yet rarely put into action, and both seemed to coincide with a burgeoning musical movement. But by the 90s, artists were well aware of the price their insolence afforded them and the few who took up The Cause basically signed their own death warrants.

Subtly, advertising, commercialism, and all things counter-productive worked their way from the barroom to the concert hall and, finally, into your local indie venue. Eventually, most artists and clubs were perfectly willing to offer Coke the chance to equate their soda with an enjoyable social event for the right amount of funding. Luckily, as the old guard died away, a line of new blood was slowly consolidating their power; refusing to dilineate between music and politics.

A few years ago, Belle and Sebastian, perhaps better known as the thorn in the ass of the industry, took the high-minded ranting of Naomi Klein and Karl Marx to the next level and organized the "Bowlie Weekender," an attempt to remedy the recent corporate transgresses while also avoiding the common pratfalls that seem to marr similar efforts. The "Bowlie Weekender" was a three-day festival held in Pontins, Camber Sands, Sussex, where performers of a similar ideology (such as Godspeed You Black Emperor!, Mogwai, the Pastels, the Flaming Lips, Mercury Rev, and Sleater-Kinney) convened with their fans, free of advertisements, press, and all the trappings of a commercial event. When the festival was reprised in 2000, its name had been changed to "All Tomorrow's Parties" but the environs and intent remained the same.

2002 will see the marriage of Belle and Sebastian's brainchild with American sensibility as, for three days in March, Los Angeles will be the ironic home of ATP. Now, the orchestrators of that event have independently produced, compiled, and distributed an album featuring primarily rare and unreleased tracks from many of the artists who contributed to the festival. All said, there's something kinda beautiful about the whole thing.

The disc commences with Sonic Youth's "Fauxhemians," a musical ode to fellow festival curators, Tortoise. Sonic Youth's decade-spanning knee-jerk reaction to Daydream Nation has left many heads good and scratched and, if you haven't given up on another Dirty, Sister, or Evol yet, accepting the truth is the first step on your road to recovery. The rest of us can sleep a little easier tonight, though, as "Fauxhemians" does what NYC Ghosts and Flowers failed to: go somewhere. Similarly, former-punks turned knob-twiddlers Unwound contribute the enthralling "Behold the Salt," a testament to the emotional scope their music has come to encompass since "Corpse Pose." So far, there's nothing but an early morning breeze wafting throughout these tracks.

Stephen Malkmus makes an appearance with "Good Kids Egg," further cementing his reputation as a bottomless oasis of insightful wit. After ten years, his patented off-kilter voice can still pull off lines like, "Do what the good kids do/ And screw who the good screw.../ A million of us came here with our pockets turned out." Elsewhere, Cannibal Ox contributes "Pidgeon" off last year's excellent The Cold Vein. Such a diverse selection of styles generally gives rise to needless continuity complications, but in this instance, the dynamic created by the contrasting genres is what lends the album so much of its bent appeal.

Stereolab have performed at every ATP since its inception and they're represented here with "Old Lungs" which finds the band's more experimental side remarkably healthy (a relief to those who've longed for a return to the days of Transient Random-Noise Bursts with Announcements). Cat Power's cover of the Robert Johnson classic "Come On in My Kitchen" finds Chan Marshall's milky vocals breathing a sense of life into lyrics which have had some 80 years to decompose, and Papa M follows suit with the heart-wrenching "How Can I Tell You I Love You?"

But to say that this disc is a sugary-sweet affair is to miss some of the album's most rewarding tracks. Early on, Bardo Pond indicate that all is not well in the world of "demographic evasion" as they indulge in dispensing poetry over a free arrangement of guitar, drums, and bass. But it's the latter half of the disc which features Dead C, the Boredoms, Kevin Drumm, and Satans Tornade unleashing an avant-noise maelstrom of epic proportions that truly makes the album worth owning. Dead C's sonic collage of dissonant mechanical noise, field recordings, abstract flourishes of percussion, and feedback on "Load Segment" are all coated with an ethereal reverb, slightly muting what would otherwise be a very confrontational track.

Yet, as the disarming ambience of "Load Segment" slowly dissolves, the Boredoms begin to interject the peace with shards of skeletal white-noise before establishing the chaotic tribal beat of "Super Are," which sustains its incontinence for over ten minutes only to collapse into the crass and callous arms of Kevin Drumm's "My Tree Bears No Nuts - Part 2." Drumm (and likeminded composer, Satans Tornade) work like a more schizophrenic Merzbow, sharply cutting, layering, and varying the tone of their sonic exorcisms, daring the listener to find the hidden rhythm to their madness. All of this can make for a very intense, introspective assault, depending on the listener's level of participation.

There's a sense of nihilistic isolation permeating the surface of the songs compiled on All Tomorrow's Parties v1.1. Even the album's happiest moments are mired in feelings of regret or unrequited desire. As records go, it's far above-par and should provide you with hours of consolation and enjoyment. But if the disc is meant to act as a mission statement, its intended message seems to be: stick with Coke, man. You'll be a lot fucking happier.

-Kevin Adickes, January 24th, 2002