Remember Ghostbusters? Spengler, Stantz, Venkman and Zeddemore were unlikely heroes for the 1980s. In a period of cultural myopia for the USA, when stockbrokers and CEOs were shattering glass ceilings, these guys ran a pest control business. They were glorified plumbers, cleaning up the shit nobody else would touch. Plus, they broke the rules, crossing their ghost-catching beams when all along they'd been told not to. And their final enemy was a perfect symbol of materialistic excess: the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, a giant blob run amok in New York City. Now, in the wake of our prosperity, as we confront the skeletons in our closets, Americans seem to be remembering the blue collar once again.

Of course, the title of Mitchell Akiyama's new album reminds me of the movie. Hope That Lines Don't Cross follows an earlier CDR that Akiyama self-released. His debut album for an honest-to-god record label is also the first for Substractif, a subsidiary of Alien8 Recordings. Akiyama began his musical career as a jazz musician, but it doesn't show much in his music. Instead, he's composed 10 tracks of minimalist electronica, heavy on the glitch-dub influence (think Mille Plateaux artist snd) and fused with drones and field recordings of half-heard conversations. Unfortunately, the worst songs here sound like Jan Jelinek's Loop-finding-jazz-records slowed to about half-speed, with the plips and pops brought to the foreground and none of the rich bass or dynamic transitions that made that album fascinating. Or, you can imagine a limp Pole.

The title to "Palindrone.1" describes itself, and my annoyance with it, perfectly. Bristles of static and a brief voice can be heard in the background. Out of the void rises a drone, augmented by increasingly crisp cracks and echoes of dubwise momentum. But the rhythm never changes. Rather, it gets decorated with some watery sputtering sounds, and eventually fades out much the same as it began. "Resists Chance Nicely" might be having a go at itself, but I don't see the point. At least the immutable beats here are more complex. The choppy syncopation contrasts just passably enough with the keyboard whims that begin to manifest, adding a rumor of warmth. But "Concentrate on One Leg" returns to the land of the frigid. The constant 1-2-whump-whump anaesthetizes the entire track; played quietly, the subtle samples are hardly audible, and though it sounds great for a second when blasted, the dull thump of the beats will crush your brain in the grip of monotony.

"Error Than Trial" marks the halfway point. Finally, excitement: we're treated to a funky boom-bip glitch beat as weird stabs of electro-plasm appear. A power drill drone that had been lurking in the background roars to life, louder and louder until the squabbly synth gossip is entirely overwhelmed. But even here, the structural frame is too simple and predictable, and the surprise only works because of the sterile ground surrounding. Fortunately, the last half of the album improves. "Named After the Chorus" actually introduces a melody through the lovely ring of the gamelan, cycling over and over in a short lullaby. "Thepathofleastresistanceispaved" finds the essence of dub minimalism in overlapping waves of seductive bass, cryogenic crackles and comfortably numbing drums. And "The Height of the Matter" concludes with amazing intensity, its rushing currents of noise probing the same dark abyss that Rapoon explores.

Akiyama seems to have encountered none of the poltergeists captured by labelmates Set Fire to Flames on their recent Alien8 debut. The phantom voices hidden in the depths of this recording don't frighten because they can barely be heard. They're drowned out by the clinical tone of his basic rhythms, and they can't challenge the listener when they sound so brittle that they seem about to break. Even the Ghostbusters wouldn't want to investigate. Hopefully, in the future, Akiyama's jazz background will offer insight into the kind of interplay of elements necessary for this kind of animism. As it is, this is ambient for the waiting room of a doctor's office, for stainless steel halls artificially lit, a form of foundation makeup for silence. He may have got the wish in the album title, but obsessive compulsion has resulted in neutrality. Not good. Not bad. Just.

-Christopher Dare, November 26th, 2001