ULRICH SCHNAUSS /// A STRANGE ISOLATED PLACE /// DOMINO ///

There's a scene in High Fidelity in which John Cusack is being harassed by Jack Black and Black in all his hilarity is wearing a Yanni "Live at the Acropolis" T-shirt; this is the perfect example of making an ironic statement for irony's sake. While some vintage T-shirts could potentially have an air of sincerity about them, no true music aficionado was ever an authentic Yanni fan. Granted the naivet?© of youth brings us to some pretty strange places (can you say "the Yes boxed set"?) but they never took us to the longhaired conductor of dentist and elevator music unless, of course, we were in an elevator or a dentist office.

But what makes Yanni so bad, so horrendously offensive that I'm certain Satan has him on speed dial? Truthfully, I can't remember but if I recall his oeuvre at all, his intentions were actually noble and valiant (sure. You can read that sentence again if you'd like). See, as fermented as Yanni's cheese could get, he never imposed his lyrics or his deep thoughts upon us. His instrumental albums were vehicles of escape, an audio vacation to a desert landscape, a tropical island or once again, a visit to the dentist office. There was no mention of heartache, heartbreak, girls, pain, or believing in life after love. His music was a mood catalyst, an opportunity to get lost in your own thoughts and pensiveness. Yanni basically said here is the soundtrack to your mind. Now use it while I go curl my mustache.

That being said, there are those-besides middle-aged housewives-who also need to escape the heaviness of imposing lyrics. The mind needs to formulate its own imagery without the confines of a tortured songwriter's prose. When that occasion does arise, what is your option? Thankfully, Ulrich Schnauss is your Yanni (who's yo' Yanni? Schnauss' yo' Yanni!). Like our maned man, Schnauss, creates music for the imagination. Unlike Yanni, though, the German DJ succeeds and inspires the lifelight of your otherwise unused soul, without sounding like a stack of Muenster and it's unavoidable expiration date. His eight electronic vunderbar soundscapes are all sublime voyages and restful odysseys into destinations with diamond clouds, unicorn waiters and strawberry water. The empowering, "On Your Own" sounds like apologies, running, car headlights, the pitter-patter of the rain, the exhausted sighs of a loved one, punching a wall. The last song, "A Strangely Isolated Place" conjures up images of a mobile hovering above a baby's crib, the wind blowing on your neck, car keys jingling, leaves, a burning scented candle, waking up in her bed. Strangely... is a near-hour's long journey through an inspiring free-form association. And to think; if there had been actual lyrics, then none of that would have been possible.

Arye Dworken