Casino

Those who were in the know and scored the first Brit-only Violet Indiana disc, Roulette, got their first taste of former Cocteau Twin Robin Guthrie's shimmering guitarscapes and ex-Mono vocalist Siobhan De Maré's singular vocals entwining in a tragic marriage of loss, heartbreak, and obsession all wrapped in a heartbreakingly beautiful package. The three (also import-only) EPs furthered the band's rep to the point where they had to get something out stateside -- Casino is it. For the faithful it may be a bit of a let-down in that it only features three new tracks, but it also puts all three EPs handily onto one disc as a consolation and features a video of "Killer Eyes." While comparisons to the Cocteaus are inevitable, with all due respect, Ms. De Maré's voice doesn't have the swooping, soaring quality of Elizabeth Fraser's (but whose does?), but she is more suited to the darker visions Mr. Guthrie has longed to put into his music. While tunes like "Jailbird," "Purr la Perla," "Poppy," and "Torn Up" have the wistful atmospherics one has come to expect from Mr. Guthrie, they are tempered with an obsessive malevolence and an over-the-top excess of raw emotion. "Bang Bang" is the account of a woman catching her husband in an act of adultery in their wedding bed. And as such, she is moved to kill the other woman. As guitars move -- ringing, slithering, and slipping in and out of a textured wall of white-out -- Ms. De Maré sings as if this moment were calculated; she acts as if it's her only choice and does the violent act with a swagger and a hint of a smile. On the other side of the coin is the band's non-tongue-in-cheek cover of Jacques Brel's "Ne Me Quitte Pas" (If You Go Away); genuine unconditional love is laid out at the other's feet amid the reverbed swirl of Guthrie's guitars, keyboards, and drums. Marianne Faithfull could have covered this and it actually sounds as if her presence and inspiration are being evoked here. The final track, "Heaven," offers a glimpse of an optimism so fragile it is barely allowed to exist; De Maré's vocals strut down in the velveteen gutters with Mr. Guthrie's Bataillean vision of sex, heartbreak, and excess. This is a breath of cognac- and cigarette-scented air on an almost-dead pop scene.

Roulette

There isn't an arklark or a floatboat to be found on Roulette, but there is the familiar cascading echo of Robin Guthrie's guitar, along with his ever-developing production skills. With Siobhan de Mare, the former Cocteau Twin remains adept at picking ideal voices to compliment his comfy, womb-like constructs. That oft-copied sound that only he can truly pull off is carried forth in Violet Indiana. Difference-wise, there's an obvious movement toward songs with his new partner. That kind of goes without saying since the Cocteaus’ Liz Fraser built her niche with singular vocal sounds that frequently avoided discernible English. Despite the breathy, come-hither vocals of de Mare, she's less of an instrument. One listen to this record on headphones in a darkened room will be the best way to demonstrate this duo's strengths, separating them from the lot of male/female duos that populate a record shop's trip-hop section. Guthrie's slow-thrust arrangements are spare and subtle, lightly jazzy most of the time, full enough to blow the song along, and not quite thick enough to be determined syrupy. These songs are fragile, although hardly qualifying as precious. The only song that sounds remotely radio friendly is "Sundance," which proves that Guthrie and de Mare can pen an emotional pop song as well as anyone else. De Mare takes a break from whispering and belts it out a little as Guthrie's guitar escalates endlessly. The remainder of the record slithers, glows, and throbs as well as any other intended for the bedroom, like the Golden Palominos' Pure or latter-day Lori Carson. Anyone who couldn't tolerate the Cocteau Twins' innate artiness and vocal babblings just might find that Roulette goes down a treat. Just what the Dr. ordered for those who wanted a little more oomph in their ambient. Call it drip-hop.