Pitchfork

13 & God is a collaboration between Weilheim, Germany's the Notwist and Berkeley, California's Themselves, marking the place where two parallel lines veer inward and converge to the sound of swelling strings and distant drumclaps. It has been a long wait. One year ago, Themselves's diabolically cerebral Doseone whet my appetite for this project in an interview: "Those guys are just like us," he said of the Notwist. "Totally collaborative and focused."

It's true; symmetries abound: Both groups released jaw-dropping albums in 2002 and followed them with several years of remixes and other projects, leaving the challenges they heralded unanswered. For the Notwist, it was Neon Golden, a splendid wash of immaculate electro-pop that was broadly adored. For Themselves, it was the The No Music, a stunted mutant of grinding robot-rap that was hard to love but easy to regard with awe for its huge ambition and relentless brutality. If the former was a sonic approximation of melancholy-tinged joie de vivre-- a delicate, fluttering thing-- the latter was an iron tank smashing everything in its path under its treads.

Upon hearing of this unlikely alliance, fans could only speculate. How would Themselves's Futurist evocations of claustrophobic din, fascist visions, and post-industrial blight dovetail with the pastel hues of the Notwist's spacious laptop pop? Would integration even be possible, or would the process be more mash-up than collaboration-- Doseone gibbering maniacally and sawing sheet metal over big, lazy arcs of guitar? How can a butterfly collaborate with a machine? This improbability must be why 13 & God's debut is such a creeper, an album of broad gestures that reveal vivid, flickering details over time, its pleasures unfolding as what it actually is gradually erases speculative notions of what it might be.

Two of the album's most immediately pleasureable songs also happen to be its most unabashedly "Notwisty"-- single "Men of Station" and "Perfect Speed" wouldn't be out of place on Neon Golden. On those tracks, Themselves seem to be in lurker mode-- their most discernible contribution to "Men of Station" amounts to creepo nursery-school harmonies. But mostly it's Markus Acher's show-- quivering strings, a lambent piano phrase, an acoustic arpeggio and gently spitting drums create an austere foundation for his voice, as he repeats the phrase, "We are men of station/ We are troubled and just the same/ But we're not as hell as you."

Exactly why Acher's voice is so penetrating and resonant, despite being, on the surface, rather plain and unaffected, is difficult to nail down-- something about the way he holds simple syllables in his mouth, then releases them with the slightly skewed and careful inflections of a non-native speaker, renders them unspeakably magnetic. He brings this same understated grace to the hushed burner "Perfect Speed". Here, an oscillating buzz sharply contrasts ping-ponging chords in a staticky slither where false endings blur into mellow sirens into dramatic re-entries, drums flogging the track restlessly around tight corners.

The remainder of the album achieves a more realized synthesis of styles, and the stridency of The No Music is nowhere to be found. The members of Themselves also comprise one half of Subtle, which is as lush and sonorous as Themselves is cacophonous and stark, and 13 & God makes more sense when appraised as a collaboration between the Notwist and members of Subtle than as a Notwist/Themselves production. Keyboardist Dax Pierson (who remains hospitalized after Subtle's van crash in February) joined Themselves after the release of The No Music, and perhaps he's partially responsible for softening the ever-mercurial group's aesthetic.

"Afterclap", for instance, with its breezy sing-along vocals, nearly atonal woodwinds, and loopy whistles, is unlike anything the Notwist or Themselves has ever produced. It's vintage g-funk gone twee, as if Dre hooked up with Nate Dogg's cardie-wearing cousin to make a song for suburban cruising in a Honda hatchback with factory speakers. "Low Heaven" is a seething, pneumatic wheezer tricked out with Themselves's nightmare chorus and Dose's patented multi-tracked muttering, but remains airy and light. "Soft Atlas" strings deliberately chiming keys over a vanishing pulse, setting the stage for Dose's most hypnotic and ramified vocal turn this side of the propulsive drone-hop of "Tin Strong", where he competes with Acher's chopped-up falsetto. "Walk" closes the record with a metamorphosing sound collage, which works well in this concise dosage and embodies what I imagined 13 & God would sound like overall. But after spending many hours wandering the elegant and diversely adorned chambers of its other songs, I'm glad that I was wrong.