Various Artists
Kill Bill, Vol. 2
[Maverick; 2004]
Rating: 8.2

I've discussed the nuances of this soundtrack with many people over the last two weeks, from freckled Sbarro employees to former Diamondback Efrain Valdez. The verdict is unanimous, transcending race, creed, and musical preference: Kill Bill, Vol. 2 is no match for Vol. 1. Curiously, though, this seems to be through no fault of Vol. 2's. People just seem to feel that comparing the two is as ludicrous as comparing a typhoon to the Sistine Chapel. In fact, most of my queries concluded with condescension or confusion. As one city clerk put it, "You want me to do what now?"

It's no wonder people prefer the exhilarating thrust and groove of Vol. 1. Tarantino's world is one that thrives on thrashing swiftness and attention deficit disorders. And he works in a culture where entire residential areas are paved in neon lights, and anyone that goes the speed limit is labeled an effete bore or a terrorist. But the actual reason for this universal preference is more ambiguous. For every claim that "the Vol. 1 soundtrack is faster, sort of catchier," you'll catch a brief, addled grimace, a mark of uncertainty.

How can you possibly compare the two halves of this film, regardless of whether you derided or adored them? The first is all blustering, epileptogenic havoc; the second explores the first volume's motivation, history, and identity. And if it's a bit slow-going, it's because the creases in the characters' faces took a while to form. So do the soundtracks mirror this relationship? Does the Vol. 2 soundtrack redress Vol. 1's pop euphoria, and try to instill a little culture and history through the same musicians and characters? Does this explain the recurrence of certain artists-- Charlie Feathers, Meiko Kaji, Luis Bacalov, and Ennio Morricone? Of fucking course not, you pompous shit. Let's axe this disc like it ain't got no kids:

Any fears are swiftly squelched with Shivaree's opening "Goodnight Moon", a skulking ooze that slinks down the stairs and leaps to the floor, part innocent, haunted-house shiver and part libidinous excess: "There's a blade by the bed/ And a phone in my hand/ A dog on the floor/ And some cash on the nightstand." It's as intoxicating and drenched in blood/sex/sweat as a three-minute Corona commercial. The broiling lust and loss is continued in Charlie Feathers' "Can't Hardly Stand It". Feathers basically made his entire career out of sounding like he was always endlessly and exquisitely enjoying a total mental and physical breakdown, and this song might be his climax: a limping, slashed voice punctuated by incredible, stinging gasps for air. It's as downtrodden and chilling as anything I've heard recently, with the possible exception of a full choir of Spanish children singing mass-- which happens to constitute the soundtrack's next torrid track.

But the absolute masterpiece is Morricone's "L'Arena", an ode to pernicious anticipation that surrounds itself in bizarre, contorted construction sounds, like dirt being thrown over a grave. Whistling and brass is torn between elegy and celebration, while an effervescent choir sings a rain dance of noxious beauty. It's the kind of piece you can't listen to very frequently because you'll never want to do anything else again. The only possible competition lies in another Morricone dervish, the indefatigable "A Silhouette of Doom". Every single instrument here is played to its full capacity-- pianos are stomped, trumpets are excoriated, and guitars are brandished in a strangulating combination of Indian warcry, Hitchcockian dread, dog whistle, and recycling plant.

There's really only one lonely misstep: Malcolm McLaren's preposterous "About Her", which is, literally, a trip-hop Zombies classic. The bigger issue, however, lies with the sequencing. For the most part, Tarantino seemed to have little idea of how to match his song choices with the film's scenes. Johnny Cash's slow death, "A Satisfied Mind", is given a few brief moments on Budd's stereo, while two of the best songs ever-- Morricone's Fistful of Dollars and Navajo Joe themes (neither of which are represented on either of the two soundtracks)-- are given hardly any coherent visual accompaniment.

Likewise, Tarantino doesn't seem to have put much thought into how to represent the songs on this release. Vol. 1 offered a much more cohesive listen, with all sorts of elaborate connections between its songs: Bacalov's scalding Santa Ana winds segued into the Twisted Nerve whistle; Issac Hayes's militaristic snare whirled into Al Hirt's "Green Hornet Theme", etc. But Kill Bill, Vol. 2 simply doesn't make any sense; despite the quality of these tracks, the disc plays like a blur of arbitrary inclusions, more like a Sunday afternoon college radio DJ than any of the soundtrack releases that have made Tarantino as respected a music archivist as he is a director.

-Alex Linhardt, May 3rd, 2004