Reviews of new releases from Mogwai, Rob Zombie, and Thrill Kill Kult.   My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult Dirty Little Secrets: Music to Strip By (Rykodisc) Rob Zombie American Made Music to Strip By (Geffen) Of related interest: Porno films, Pig, Ministry Here's a sentence I thought would never pass my lips: "I like Rob Zombie better than the Thrill Kill Kult." Somehow, though, it's come down to that. I fondly recall grooving away my greener days to TKK records like Confessions of a Knife and Kooler than Jesus, with their tongue-in-cheek chunks of disco-kitsch, devilish shtick and the funkiest rhythms to be found in the 4/4 land of the Industrial Nation. But, oh, how these debauched black sheep have wandered astray. Even though flaccid albums such as Hit & Run Holiday provided a soggy warning of what was to come, this new collection of remixes still stings like a cold shower--so irritating, so shockingly frigid that sex becomes the last thing on your mind. Nowhere in earshot is the TKK's famous raspy snarl or sassy style; instead, Dirty Little Secrets tosses off cheap, ineffective catch-phrases and chintzy-instrumental, horny-house music. Could you strip to it? Sure, I guess. But with enough financial incentive, you could drop trou to Tchaikovsky. Rob Zombie's own exotic-dancer occupational aid has more staying power because it plays rougher. These raunchy electro-metal remixes, taken from last year's Hellbilly Deluxe CD, attempt to spank both the head and the heiney with skin-clawing guitars, gooey go-go synths and goofy spookshow themes. It's admittedly pretty boneheaded stuff, and the altered mixes aren't radical departures from the original versions--perhaps a tad more digital and danceable--but the fun quotient of Zombie's silly Satanic act has finally surpassed the Thrill Kill Kult's waning mooniness. While he's rocking, the TKK is just rolling along. Besides, Zombie's naughty, nitro-fueled dreams are more conducive to doin' the nasty--and isn't that what this is all about? If you're gonna get naked, don't settle for something half-assed. John Graham   Mogwai EP + 2 Matador Records Of related interest: The Sea and Cake, Spacemen 3, Lee Ranaldo As the century expires, the rock album is mutating. During the prolonged reaction against indulgent '60s and '70s prog, bands threw together 10 rousing songs, drank through tours and called it a day. So long as the songs rocked, concept couldn't have mattered less. These days, though we're hardly on the cusp of a revival of Tommy-esque hubris, another ambitious format creeps stealthily from the high-brow realm of classical into the arty boho ghetto of drone-rock: the epic score, songs fitting together cohesively, meant to be played consecutively. Brainy Scottish buzz band Mogwai's newest effort is a vast, turbulent album that could easily be the soundtrack to a tornado, a disquieted sea, or Ophelia's destitute descent. Entirely instrumental (except for a few cryptic whispers), EP + 2 is an intertwining dirge of silence and synths. Blustery, sorrowful guitar is accompanied by atmospheric strings and piano in perpetual crescendo. Mogwai wants to evoke pure emotion, without mushy lyrics. True, the disc loses intensity if it's not heard whole, and some songs simply can't stand on their own. Fortunately, just when EP + 2 is about to plunge into the inferno of failed art, the band saves it by playing a new melody, adding a piano, or smashing on the Big Muff. EP + 2 is a stormy delight indicative of where, with any luck, rock is bound. Julianne Shepherd - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Willamette Week | originally published December 1, 1999