Compilations of club music are even one more step removed from their

source than movie soundtracks. A good soundtrack, like the one for

"Velvet Goldmine," will take you along a path similar to that of the

movie, providing similar highs and lows and adhering to the film's

rhythm.

Dance-music compilations -- and not the heady, intellectual branch of

drum and bass, a la Photek, but the serious, in-the-trenches, diva-heavy

thump-thumpers -- don't really have the option of replicating the club

experience: it's different every time, for every person.

Given that, approaching the new Astralwerks compilation of French house,

Respect is Burning Vol. 2, has a few pitfalls. Want to

know what it sounds like? It's house. Guess. Is it good house? Well . .

. what's good house? We can't fall back on the old Dick Clark Standard:

it's got a good beat and you can dance to it. Are the melodies

compelling? Sure -- as much as any Donna Summer single circa 1978. Is it

groundbreaking? Not a chance: club kids don't want to be challenged,

they want a lubricant, music that eases their way from dance floor to

bar to cigarette to taxi to wherever comes next.

To get a sense of how successful Respect is Burning Vol. 2 really

is, I tried my best to replicate the club experience in my own home.

This was more difficult than you might imagine. I'm a rock critic, so

right away you know I don't have many friends, and instead of

embarrassing them all, I decided it might be easier to get the sense of

being packed together by spending a couple of hours in my closet. I had

a flashlight that I planed to flash on and off in my face at random

intervals, too, and while I considered a humidifier, I figured sweat and

enclosed space would do the trick.

Of course, given the crappy heating in my apartment, I had to bring a

small space heater in with me for verisimilitude. At 11:30, I climbed in

my already quite warm closet, discman stuffed with fresh batteries, new

huge headphones firmly clamped in place. By about 15 minutes of level 10

(mine does not go to 11), I had really started to throw off my inner

ear. By 1 a.m. (now well into my second listen), my Armani Exchange,

tight-fitting black T-shirt was soaked through, and I was getting

thoroughly paranoid. Plus my knees were starting to ache from hitting

the closet wall so often.

Did I mention the dancing? I danced like a fool -- all the way from

Catalan FC & Sven Love's "Private Number" through the sub-Bootsy workout

of Avalanche's "Amazone Hunt." This is not an easy feat in a closet.

Deejay Punk-Roc's "My Beatbox" was a little too Eddie Grant for my

tastes, so I took a break but picked up again and carried on all the way

through, even though it took a while for anything to happen in

Romanthony and Naida's "Do You Think You Can Love Me," and Norma Jean

Bell's "I'm The Baddest Bitch" didn't seem quite bad or quite bitchy

enough.

Still, I did indeed dance -- come over and I'll show you the dents in

the door -- and by 4 a.m. my girlfriend (I'm a rock critic, not a leper)

got a little concerned. Or so she says; I couldn't hear her knocking on

the door, and had I been able to, I'm not sure that it wouldn't have

freaked me out even more, given that the almost five hours in a 3X3X9

box with only occasional bursts of yellow light had almost convinced me

that the world had shrunk and I was a giant. A stupid giant.

If only I'd had a minibar in there or something.

At six in the morning I opened the closet door and was nearly blinded by

the glare of the single lightbulb in the hall. The only thing I'd

consumed other than a bottle of water were the two packs of Marlboro

Lights I bought special for the occasion. I was starved, and yet I knew

that to eat would be foolish in the same way that shooting myself in the

head might sting a little. My head was filled with that rushing-nothing

sound they use in Hollywood to indicate outer space, and after I removed

my headphones, my ears seemed to shriek in revolt, like Tribbles, or

maybe Tuvan throat singers.

Was my experiment a success? In truth, it's hard to tell. You ought to

begin an experiment with a purpose in mind, a hypothesis to prove.

Looking back, I was just an idiot in a really hot closet. I suppose

Respect Is Burning was as good an accompaniment as one could ask

for, but I think I'll be spending a lot of time in big, wide-open fields

for a little while.