It’s rarer than the proverbial hen’s tooth to find an LP of remixes of a quality enough to stand on merits entirely of their own, the source material of its more straight-faced (comparatively speaking) record banished from memory by the rush and tumble of the new, but HEALTH//DISCO somehow transports the listener to a place where the LA foursome’s DiS-acclaimed self-titled – which provides the backbone of this collection’s beat skeleton – needn’t be over analysed prior to the digestion of eleven tracks that skittle and skirt the conventionalisms of modern dance music, splicing avant-percussion with retro synth stabs straight out of early-‘90s European pop-house. And…

Everything, one hit after the next, rising BMP rates matched pulse for pulse by the beat of hearts pumping in unison with banshee-shrieked vocals pummelled by swathes of pure-white noise, popped and peppered liberally with catchall electrified melodies clobbering cartoon catchiness with clubs of solid steel. Still with me? Catch up: breath, release, release. //DISCO is unrelenting in its insistence that you drop a shoulder the way of some sexy thing across the floor and dash a beeline to their dancing feet, following the footsteps as the band strikes up another anthem to have android cheerleaders tossing themselves off tall buildings regardless of whether or not their metal bodies can take the hit. It muddles cheese with ice-cool hipster jams, Haddaway with No Age; somewhere in the middle smiling youths let loose with no regard for hype or fashion, no care that they’re muttered as an afterthought in a conversation about the potential of Crystal Castles. Nobody needs to hear ‘Crimewave’ augmented by the Canadian pair again; everyone needs to hear…

Everything, one hit after the next, repeat to freak-out, fading before the pitch’s slowed not an option. The Thrust Lab mix of ‘Problem Is’ slides on Tron lines, crisp-edged and silken of core; ‘Perfect Skin’ gets punked, daftly, by Curses! and only your Dazed-reading mates know for sure; ‘Triceratops’ is decon-recon’ed thrice and not once treads a path already navigated, the standout the Beverly Hills Cop-sweet CFCF mix which could be The Fucking Champs’ ‘Policenauts’ had rockers known which devilish denizens of the dancefloor to swallow and which to spit. Someone needs to mix West Side Story with The Warriors and employ the cast and crew of this record to soundtrack the brilliantly choreographed graphic violence. It’ll look amazing, and sound like…

Everything, one hit after the next, scattered fragments of whispers of something so necessary bubbling below a surface so incandescent that staring at it too long is like the best sugar-rush of your life. You can take it two ways: ride a train with the beats tinny in your ears, or get outside of yourself in a club. Either way your experience can only ever be your own, HEALTH still a force without a true focus, a grasped-for goal. Album two may see an outline of refinement established, but for now their doldrums meanderings are more exhilarating than many acts’ most-accomplished must-haves, making this a two-from-two contender for a top-ten year-end finish.