n the increasingly crowded psych/noise camp, C. Spencer Yeh stands alone. His refusal of folk influence (and woodland imagery) distances him from the mud-caked crew, and an ear for beauty and distaste for morbid imagery separate him from the harsh noise purveyors as well. He even issues much of his work on his own Drone Disco imprint. His violin drones merit few comparisons (excepting perhaps Karl Bauer of Axolotl), and his grotesque vocal manipulations differ from both the ecstatic chants of the Skaters and the screaming fits of Wolf Eyes. Considering the sheer amount of output in the genre recently, a true iconoclast like Yeh is much appreciated.

Mes Soldats Stupides culls tracks from the slew of out-of-print cassettes, CDRs , and 3” CDs released during a decade on the fringe. Given the obscurity of these releases and Yeh’s eccentricity even within a field known for eccentrics, many of these tracks fall victim to fruitless experimentation and inaccessible oddity. Many more, however, reveal an artist full of ideas, exploring the limits of his idiosyncratic sound free from the burden of audience expectation.

With one exception—the meddlesome throat gurgles and tape cuts of “Three People”—the first disc gathers tracks from 2001 onward, with the bulk from 2003 and 2004. Unsurprisingly, this disc displays far more consistency than its counterpart. We find Yeh close to his current sound—epic run-times, noisy-but-thoughtful, possessed of an austere beauty earned by years of practice. “I Wanna Make a Supersonic Woman of You” is a wise choice to open the collection. A somewhat minimal piece swimming with extended, overlapping tones, “Supersonic Woman” coaxes listeners into Yeh’s unnerving sound world while avoiding shocking noise excesses. Those come next, on the beautiful “White Swords in a Black Castle.” Sampling from Hair Police and Iovae—two bands known for their brutality—the track begins with relentless noise shredding enlivened by furious electric squiggles. But the heart of track lies not in the black clouds, but in the gorgeous, growing drone that surface three minutes in, gathering potency with volume. The track is reminiscent of Fennesz’s remix of Ekkehard Ehler’s “Coedine,” only with rougher edges.

“Bronze Colleen Under the Kitchen Floor” finds Yeh hovering between indulgence and composition. It’s a difficult track—even by his standards—beginning with sewer burps and static winds, and it crawls by at an anemic pace, but bracing high-pitched whistles energize the track. Dentist drill interludes abruptly accelerate it, evoking the exhilaration noise promises but rarely delivers. While “Bronze Colleen” certainly exposes some of Yeh’s faults—his fondness for the most guttural of vocal sounds and his sudden, momentum-crushing left-turns—it manages to entertain and annoy, often at the same time.

The industrial soundscapes of “BxC LA” also bear mention—if only to demonstrate Yeh’s talent for the gloomy, grimy atmospheres of Hive Mind and Workbench—as do the helicopter-rotor pulse of “Crysscass/Female Convict Scorpion/Crysskyss.” In fact, Disc One has few letdowns, though the malfunctioning-air-conditioner wails of the final two tracks wear thin.

Spanning the entirety of Yeh’s career, Disc Two is a more scattered affair. The lurching non-rhythms and bagpipe-ish groans of “Rehearsal Excerpt” would have been better off unreleased, and the blank, gray soundscape of “Organic Silver No. 8” lacks the body of his better work. “Live at the Gameboy Compound,” features little more than Yeh trying to cough something up, though admittedly it earns the backhanded compliment of being “interesting.” The wailing violin trance of “Live in Oxford, OH” succeeds, though it’s certainly enhanced by its juxtaposition with “Unfinished/Guitar Solo,” perhaps the best work on the two discs. A brooding piano line and foreboding synth vapors open the track, hinting at the crushing noise-and-feedback blow that arrives within a minute-and-a-half. The piano perseveres, however, contrasting well with the violent roars. Once the noise subsides, the piano stumbles onwards, its former elegance twisted into a dissonant semblance.

In the two and a half hours of Mes Soldats Stupides, one could compile forty minutes of unnecessary material. On the other hand, that would still leave nearly two hours of vital, adventurous music. Those numbers add up to me.