Rave culture got a late start in Japan, gaining traction in the early ’90s as club music was changing overseas. Having reached a point of critical mass, dance genres were seeking to reinvent themselves. Some artists were dialing back the momentum and turning their focus to ravers seeking an escape from the energy of the floor. British duo the KLF pivoted from the booming stadium house they’d helped pioneer and dreamed up the woollier ambient house. Soon after, Warp released the first of their Artificial Intelligence series, planting the seeds of what would eventually become known as IDM. These records resonated with Japanese producers as they prepared to build their own scene from the ground up.

Virtual Dreams II: Ambient Explorations in the House & Techno Age, Japan 1993​-​1999, assembled by record store owner Eiji Taniguchi and the late Music From Memory cofounder Jamie Tiller, tells the story of how Japanese DJs and dancers found their own way to the dancefloor. These early forays into techno were more sedate affairs than their Western counterparts. Ambient soundscaping provided an interesting detour in European and American dance music, but it was on many Japanese artists’ minds from the beginning. Katsuya Hironaka’s “Pause,” for example, incorporates a thumping four-on-the-floor rhythm, but only briefly, instead drawing your ear to glimmering tones underneath and low roar of a field recording as it falls away. It’s the start of something new, but also an extension of Japan’s ambient boom from the prior decade.

One artist who was instrumental in these early years is Ken Ishii, who set the tone with his slower, more cerebral approach. In 1992, while still a student in college, he mailed a demo cassette to Belgian techno titans R&S—and to his surprise, the label signed him. His records started getting play around the world, and he was thrust into the position of ambassador for his country’s dance scene. Ishii’s decision to release his sophomore album, Reference to Difference, as the flagship release on the Japanese imprint Sublime was significant; it gave the label a boost, providing them the funds and name recognition to scout more talent. One of those early signees was Akio and Okihide, who achieved a bit of international success themselves on UK label Rising High. On “Phoenix at Desert” they eschew propulsive rhythms almost entirely, taking Ishii’s toolkit of warbling tones and stretching them into infinity. Already, a common musical language was developing.

Groups like Dub Squad would eventually transition to more danceable fare and embrace breakbeats, but their early output is true to their name. “Blown Fruit” is a spaced-out ambient-dub tune tailor-made for chill-out rooms, its driving force sounding like a distant train chugging along a lopsided railway. Buddahstick Transparent’s “Eras (666)” hardly compels you to move your body either. With an unchanging piano loop as its backbone, a slowly morphing chorus of electronics radiates outward like a halo of warm light. It sounds more like a lost cut from Harold Budd and Brian Eno’s ambient masterpiece The Pearl than something you’d hear at a party.

Many early adopters of Japanese house and techno were outsiders to dance music. Yuji Takenouchi, appearing here as Missing Project, refined his skills composing for video games as part of Konami’s sound team. On “Poisson D’Avril (Galaxy Dub),” he locks into an arpeggiated groove as curtains of synthesizer ripple underneath, similar to his work soundtracking the military techno-drama of Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake. Yukihiro Fukutomi came from a different background altogether, having forged his path through the hardcore punk group Sodom. The band shifted between trends, first switching to harsh industrial before remaking themselves again as an artsy house act. Fukutomi was the architect of that late-period pivot, and even after going solo he continued tinkering with technology. In the following couple of years, he mastered synth and drum programming. He layers up a lattice of competing pulses on “5 Blind Boys,” pitting frenzied marimba-like percussion against the steady strike of a twinkling bell. It’s the culmination of everything he’d learned up to that point.

According to Ken Ishii, there was only one techno club in Japan as his career was getting underway. In only a short time, venues sprang up all over the country and dance music became enough of a phenomenon that huge outdoor festivals were selling out. Virtual Dreams II, although presented as a sequel to the first volume, which tracked parallel strains in Europe and North America, paints an inverted picture of a scene that subverts expectations. Japan’s clubs would eventually become places where everyone could get up and move—but they were built with the work of musicians that wanted you to sit still and listen carefully.