Kriminalmuseum by Die Paramounts: A Retro Soundtrack to Your Imaginary Film Noir
Released in 1998 on the German label Sab Phonie Rec., Kriminalmuseum by Die Paramounts is an album that feels like stepping into a smoky jazz club where the band forgot they were supposed to play jazz and instead decided to soundtrack your favorite detective show—or maybe one you’ve never seen but can totally picture. With genres spanning Stage & Screen, Rock, and Jazz, and styles dipping into Easy Listening and Lounge, this record is as eclectic as it is nostalgic. It’s not just music; it’s mood lighting for your ears.
The tracklist reads like a collection of titles from some lost Euro-cult film festival. But two tracks stand out enough to make you hit repeat—and probably hum them later while pretending you’re solving mysteries at a dimly lit bar.
First up is "Old Shatterhand Cha Cha." If you’ve ever wondered what would happen if spaghetti western themes met cha-cha rhythms, here’s your answer. The song has this cheeky swagger, with brass hits sharp enough to cut through fog and a rhythm section so groovy it could convince even the most rhythmically challenged person to attempt a dance move or two. You remember it because it doesn’t take itself too seriously—just like those old Westerns where heroes somehow win shootouts without ever reloading their guns. It’s fun, slightly absurd, and oddly satisfying all at once.
Then there’s "Laura Palmer’s Theme / Dance Of The Dream Man," which immediately transports you straight into Twin Peaks territory—even if you’ve only seen the memes. This version leans heavy on moody atmospherics, with haunting melodies that feel both familiar and fresh. What makes it stick? The way it captures David Lynch’s eerie charm but gives it a lounge twist, turning sadness into something you want to sip a martini to. It’s cinematic gold, really.
Other highlights include “Cocktails For Bobtails,” which sounds exactly how its title suggests—a boozy, upbeat number perfect for sipping gimlets under neon lights—and “Clock 7,” whose ticking percussion almost tricks you into thinking time might actually stop. Meanwhile, tracks like “Der Fälscher Von London” (The Counterfeiter of London) bring a touch of spy-movie drama, complete with sneaky basslines and suspenseful builds.
What keeps Kriminalmuseum engaging isn’t just its genre-blending audacity—it’s the sense that every track belongs to a different chapter of an imaginary film anthology. One moment you’re chasing criminals across rooftops (“Hechelnder Hund”), the next you’re cruising down California highways (“On The Way To San Mateo”). And let’s not forget “Peter Gunn,” which delivers classic coolness with modern flair.
In true Die Paramounts fashion, the production feels raw yet polished, giving the impression that these songs were recorded live in some hidden studio tucked away in Berlin. Minor imperfections creep in here and there—like a slightly off-beat drum fill or a saxophone note held juuust a bit too long—but they add character rather than detract from it.
Reflecting on Kriminalmuseum, it strikes me how rare it is to find an album that feels so deliberately cinematic yet refuses to be boxed into any single style. It’s retro without being kitschy, experimental without alienating listeners. In fact, listening to it feels less like experiencing art and more like stumbling upon someone else’s secret playlist—one that somehow knows exactly what you needed to hear today.
And honestly? If this album were a person, I’d totally invite it over for drinks. Just don’t ask me to explain why—it’s complicated, kinda like the plot of a good noir flick.
