No Alternative

Wait For Me – Moby: Imagine yourself alone on the moon defying gravity and gliding along untouched terrain. This album is either a replication of your thoughts and sights on this journey, or that one CD you’d need to bring along. Sparkling, emotive, and expansive, songs such as “Mistake” and “Walk with Me” continue to haunt the mind and heart long after repeated listens. 

Exploding Head – A Place to Bury Strangers: A truly apt title for this eruption of distortion, heavily steeped vocals, and true rock n’ roll ethics. On their second album, the band becomes more melodic, but still turns every melody on its head to expand a song into noisy aftermath. Such is the slow building “Ego Death,” which just about borders on demonic. 

Farm – Dinosaur Jr.: An organic manifestation of Dinosaur Jr.’s sludgy grunge. Noisemaster J Mascis offers as much feedback and as many guitar solos as one would anticipate.

The Eternal – Sonic Youth: An epic band at an epic high. The Eternal assaults the ears but also manages to offer a whisper of melancholia that delivers beauty between guitar screeches. 

Wavering Radiant  – Isis: Isis merges the heavier roots of Celestial days with the contemplative fluidity of In The Absence Of Truth; “Ghost Key” is, at times, somewhat jazzy and controlled, until Aaron Turner intermittently lets his vocal chords loose. As always, Isis’ long tracks boast an impressive and beautiful array of moods and musical landscapes (such as in “Hand of the Host”) that always surprise with their sudden turns.

I and Love and You – The Avett Brothers: A joyous and heartfelt merging of folk, alt-country, and indie with sentimental, but never cheesy, undertones and a much-appreciated ode to Brooklyn (in the title track), despite the band’s Southern roots. It’s no wonder these guys are gaining notoriety up north, and everywhere else too.

Sonic Youth is at their absolute best with their sixteenth studio album. An off-kilter splatter of fuzz, feedback and sheer noise greets you at the start of The Eternal, which assaults the ears with alternative tunings and Kim Gordon’s preciously unmelodic voice. Thurston Moore and Gordon switch off vocalizing on the riotous “Anti-Orgasm;” rough and painfully sexy, the instruments eventually pull back to reveal a simplistic melody, which is always the spine of Sonic Youth tracks. Throughout The Eternal, these eternal pros strike a perfect balance between somber beauty and discordant rock, exemplified by “Calming the Snake,” which has Gordon screaming as the guitar cuts the air. At almost ten minutes, closing track “Massage the History” is epic without any artsy pretentiousness. Here, a bitter sort of delicacy comes in waves, sometimes clawing through intense screeches, and other times allowing Moore’s folksy acoustic guitar and whispers to shine through the controlled cacophony. 

FFO: The Fall, Television, My Bloody Valentine

After the heavy metal side project, Witch, J Mascis has faithfully returned to his trusty Dinosaur Jr. antics. And Farm is quite the treat. Aptly titled, this organic manifestation of sludgy grunge, chock-full of guitar solos, is more hopeful and bright than many of Dino’s past studio albums, which date all the way back to 1985. Teeming with as much feedback as one would anticipate, a song like “Friends” redirects the expectation, offering a true ’70s influence, with that hint of Neil Young Mascis is so tired of being compared to. His voice as gravely as ever, “Plans” is retro Dino, while “There’s No Here” is shiny and melodic, merging the bygone days of rock with a fresh sensibility. “Imagination Blind” is an intense closer, with loud guitars that override multi-layered vocals, peaking as they glide along the reverb.

FFO: Dead Meadow, Catherine Wheel, Swervedriver

Long before the Juno-indie craze was Mirah: a singer-songwriter who started her career in the Pacific Northwest over ten years ago, and who has even been covered by other K superstars. Sweet and soulful, the lo-fi, folksy, and instrumentally moving tunes on (A)spera, her sixth studio album on the eminent K Records, will lull and pacify, or otherwise serve as a delicately romantic backdrop to a playful make out session. Pulsing strings open the album, while “Education” twinkles and glimmers as Mirah coos to create clear echoes. “Country for the Future” features mellow yet fast-paced percussion that perfectly backs her acoustic finger-picking and whispery voice. (A)spera indicates obvious signs of maturation from 2001’s Advisory Committee, especially when it comes to the emotionally potent subtlety and lyrical charm of “The River,” and the stripped-down, retro catchiness of “Gone Are The Days,” containing just a hint of saxophone. 

For Fans Of: Mary Timony, Cat Power, Regina Spektor

With maturity beyond their years, The Black Keys injected retro groove into modern-day rock, sans any cheesy indie-ness. Guitarist/vocalist Dan Auerbach performs a similar miracle on his solo debut by merging blues with folk and crafting soulfully potent tunes. Keep It Hid channels his influences (Robert Johnson and Hound Dog Taylor among them) while retaining his raw Keys rock and Hendrix-approved wails. “When The Night Comes” all but requires you to sit on a porch during sunset hours, with whiskey and a dog, but “I Want Some More” is vintage rock à la Spencer Davis that will dirty your teeth with bluesy grime. “Heartbroken, In Disprepair” oscillates electrically as Auerbach’s warble croons over the heady guitar, “My Last Mistake” is downright Lynyrd Skynyrd-esque, and “Whispered Words” is mournful Creedence. As long as you keep your ears open and accepting, there’s pretty much no way not to appreciate this inspired album.

For Fans Of: Creedence Clearwater Revival, Graveyard, The White Stripes

American Laundromat’s latest Tribute collection offers delightful renderings of much-adored Cure songs by obscure artists that are definitely worth your listen. “Friday I’m in Love” has become a softer and aptly romantic duet, while the female vocals on “Boys Don’t Cry” provide a wistful twist, and “Just Like Heaven” gets you to dance. “Let’s Go To Bed” is upbeat, via lo-fi synth-ness, and most tracks add a dash of sunshine to the renowned Cure melancholy. A clunker like “In Between Days,” performed by Kitty Karlyle, does, however, make your ears yearn for gloomy Robert Smith.

 With PJ Harvey-huskiness and a sick percussive backdrop, These Are Powers have burst onto the Brooklyn indie scene boasting…well…power! That and an irrefutably dynamic mishmash of electronic and organic beats. Self-described as being “a language of sound,” their energy and experimental spazziness (as on “Glass Blocks” and “Blue Healer”) is rock candy for the ears.  For Fans Of: The Kills, Jucifer, Gang Gang Dance

According to Deerhunter frontman Bradford Cox, punk rock “ties together Dada, Surrealism, [and] stream of consciousness.” As a “true queer art punk,” Cox, a sufferer of Marfan Syndrome (like Joey Ramone) who also makes music under the moniker Atlas Sound, often dons dresses on stage, smearing blood on his face à la Iggy Pop. Druggy and experimental, the droning punk of Deerhunter is expertly envisioned on Microcastle. Last year’s Crypotgrams was a swirling, hypnotic, and cacophonic work of art, yet Microcastle carries out a similar musical vision without excessively heavy noise. Through more measured, minimalist, and emotional means, Deerhunter’s ambient and avant-garde rock both bombards and eases the senses.

The guitars on intro “Cover Me (Slowly)” sound as if recorded underwater, while “Agoraphobia” delightfully channels Velvet Underground in melody as well as vocals, merging a ’60s musical aesthetic with something a little more ’90s Pavement. “Never Stops” continues on a similar theme, but kicks it up a notch with added reverberation and an alternative swagger that heralds Sonic Youth in addition to retro-garage. The title track and “Activa” are slow and delicate, drowning in echo without wallowing in overly obvious melancholy. “Nothing Ever Happened” revives the pace with a catchy chorus, Spencer Davis baseline, movement-inducing rhythm, and cyclically neo-psychedelic guitars that maintain the song’s pulse. “Neither of Us, Uncertainly,” steeped in resonance, invokes a sunny ambiance, while “Twilight at Carbon Lake” is a shoe-gazy lullaby that, even when deafening, retains its poignant melody and vocal line. This song and others embody that sentimentally Surrealist methodology fundamental to Cox.

Known for his cameos, collaborations and remixes, Tricky’s latest is a telescopic lens into the man behind many projects. “Puppy Love” starts us off on this trip-hop odyssey; sexy and blues-driven, Tricky’s deep vocals overlay fierce strings and bass. On the orchestral-meets-reggae “Bacative,” oscillating strings create a unique backdrop for Jamaican vocals, as well as those by “a Spanish girl who I don't really know and who isn't really a singer.” The collaborations and mix-mash of musical genres are soulfully mesmerizing, while the single, “Council Estate,” emits lyrical hip-hop with a hard rock edge. 

To my absolute elation, I dove into multiple hours of the New Order listening experience, which takes you from the danciest of new wave to the most harrow of post-Joy Division synth punk, thanks to Rhino. They reissued and remastered the iconic band’s first five albums, with second-discs featuring various vinyl-version tracks, remixes, b-sides, and non-album singles…in other words, it’s a 24-hour party, people! One of the most outstanding discoveries is the 17-minute version of the profound instrumental “Elegia” off of Low-Life. Also striking is the poppy-industrial track, “Don’t Do It,” found on Technique disc two.

On their third studio album, the ultra-modern TV on the Radio reinforce their groovy spin on rock and roll. Melodically charming and musically expansive, the band’s indie rock sensibility is never clearer than on Dear Science. Though individual tracks fail to match the replay value of some songs (such as “Wolf Like Me”) on Return to Cookie Mountain, the new record has its share of shiny gems.

Once again, Tunde Adebimpe’s distinct voice smoothly guides us through every twist and turn. “DLZ” begins in a low-fi electronic fashion, as Adebimpe sings “La la la la” over intricately gentle beats, until a vast array of voices and instruments come out to play. Between soulful saxophones and piano on “Love Dog,” electro-clash beats and catchy chorus of “Dancing Choose,” and somewhat chaotically orchestral blast on the ever-hopeful closer, “Lover’s Day,” Dear Science manages to switch between moods and mindsets while still keeping things very cool. 

By way of a vintage feel and neo-psychedelic movements, Secret Machines concoct a whimsically textured sound that carries listeners through their third, self-titled album. Previously decreed to be part of the modern shoegaze generation, this album sees the three-piece switch between moods and visions more abruptly than your average shoegaze experience. Mystical without sounding ethereal, songs like “Last Believer, Drop Dead” are poppy while still retaining depth and dimensionality. These first few tracks are largely optimistic—“Underneath the Concrete” has a David Bowie vocal line amidst a sprawling Pink Floyd wonderland—until the album pulls listeners into an enriching melancholia. “I Never Thought To Ask” reverberates heavily, but it’s the 11-minute “The Fire is Watching” that truly delivers; the explosive song acts as an epic adventure indicative of classic influences. 

True to Mogwai form, The Hawk is Howling is expertly composed of self-contained buildups that create a beautiful sense of gloom. Post-rock, space rock, instrumental metal, or whatever you want to label them, this Scottish five-piece delivers lengthy, guitar-ridden songs that effortlessly veer between delicate and downright combative. Unlike the robotically mechanized effects heard years ago on Young Team, The Hawk is thoroughly organic. “I’m Jim Morrison, I’m Dead” builds to an epic climax via distortion, infinite reverberation, and a slew of instruments chugging along. “I Love You, I’m Going to Blow Up Your School” is hauntingly sad, until the guitars roar like lions. “Batcat” is aggressive and “Scotland’s Shame,” with instrumental echoes like voices, is deeply percussive. “Danphe and the Brain” tiptoes into the ears, involving Sigur Rós-esque xylophonic noises over Mogwai’s signature guitar swells.

As the singer and drummer for Death from Above 1979, Sebastien Grainger restored indie rock’s bite; after the band’s breakup in 2006, Grainger expanded his musical horizons while remaining true to the “dance punk” of Death’s past. “I’m All Rage (Live ’05)” channels his intrinsically spontaneous energy, and the raw punches of drum-and-guitar make “Who Do We Care For?” refreshingly catchy.

“By Cover of Night (Fire Fight)” charges forward by way of a persistent drumbeat and simplistic chords. Grainger’s voice sounds like a modernist take on an old crooner, landing his songs somewhere between decades and genres. “Niagara” boasts the percussive-power expected of Grainger, and his voice takes a backseat to the song’s swelling raucous. It’s an anarchic experience until the guitar pulls us into the Blue Öyster Cult-esque “(I Am Like a) River,” where an electric solo returns us to the ’70s.

Two legendary musicians collaborating for the first time in 30 years is sure to produce a momentous album. However, it’s more like two big kids reliving a childhood play date. Everything That Happens Will Happen Today provides David Byrne’s tremulous vocals and quirky lyrics with Brian Eno’s hypnotic backdrops, but though this album is delightful, it fails to leave a lasting impression. If you want Eno’s delicate and minimalist ambiance, you might refer to Eno and Harold Budd’s collaborative record, The Pearl, and if you want Byrne’s funky art-pop then you can obviously backtrack to any Talking Heads project. “I Feel My Stuff” is creative, with trailing piano keys and a discordant rock bite that becomes catchy, but much of this album fails to unite what the two are capable of separately. Hey, at least it’s free! 

Lead Castanet Raymond Raposa’s folksy voice sounds rather like Devendra Banhart’s, while embodying Sufjan Stevens’ placidity with darker undertones. City of Refuge moves quickly between piercing instrumentals (almost Middle-Eastern “The Quiet”) and humble, lyric-centric tunes (sentimental “Glory B”). “Refuge 1” is tinged with a rustic sullenness, as the acoustic guitar trembles in tandem with Raposa’s voice. 

Consistently releasing albums since 1981, and with 30 former members (including cEvin Key of Skinny Puppy, with whom they formed the short-lived Tear Garden), the Legendary Pink Dots have become legendary indeed. Plutonium Blonde blends the genres of goth, industrial, ambient and avant-garde, with unexpected shifts along the way. Repetitive guitars on “Torchsong,” along with hushed vocals and unidentifiable screeches, creates a sinister air. “A World with No Mirrors” and “Mailman” are acoustic and folksy, with Wickerman vibes. Thematically dark, an overall sense of turmoil oozes out during the slow-progressing, shape-shifting “Oceans Blue,” which could serve as the score for a nightmarish fairy tale. 

After forming in 1976, Wire became key in creating the post-punk genre. Already well situated in the annals of rock music history, their 11th studio album, Object 47, is a praise-worthy addition to the band’s expansive discography—as musically important as the seminal Chairs Missing, on which Wire first expanded beyond raucous punk to experiment with more complex instrumentation. 30 years later, this British outfit continues to churn out melodically chaotic gems that hark back to the swirling darkness of the early ’80s, as well as blend seamlessly into the modern age of retro-inspired music.

Though Object 47 does not constitute every original member, which is actually a first for Wire, the sound has not suffered. This album of brand new material opens on a  single drumbeat and charging bass, which soon invite a slew of instruments and a consistently resounding rhythm section to propel Colin Newman’s accented and somewhat brusque vocals. The song could not be catchier, despite its non-mainstream edge. The guitar on “Circumspect” is spiked with fuzz before becoming clearer, layered atop Newman’s deepened voice. While “Mekon Headman” borders on industrial, “Perspex Icon” is dizzying shoegaze gone poppy punk; one of the album’s best, it flows into the enticing, New Order-esque  “Four Long Years,” with a low-pitched bass and reverberated vocals that seep into the electric dissonance.

“Hard Currency” is equally dark and hard-edged; here, Newman sounds like Bauhaus’ Peter Murphy, as a guitar stands at the opening of a cavernous pit of pulsing noise. “All Fours” ends the album with staccato drumbeats and microphone effects that turn Newman’s already cynical voice into something particularly intimidating. If this song doesn’t take you back to a deathrock world of dangerous synths and leather, I don’t know what does.  

As a forerunner of industrial music, Einstürzende Neubauten (which translates to “collapsing new buildings”) charged into uncharted territories by using an array of mechanical and electrical tools, pipes, metal objects, and other uncommon materials as instruments in order to concoct a sound that is both truly avant-garde and, at times, intolerable to the ear. From absolute noise to droning ambience and destructive cacophonies as if in the tradition of Dadaism as well as antagonistic punk rock, Einstürzende Neubauten is best witnessed in live footage, where one can visually witness the unique and almost hostile ways in which they achieve their sounds. Despite its lack of easily digested melodies or easily comprehended structure, Jewels is listenable and also quite refreshing in a world of radio-ready singles.

Originally, the songs on this album were released one at a time as downloads, on or around the 15th of  each month from March of 2006 until August of 2007, although it is now available as a full album. All of the songs are relatively short, sucking you in and spitting you out as they shift to adopt new forms. With German whispers, hollow hums, intruding moans and bangs, and an all-around wounded magnetism, Jewels takes listeners to a steel basement where sounds emerge from all shapes and angles. Apparently based on the dreams of multi-instrumentalist Blixa Bargeld, each track evokes a harsh and desolate terrain, but though this may indicate a depressing experience, Jewels, on the contrary, lifts listeners out of their heads and thus offers an entirely new listening experience. One chooses Einstürzende Neubauten as a means of escape, and for transformation.

“Magyar Energia” is especially transformative, with a barrage of overlapping, chanting voices and a thundering backdrop of individualized noises.  On “Hawcubite,” as on many Neubauten tracks, the song title is repeated, and the vocals here are actually in English. With a sort of David Bowie conceptual approach, “Vicki” is likewise in English; Bargeld speaks of space stations, detailing a dreamy series of events as if suspended mid-sleep. Accompanying sounds crash and clang and sweep and swivel around his voice like comets and particles around a vacuous black hole. 

Forward Russia falls into that bizarre musical genre of “math rock,” which is rhythmically complex and led by unusual guitar patterns within larger frameworks that are atypically structured. The drumming is also somewhat irregular and, in the case of Forward Russia, pounding and precise. The British foursome’s experimental sound often takes interesting turns, changing volume levels and time signatures throughout the course of one song. While utilizing such techniques, Forward Russia also incorporates grand and sweepingly dramatic vocals, leaning toward a progressive-rock landscape and also embracing instrumental post-metal, especially during the lead-in of “Some Buildings.”  

Between its anatomical album cover art, album and song titles, such as “We Are Grey Matter,” Life Processes is epically conceptual and also cerebral. On “Breaking Standing,” Tom Woodhead sings, “Our body count will never last, but the sentimental killing lasts forever,” and on “Gravity and Heat,” he sings, “Into the night and into ourselves, we forage like rats.” Though the sonic climate is chaotic and the water rocky, Woodhead’s high-pitched voice and potent lyrics are so vigorous that they lead us on a pathway through the tangled melodies. An awkwardly played piano on “Fosbury In Discontent,” coupled with this voice, sounds like a one-man play and, every now and then, Forward Russia possesses Meat Loaf meets Muse theatrics. Opening with a burst of vocals and shredding guitar, Life Processes closes with the nearly 9-minute “Spanish Triangles,” which climbs to include multiple voices as if inducing a spiritually hypnotic experience, and then ends on a single piano note.

At this point, Coldplay can sell records and tickets no matter what they do creatively. Fortunately, Viva La Vida, produced be legendary Brian Eno, is worthy of critical praise and reveals Coldplay's intentions to remain deserving of their worldwide popularity. True to form and expectation, the band's fourth album is musically resplendent and emotionally stirring, at times joyful and other times reveling in poetic melancholy, sometimes within the framework and lyrics of the same song. Encompassing themes of death and loneliness, as well as hope and renewal, the album is fluid, as their work tends to be. More along the lines of 2002's A Rush of Blood to the Head than their last album, X & Y, which was a little too soft, lovey-dovey and basically unexciting, Viva La Vida is full of life and love in ways that are sincere and heartfelt without being sappy. Avoiding the obvious route of songs like X & Y's "Fix You," the album inspires a range of emotions by way of prominent, continuing strings and unexpected twists and turns that are perhaps Eno's most essential contribution to Coldplay's already defined sound.

In all honesty, every song here is a gem. The album beings the way it ends, implying a conceptual approach ideal for repeat plays, as it loops back upon itself. "Life in Technicolor" opens Viva La Vida in much the way "Don't Panic" introduced us to Coldplay on Parachutes, bleeding seamlessly into "Cemeteries of London," charmingly bright and instrumentally lush, and encompassing hints of a deeper sadness. Choral shouts of "La la la la" give the song a sing-along feeling, as one conjurs up images of unsettled ghosts wandering London graves together. "Lost" is musically and lyrically optimistic, and the band seems to have stepped up their percussion to make their overall sound more intense and interesting, burying Chris Martin's tremulous vocals (and whimsical backing voices) deeper into the swirling, richer-than-ever instrumentation. The piano, however, is still an essential element, especially on "42," which begins in a stripped-down fashion like old times, and is soon accompanied by gentle strings as Martin sings, "Those that are dead are not dead, they're just living in my head." Once you've settled your ears into the ballad, the strings pick up the pace and the song becomes an orchestral-meets-rock onrush. Martin emphatically sings, "You thought you might be a ghost/ You didn't get to heaven, but you made it close" as an electric guitar takes center stage, before the song slips back down to the piano.

"Lover in Japan / Reign of Love" is melodically John Lennon-esque and brilliantly composed, seemingly suspended with a reverberating glaze of guitars, cheerful piano, and surface-level baseline. The seven-minute "Yes" is the album's most epic and tells the story of an unraveling, as Martin's voice rises every time he sings, "I'm just so tired of this loneliness," and as violins run free until the track changes course and becomes noisier than expected. The title track and first single is typical Brit-pop Coldplay with a more profound underlying story (perhaps in conjunction with their album cover art), perfectly anthemic for large-scale shows and apparently commercials, though it shines with a charisma that far exceeds most commercial-ready songs. Their second single, "Violet Hill," which immediately follows "Viva La Vida" is dark and haunting, much the way "Trouble" followed "Yellow" on Parachutes. Hard-edged, distortion-heavy and rather loud, "Violet Hill" teems with anxiety as Martin begs, "If you love me, won't you let me know?" In typical Coldplay fashion, the song quiets down to the piano again, ending on a soft and sadly romantic note. Likewise, the closing track, "Death And All His Friends" begins in a hushed and delicate fashion, with the piano balancing Martin's voice, and then similar to the closing track "Amsterdam" on A Rush of Blood to the Head, it rises and elevates to achieve an emotional effect and connect even more closely to listeners, who cannot react passively at moments like this. A surreal and sonic watercolor painting or perhaps a field of wild and unusual flowers, Viva La Vida leaves you feeling not quite calm, not quite secure, but certainly enraptured.

Since Von and Agaetis Byrjun, Sigur Rós has become increasingly...well, poppy. That's not to say that they're yet ready for radio waves (thank God), but their once severely wistful and sorrow-inducing sound has significantly brightened up. On earlier albums, an icier Sigur Rós  evoked images of dark and lonely mountainous terrain; now, their music personifies verdant expanses and sunny skies. Takk... had moments of euphoric folk rock and lovely patterns of twinkling chimes and bells; Med Sud I Eyrum Vid Spilum Endalaust carries on in the same gleeful spirit, as if drenched in pure golden sunlight. Of course, their instrumentation is precise, experimental, as well as free-flowing. It's just that their songs now seem to serve a different purpose.

"Gobbledigook" begins us on the path toward discovering the brighter side of Sigur Rós. Sounding like a combination of Animal Collective, Yes, and psychedelic folk-rock bands of the '60s, the song is one long and intense moment of freedom, as collective voices scatter and become ingrained within abundant percussion. "Inní Mér Syngur Vitleysingur" is likewise joyful, short and catchy in a brimming and fruitful Polyphonic Spree fashion. "Festival," on the other hand, is both the album's longest track (at 9 minutes and 26 seconds) and it's most ambient, sounding very much like "Untitled 6" from ( ) and harking back to lengthy  soundscapes of Sigur Rós' past. The song changes shape halfway through and expands in wide waves, taking on a multitude of instruments and forming a grand composition. Following this, the title track has a swift piano at the core of its warm melody and whimsical undulations. 

"Ara Batur" also opens with a soft and peaceful piano as John Thor Birgisson's instantly recognizable voice, fluttering and furtively emotive, carries us through Icelandic lyrics. The wonderful thing about Sigur Rós is that they can cross any language barriers because their music carries the song's emotional and cerebral weight without English-speaking listeners needing to comprehend or analyze the words. The perfect example of this ability occurs on ( ) where Birgisson sings made-up words from a fabricated language, yet the album manages to convey complex and relatable emotions, perhaps in an even more truthful and unadultered manner. Regardless of literal "meaning," "Ara Batur" is majestic, like a long poem in musical form, opening up to include vast orchestral movements and sweeping choral voices. It becomes an almost spiritual experience. "Illgresi," on the other hand, is simple and plainly organic, with an acoustic guitar. The microphone picks up every slide on the neck, and we, as listeners, feel closer than ever to the otherwise strange, distant, and often grandiose Sigur Rós.  

After much anticipation from fans he’s picked up on Myspace or since playing the rather lovable Ceth in John Cameron Mitchell’s raunchy and romantic Shortbus, Jay Brannan’s debut album is finally available. Young, gay, attractive, and ambitious, Brannan’s appropriately titled Goddamned is a mix of humor and misery like a punchy and potent alcoholic drink. Brannan’s somewhat sardonic approach to solving and speaking of everyday problems or troublesome situations via conversational lyrics is at the forefront of every barebones track. Since one won’t find so much as a drum on the record, it’s lucky for us that Brannan’s voice is sweet and listenable, and that his lyrics, though at times incredibly dense (he could use a bit more breathing room in between verses or individual lines), are quirky enough to cling to.

On the rather despondent “American Idol,” Brannan sings, “Am I suicidal? Or am I hungry? American Idol get the hell off my TV.” The irony continues throughout the rest of the album, with songs like the piano-driven “Bowlegged and Starving,” which sounds rather similar to Ben Folds. On the other hand, the title track is outright somber with no added irony. Here, a violin literally weeps as Brannan tells a personal story through metaphor; his voice and the accompanying instruments rise with emotion before he quiets down again and sings, “No one’s coming to save you.” Even Brannan’s online blog speaks with unbridled truth, as is witnessed throughout the immensely intimate Goddamned.

“At First Sight” is harmoniously charming, and “Half-Boyfriend” is hysterically relatable, as he sings, “You’re a tease, you’re a cockblocker, you’re a loudmouth bitch, and a big talker,” and ends the chorus with the drawn-out line, “My one hope was that I’d survive you.” Through speaking of addictions, failed loves, world tragedies, self-loathing, disappointment, and depression, it seems that the up-and-coming multitalented Brannan is definitely surviving.

Who's the Brooklynite everyone's listening to these days? Well, she's infectious, musically diverse, and you can call her Santogold. Previously of the ska/punk band Stiffed, and also having produced Res' debut album in 2003, Santogold struck out on her own and recently released an eponymous debut that is making its way around the globe. Born in Philadelphia, and having majored in both music and African-American studies, Santogold boasts subtle M.I.A., Nelly Furtado and Tegan and Sara attributes, but a style that's all hers. She fuses reggae, hip-hop, indie rock, and Caribbean and African drumming, all with a punkish ("Go ahead, I'll be your junkie") and resilient (Can't pull us under/ You better watch out, run for cover") attitude. She seamlessly creates a delicious brand of shiny, funky pop that is authentic to the core, innovative, DIY in execution, and at times even dangerous.

The album cover shows gold glitter shooting out of Santogold's mouth, which perfectly encapsulates the entirety of the tracks and Santogold as an artist and forceful personality. She spills her guts and her musically unique take on things; the album as a result is pretty damn flawless...well, except for the new, dancier version of "You'll Find a Way," which originally appeared on the internet and the South by Southwest stage as what is now called "You'll Find a Way (Switch and Sinden Remix)." This version of the song, which appears later on the record, is brutally tense and almost antagonistic, with shouted lyrics and fervent synths that land it somewhere between reggae and noise rock. "Lights Out," on the other hand, is sparkly and girly, as Santogold's high-pitched voice lends itself nicely to a sweet melody.
 
The opener, "L.E.S Artistes," is fantastically catchy and well-produced, with a host of sounds both organic and electronic. With a feminist edge, shouts of "Hey Hey," and an almost serrated vocal line, "My Superman" is bass-heavy and deep. "Starstruck" is one of my favorites; taking from ska and reggae and combining these genres with electronic bleeps and hand claps, Santogold's voice runs smooth and clean as she sings, "I, I see you fade away" along the beats and bass. This self-described Creator ("Me, I'm a Creator/ Thrill is to make it up/ The rules I break got me a place/ Up on the radar") is ready for the world to stand up and take notice.

This Los Angeles-based, lo-fi experimental duo, also known for performance and visual art and having risen from the ashes of their former hardcore band, Wives, comes into their own on Nouns. Sounding a bit like Pavement assaulted by Japanther, with neo-psychedelic fuzz (especially on “Keechie”) à la Deerhunter’s Cryptograms, and an appetite for Sonic Youth disarray, Nouns is cacophonous…in a pleasant way. Throughout the album, muffled vocals take a backseat to blasting guitar-drum combos. “Here Should Be My Home” is outright melodically punk, and could perhaps serve as the album’s “single,” along with the energetic “Ripped Knees.” Finger-picking on “Things I Did When I was Dead” blends with electronic cicadas over a murky bass, and the vocals, deepened and more pronounced, create a vaporous ambiance that bleeds emotion via pools of distortion.

Melvins maintain a unique, if underrated, spot in the lineage of post-punk, alternative rock and, while they continue to tour and record, the band also imparts an ever-expanding influence on modern music. Nude with Boots, guided by Buzz Osbourne’s sneeringly gruff voice, is full of the shredding sludge-metal that first launched the Melvins into the North-Pacific’s pre-“grunge” music scene. While “The Smiling Cobra” is irrefutably heavy and harsh, with a Tool-esque bass, the album is not without distinct melodies that clearly shine through on the title track and “Suicide in Progress.” 

This seven-piece Welsh indie pop band delivers a burst of oxygen to keep your blood flowing. The album, consistently spunky and spirited, is jam-packed with instruments. “Broken Heartbeats Sound like Breakbeats” (like many other tracks) has coexisting male and female shouts, along with strung-out vocals, while the speedy “My Year In Lists” is oddly romantic.

The Tirefires have stricken the match to rekindle Brooklyn’s spark. This folk-rock foursome, by way of a Beatles-pop awareness and Pogues-esque persona with punkish undertones, has an advantage over the majority of insipid bands awash in NYC’s music scene. Recorded to tape at Excello Studio and hot off the spindle, this handful of charming and memorable songs—about drugs, women, heartbreak, and ultimately redemption—are immensely fun, and also somewhat fatalistic. One can hardly resist the references to subway trains and whiskey, or the “ooh-ah-ooh” backing vocals on the playful “Apple Tree,” or the sincere desolation of the quieter “Dirge,” with insightful lyrics, “Who’s the monster in the bathroom mirror, wait it’s me.”

True to expectation, Dillinger Escape Plan has created another hard-hitting and complex album. At the immediate start of Ire Works, vocalist Greg Puciato screams out his soul to the brink of sound; “Fix Your Face” is intense—chaotically controlled, and just barely restrained—as the screams escalate and instruments pause for half a second before another powerful round begins, heralding the second track, “Lurch.” Among the majority of inaudible lyrics, Puciato screams, “I’ll give you anything you want;” sexy and urgent, for anyone who gets off to post-hardcore vocals, furious guitars, and terrifically fast drumming.

“Black Bubblegum” offers our ears their first mini-break, as the vocals become melodic and the instruments shrink to accompany. The song is almost radio-friendly…but not quite. “Sick on Sunday” is another nice surprise and departure, as electronic buzzes and noises coalesce to create a slow and provocative build-up. Mellower, and with a choppy guitar, the song never climaxes, but leads us directly into another upsurge of unidentifiable instruments and bells on “When Acting As A Particle,” which then revolves and evolves as if becoming the backdrop for a tense horror film. Eventually, we reach “Nong Eye Gong,” where more powerful screams and instruments that can’t sonically contain themselves break and shape the overall sound. Moving right into “When Acting As A Wave,” these three interconnecting tracks are reminiscent of ’80s prog rock, heavier Yes, or “metalized jazz”—taking brief breaks to offer new drumming patters and varied rhythms.

“Milk Lizard” is one of Ire Work’s very best, with thick guitars and demanding vocals that reveal both emotion and attitude. “Dead As History” is perhaps the album’s most atmospheric and, in this way, truly brave for a band widely recognized as heavy hitters; deep winds and frayed sounds rise slowly to a piano that climbs to a catchy melody. “Horse Hunter” is all over the place, but it slows down, à la Mars Volta, to a crazed guitar and whispered vocals. The finale, “Mouth of Ghosts,” is multifaceted and full, with echoing vocals and the words “Don’t you know where” breathed over a fluid piano. It’s something like Alice In Chains meets Isis with keys, and absolutely beautiful. Ire Works proves that Dillinger Escape Plan exists simultaneously within separate sounds and genres, while still remaining true to their emotive intentions. The album paces itself, showcasing both lyrical ability and superb guitar skills that hark back to a time when bands consisted of expert musicians.

Always one step ahead of the rest, Radiohead heralded the next wave of music consumerism by offering their album, for a limited time, at the price fans chose to pay online. Though In Rainbows lacks the sort of heroic experimentation encountered on Kid A, this new album seems to pick up where Hail to The Thief, and its organic-meets-electronic whimsicality, left off. Here, emotions run high as Radiohead alchemically conjures quixotically poetic lyrics and charmingly rich instrumental landscapes. “Bodysnatchers” is fuzzy and loud, while “Reckoner” is somewhat ambient and simply beautiful. "All I Need" bleeds romance with a sort of kinetic delicacy only Radiohead can offer, while the piano melody of “Videotape" is painfully haunting and sincerely melancholic.

    The Inevitable Rise and Liberation of Niggy Tardust is conceptually rich and musically unique. Produced by Trent Reznor and mixed by Alan Moulder, this album is the result of impressive collaboration. In the past, spoken-word poet Saul Williams commanded attention by spitting his words against sparse hip-hop beats, but Niggy Tardust is an entirely different animal. Niggy is to Williams as Ziggy Stardust was to Bowie; a persona that is both an embodiment of and separate character for its creator. Such a persona allows Williams legroom for experimentation, i.e. teaming up with NIN mastermind Reznor, for whom he opened on a past tour. On this record, there is just as much Reznor, with his signature industrial sound, as there is Williams (or rather “Niggy”). Williams and Reznor are bridging the ever-widening gap between urban hip-hop heads, who stick to rap, and rock kids, who stick to their chosen genres. This album is comprised of multi-part songs that unite urban funk with dark rock.    

As an artist, thinker, poet, and musician, Williams offers inspiration to all listeners (black, white, you name it). Like recent Reznor endeavors (particularly his most recent, Year Zero), Niggy Tardust is overtly and insistently political, illuminating the underlying racial tension of America’s past and present. Also, like many NIN songs, the tracks on Niggy Tardust are backed by somewhat danceable beats and mechanic effects, though Reznor and Williams also make use of raw drums, layers of voices, and sparse breaks where Williams’ words can exist amid silence. Williams reveals his vocal skills by alternating between hard-edged spoken poetry and truly melodic singing.    

The drumming on “Convict Colony” is immediately reminiscent of NIN’s “The Collector” (from With Teeth), but a synthesized baseline takes over and Williams’ smooth, heavy voice coats the percussion; soon, a catchy melody takes shape. “Tr(n)igger” is lyrically intense, but old school hip-hop beats and dancey repetitiveness nearly disguise the seriousness of the words (“The nigger is you”). Williams says, “I remember being very scared of the power of this song. I knew how it made me feel as a black man. I tried to pay special attention to how I crafted it musically and lyrically so that it would invoke dancing rather than violence.”

A surprising cover of U2’s “Sunday Bloody Sunday” exemplifies Williams’ desire to create musical hybrids; at first, the vocals sound just like Reznor’s (and this happens elsewhere on the album), but Williams can swing from this intonation to a Bob Marley tone. Covering U2 serves to re-popularize a political song that rang true back in 1983 on War and continues to make sense now. “Break” is harsh, anthemic, and almost militaristic, with a gravely vocal line, choral shouting, and very Fragile-esque guitar that uncoils in the background. “Niggy Tardust,” the title track, is authoritative and probably the most confrontational, as Williams sings, “When I say Niggy, you say nothing.” The Latin vibe of “Scared Money” is soulful, which provides an interesting contrast with the n-word purposefully woven through; the line, “I used to fantasize I was Malcolm” leads to a personal confession about living on the “lowest rung.” When the music fades to nothing but Williams, it returns with eerie echoes of his son singing, “I am the Kinggy.”

“Banged and Blown Through” is one of the album’s best, as fierce percussion and restrained vocals combine with ’80s inspired synths that blaze in the background. “Skin of a Drum” is all about personal struggle, and the song crawls along the flesh; Williams says, “In the chronology of Niggy, this is the point of his story where he realizes that although the world seems to have divided him against himself, he can't lose. It’s a triumph even though it's laden with heartbreak. He realizes that he has been broken to fit.”

Some of the riot grrrl movement’s finest lady rockers. On their third album, released in the early ’90s amid many other famous titles, the Los Angeles bred L7 took hard rock’s grating guitars and punk’s rough-around-the-edges vocals to create surprisingly catchy melodies in a Killing Joke meets Black Sabbath meets Joan Jett manner. With the legendary Butch Vig as producer, the album flawlessly combines metal with punk like the best of all-male grunge bands.
 
Standout tracks: “Pretend We’re Dead” and “Everglade”


13 & God, 13 & God (2005)
A truly evocative collaboration. Spoken, whispered, and mechanized words sputter atop minimalist electronic landscapes, like clean snow reflecting city lights. This album is the polished result of musical trades (à la The Postal Service) between electronic rockers The Notwist and atypical hip-hoppers Themselves. Psychologically reflective, and even cosmological (“without a universal law there is no gravity”), the glimmer of clean beats and piano keys create whimsically dark music capable of causing chills.

Standout tracks: “Men of Station” and “Soft Atlas”

Over the course of 19 tracks, Sex, Death, Cassette proves itself to be sexy, occasionally morbid, and largely lo-fi; “4-track power forever” proclaims the liner notes. Rafter wears a neo-psychedelic coat of many colors, though he is more hipster than hippie, with a mellow, electro-clash twist and a casual, d.i.y. approach. Like the tie-dye, rainbow colored album art, Rafter’s music is fun and experimental, with just a touch of crazy and a bit of free-love romance (plus death). Loosely textured and incredibly catchy, “Zzzpenchant” incorporates maracas, almost robotic vocals, saxophone, and rousing backup voices to create a harmonious little creature. “Love time now please” is jovial, barebones Animal Collective with a horn section, as Rafter uses his voice instrumentally. “Cuddling raccoons” freaks out with hand-claps and electronic something-or-other, which immediately pulls itself together to form an enchanting melody on “Chances,” complete with lazy strings juxtaposed against a fast-paced guitar riff, while distanced, somewhat muffled vocals ask, “Am I falling in love?” “No-one home ever” combines cynical, somewhat despairing, lyrics - “She asked me about how I think I’m going to die…I know how I’ll die” - with a spirited cymbal beat and Modest Mouse charm. The cheery death theme continues on “Asking,” where Rafter sings, “They left us here to die, but we’re not ready to die,” whereas on “Tropical,” one of the quietest tracks, he sings, “So wake up before you die, my friend” in a delicate, somber manner. This album is an art project straight from the heart, like a construction paper Valentine. It ends with the line, “You’re going to break your bones on me,” which is Sex equals Death on Cassette, right? 

The Fleshtones have been playing nitty-gritty rock n’ roll in New York City for 30 years. Based now in Brooklyn, the band formed in 1975 when guitarist/vocalist Keith Streng and original bassist Jan-Marek Pakulski rented a house in Queens and found forgotten instruments in the basement. They debuted at CGBG’s in 1976 and eventually garnered a following for their retro ’50s/early-’60s rock meets blues. Unlike many bands of the era, who were writing arena rock songs and ballads, The Fleshtones took it back a few years to play their soulful garage pop. Though their songs always end on an upswing, they aren’t kitschy enough to serve as the soundtrack to your “psycho beach party;” perhaps they’re better suited for a shindig at your parent’s house!   

They’ve been through several members and The Fleshtones now comprise four musicians who all contribute (and consistently overlap) vocals. They have a new book, Sweat: The Story of The Fleshtones, America's Garage Band, and even a tribute album of 23 songs covered by other artists. This album of new material, Take A Good Look, kicks off with a throaty yelp of “Well come on!” Surf-twang guitar solos, highly danceable grooves, and clap-along rhythms come into play. With dynamite vocals and an electric, hard rock edge, “Never Grew Up” is a perfect illustration of the band’s youthful and ageless nature. All of the songs are catchier than catchy. “Jet Set Fleshtones” proclaims “Look out, we’re on our way,” though they’ve already proven to been a mainstay for decades. As fresh, raw, and passionate as if it this were their first release, yet polished and well-constructed, these songs prove that they’ve had a lot more practice than many a garage band. With Take A Good Look, and all of its exuberant shouting, playful lyrics, and full-on rocking-out, The Fleshtones successfully span the trends and tests of time.

On Women as Lovers, Xiu Xiu resumes their poetic and experimental approach to music making. The band’s spin on modern indie rock involves a post-punk meets electro meets Leonard Cohen aesthetic, with overlapping sound effects and the sort of immediacy that you can really sink your teeth into. Jamie Stewart’s hushed, breathy, and somewhat struggling vocals draw the listener into the asymmetric “I do what I want when I want,” which is replete with bells, chimes, birdlike chirps, and a saxophone that plays hide and seek amid Caralee McElroy’s backing vocals. “In lust you can hear the axe fall” is tense, with commanding drums and wavering vocals shouting into muffled space; the song slows to a near-halt and then rises crazily. Resounding percussion juxtaposes high-pitched keys and music box twinkles on “No friend oh!” which escalates to a chaotic and slightly incongruous melody that manages to captivate; the song shifts, clangs, and feeds itself as one tries to grab hold. “Master of the bump” melancholically evokes Bright Eyes, “You are pregnant, you are dead” is a glimmering cacophonous spectacle, and “Black keyboard” is romantic and somewhat archaic in tone. The explosive “Child at arms” is something else altogether, and the cover of “Under Pressure” contains playful instruments and alternating male/ female vocals that reinterpret the original. Women As Lovers is imaginative and childlike in presentation, but morbid and somber in lyrical content (like the line, “You have been killed in a car crash”) and vocal delivery. And it’s Xiu Xiu’s ability to mix light-spirited fun with dark themes that makes them so meaningful.

Ladyhawk’s sophomore album is emotionally resplendent, but never overindulgent. Mixing fast-paced, raucous songs with mellow, wistful tracks, much like they did on their self-titled debut, Shots is a mirror for the whims of the soul, containing the motifs of death (“Corpse Paint” and “Faces of Death”) and romantic longing/realization (the line, “I know there is no such thing as endless love”). “Fear” perfectly exemplifies the Canadian Ladyhawk’s indie-rock sensibility: wavering, dual-layered vocals sing anxiously as a melodic barrage of clashing instruments collectively fade to silence. Taking from the poetic Neil Young, adding unpolished early ’90s grunge, a pinch of Connor Oburst, and elements of metal, something distinctly Ladyhawk pokes through. On “Night You’re Beautiful,” with what sounds like Lou Reed’s “do do do’s” from “Walk on the Wild Side” in the background, a brave electric guitar weaves around and around dynamic vocals and fresh distortion. The swagger of their 10-minute finale “Ghost Blues” escalates to multi-screamed vocals that break and reshape themselves as the instruments gets increasingly loud. With striking and spontaneous guitar solos, gentle acoustics, and the ability to switch between such utter quiet and jam-packed sound, Shots is too honorable and magnificent for anyone to consciously ignore.

Swedish four-piece Graveyard makes the kind of rock music that defines and indulges in every aspect of the genre. A grungier Black Sabbath with killer guitar solos and passionate vocals, Graveyard embodies the essential elements of classic rock so much so that it’s impossible to decide whether or not you somehow overlooked their presence throughout the past few decades. Much the way Soundgarden reinterpreted classic metal, Graveyard offers their own influenced sound by introducing psych-rock and blues into the equation. Raspy, resounding, and occasionally layered vocals are both badass rock n’ roll (think “American Woman”) and composedly emotional (think Jeff Buckley). Every track on this self-titled debut is flawlessly composed and emphatically carried out, particularly “Blue Soul” and “Right is Wrong,” which escalates to the point of absolute elation, like the very best songs of legendary rock bands.

Any longstanding fan ought to be a wee suspicious of the “reunited” Pumpkins. Billy Corgan was always the band’s focal point, but guitarist James Iha and bassist D’Arcy Wretsky were important supporting characters (to balance Corgan’s ego); both now absent from SP and Zeitgeist (well, D’Arcy was gone before the Pumpkins broke up). After Zwan, Corgan’s “eh” solo album, and SP’s final farewell seven years ago (which he blamed both pop music and his bandmates for), this “new” Pumpkins, comprised of Corgan, original drummer Jimmy Chamberlin, and other musicians, returns to re-dominate mainstream rock.

Zeitgeist seems to pick up where Machina, and the Internet-released only Machina II, left off—following their foray into electronic experimentation, it was back to more organic means of achieving their artsy alt-rock sounds. Zeitgeist is surprisingly good; undeniably missing some essential SP ingredients—the ethereal mood of Mellon Collie or surreal lullabies on Pisces Iscariot—but just as heartfelt, poetic, and angsty as the ever expressive Corgan’s always been.

The opener, “Doomsday Clock,” is catchy, but fails to leave any sort of impression; thankfully, Zeitgeist gets increasingly better, climaxing midway through and tapering off again toward the last three tracks. The single “Tarantula” is memorable, with screeching solos over a rush of frantic instruments, ending with the line, “I don’t want to be alone at all.” “That’s the Way (My Love Is)” sounds like classic SP, but the nearly ten-minute “United States” is, by far, the most complex and musically remarkable—arching into progressive metal territory, Billy sings “Revolution…what will they do to me?” as furious guitars and cymbals crash around him. Records chockfull of political statements are a dime a dozen nowadays, but the violent nature of “United States,” and the fact that it’s quite the departure from prettier sounds of SP’s past, raises the bar. 

Personally, I would like Corgan to venture into more avant-garde territory. With his bald head and hulking 6 foot 3 presence, seeing him live (or in the “Ava Adore” video) is like witnessing a vampiric, otherworldly creature. It’d be interesting to hear him pursue music of an eerier, ambient quality, less melodramatically personal and more obscure. But, of course, that’s just me.

Goon Moon is the out-there side project of bassist Jeordie White, a.k.a Twiggy Ramirez (from his days as Marilyn Manson’s sidekick), and Masters of Reality’s Chris Goss. Licker’s Last Leg, the duo’s first full-length record, released in May of this year, sounds far more like the classic-metal influenced Masters of Reality than Manson or Nine Inch Nails (whom Jeordie now plays for), but is still a completely separate creative endeavor.

Like the twisted humor of The Cornbugs, a collaboration between Buckethead and “Chop Top” Billy Moseley of horror film fame, Licker’s Last Leg doesn’t take itself too seriously; in fact, it seems like the whole point of the album, and the band at that, is to simply have fun experimenting. The well-produced album’s bizarre lyrics, which are sung, sometimes operatically, whispered, spoken, or growled, grants every track its own absurdist, and totally enjoyable, storyline.  

“Hardcore Q3’s” sing-songy refrain, “One two three, going to hell,” is like a spooky children’s tune, while “Balloon” boasts a B-52’s groove plus hair-metal guitar solos. Backing vocals on “Lay Down” suggest a sinister Polyphonic Spree, while “My Machine” embodies elements of Tool. The bassline and drum-machine beats on “An Autumn That Came Too Soon” are very savvy ’70s, while “Pin-Eyed Boy” is early-90s grunge, with dense guitars. “The Golden Ball” is the album’s most unique—starting with clumsily plucked guitar strings, odd sound effects, and peculiar spoken-word “poetry,” the song completely changes shape until mysteriously overtaken by an onslaught of frightening voices. Definitely a trip.

Interpol may have a hipper than thou demeanor, as well as a detached, somewhat apathetic stage presence, but their latest effort, Our Love to Admire, is warm and sincere. Joy Division provides the most significant and frequently noted influence for the constructs of Interpol’s slickly produced, post-punk-esque sound and impassive vocals, even if Interpol isn’t nearly as sparse, or as dark. The whimsically fun Our Love to Admire, however, takes a small step in a new direction by mixing mellow, melancholic tracks with peppier, up-tempo songs to diversify the listener’s musical experience.

The formula of Our Love to Admire’s first single, “Heinrich Maneuver,” is all too similar to Antic’s “Slow Hands,” which is actually the better song, but at least the catchy “Mammoth” atones for the blunder. “Pioneer to the Falls” is musically intricate, with a romantic refrain; “You fly straight into my heart.” Reminiscent of “Hands Away” (on Turn on the Bright Lights), “Wrecking Ball” is perhaps the album’s most beautiful track: a quiet guitar slowly pulls in orchestral instruments, as background voices majestically rise.

Closing the album, “The Lighthouse” reveals Interpol more noticeably experimenting with music composition, and conjuring truly emotive undertones. The entire song is steeped in vibrant echo, as Daniel Kessler’s voice hides within oscillating guitars that create sonic undulations and evoke images of the sea. Despite Interpol’s possible pretentiousness (or Joy Division comparisons), Our Love to Admire is worthy of admiration.

Nightmare Sequence will capture your eardrums, and bang them to pieces, from the very first riff of its initial title track. Adventurous and dynamic, this debut album, from Brooklyn’s The Dead Betties, is one of the most authentic and energetic to recently emerge from New York’s indie scene.

The Dead Betties are somewhat of an anomaly, blending “proto punk” (T. Rex), “hardcore punk” (The Misfits), and “post-hardcore punk” (At The Drive-In, or even Mission of Burma), but they’re more than any wannabes. Like Placebo’s flamboyant and openly bisexual Brian Molko, singer/bassist Joshua Starr flaunts his homosexuality by cross-dressing, performing at gigs like Queercore Blitz tour and Homo a Go Go, and criticizing the “status quo” in his songwriting and lifestyle—what could be more “punk rock” than that?

“Malls of the Midwest” is the epitome of all things awesome about this band: prominent drums and a frenzied guitar coalesce with exceptional screams for a powerful display of aggressive noise. “Destination I Do” is melodic and calm, with Starr emphatically singing about gay rights: “Put your hands together, it’s my wedding day…I dare you to challenge me.” The finale, “Non-Ultra,” takes a darker turn with spoken vocals and minimal piano over o-so loud distortion. After all of this, the only logical thing to do is to replay Nightmare Sequence, and its fiery first track, another few times. The Dead Betties are here to be heard.

Animal Collective’s high-energy musical antics catapult listeners from the confines of their couches to the furthest reaches of imaginary jungles. Wrought with wild ambience, Strawberry Jam is the perfect soundtrack to a tribal bonfire on a hot summer’s night, complete with spiked punch, neo-hippie drum circle, and maybe some fruit.   

“Peacebone” starts us off on this psychedelic journey, speeding energetically with a frothy fizz, like wavers of heat. “For Reverend Green” builds and builds to climactic chants of “Wooo Oooh” and vocalized screaming, in keeping with the frenzy of the first track. “Fireworks” is a little gentler, with nasally vocals and another healthy serving of the band’s signature “Oohs.” The song escapes its own structure and dives into untamed experimentation and unidentifiable goings-on—jam-packed, boisterous, and all-encompassing.

“#1” is the oddball number, where a vacillating’80s synth, whispers, and sparse bass drum drive a concoction of voices; meanwhile, a deeper guru-esque voice speaks in the foreground. “Chores” epitomizes the beauty and bliss of both band and album, blurring the line between electric and organic, calmness and ferocity, and primitive and modern culture. Simple melodies guide us through the eccentric craze of “Cuckoo Cuckoo,” where fluttering noises atop battering percussion run amok. High-strung vocals shout over another cacophony, which becomes monstrously raucous, until the song breaks free to reveal the still-shining piano at its core.

Perhaps more well-constructed than previous releases, Strawberry Jam explores and consequently discovers itself through the multilayered tracks that hit you at every conceivable angle. The album’s playful and optimistic vibes make you want to wrap the CD in glittering paper and offer it to everyone you see.

Any press-related writing will, at some point, inform you that Tegan and Sara are identical twin lesbians from Canada, who have been making music together since high school. They’ll probably leave out the dichotomy inherent in their music, though—how the little-girl voices and seemingly sweet approach to song-making can easily deceive new listeners. Though they may seem like friendly, unobtrusive girly pop, Tegan and Sara are rooted in d.i.y. punk and folk-rock, with occasional angsty riot grrrl tendencies (most notably in early releases); the prolific and pixie-like sisters provide delicate, meaningful melodies in a poetically minimalist manner.

On their fifth studio release, Tegan and Sara’s tinny, rather squeaky-cute voices layer atop one another to drive their brand of keyboard/drum/guitar indie-rock straight into memory. Intriguing lyrics reveal painful breakups and inner thought patterns; “I want to draw you a floorplan of my head and heart…I want your lungs to stop working without me.” The Con’s pop sensibility combines electro-clash beats, particularly on “Are You Ten Years Ago” (definitely a standout track), with an up-tempo and somewhat romantic Cat Power-esque prowess.

More lo-fi than overly produced, “Soil, Soil,” at just 82 seconds, is the perfect example of Tegan and Sara’s musical intelligence and relatable lyrics: “Oh and I’m feeling directionless yes…and I’ll be curled on the floor hiding out from it all.” Punchy and to-the-point, The Con is catchy from start to finish, and proves that although Tegan and Sara may sound kinda small, they are undoubtedly mighty.

A dance production duo from Paris has managed to completely engage American listeners; Justice does their best to give everyone something to groove to. Heavily influenced by the innovative Daft Punk, they mix old school beats and disco melody with modern technology to create mechanically harmonious treasures for any break-dance party.

Cross opens with none other than “Genesis;” at first epic, like a super villain’s menacing theme, the song establishes a deep, synthesized baseline with accompanying robotic hand-claps and sound effects, until incorporating sexy sci-fi undertones. A frenetic cymbal, at the song’s end, leads right into “Let There Be Light,” which picks up the pace and elaborates on the electronica frenzy, breaking clean some ways through to reveal the sugary concoction of underlying keys.    

“D.A.N.C.E,” is remarkably fun, with a talented chorus of children singing, “Do the D.A.N.C.E./ Stick to the B.E.A.T/ Just easy as A.B.C./ Do the dance.” The creative music video, with constantly changing, cartoony images appearing on people’s T-shirts, compliments the song perfectly.

Just as you think Cross has become a little stale somewhere around “Phantom” parts I and II (which are almost too reminiscent of Daft Punk’s “Robot Rock”), new sounds pop out to entice you. The high-pitched synthesizer and melodic singing on “DVNO” sound retro like an ’80s dance movie, with drawn-out vocal echoes that weave into the background. “Valentine’s” layered keyboard patterns are sparkly, and the girly rapper on “Tthhee Ppaarttyy” revs you up, but “Stress” is the true masterpiece here. Loud and overwhelming, fraught with high-strung tension, wavering sounds increasingly build to accompany hardcore, all-night dancers—perhaps, most appropriately, those on speed. Cross is electrically charged, and seemingly not one for the wallflowers.

Formed by “brainchild” Greg Bertens in the late ’90s, Film School has garnered attention for well-produced sound and artsy ability. More descriptive terminology might define them as modern shoegaze, or dreamy Goth “light,” with freely escaping soundwaves and poignant resonance à la noise-rock. The band’s latest effort, Hideout, is an all-out escape from reality, perfectly balancing instrumental ambience with humming vocals that fade in and out. The entire album brims with reverberation as textured pedal effects underlie melodies seemingly wrapped in sonic gauze. 

Fluid from start to finish, songs on Hideout are less forlorn, and more self-contained, than those of 2003’s EP, Alwaysnever, though vacillating guitars still provide the opaque atmosphere for which the band’s known. Obscure lyrics, on multiple tracks, hide within delicate layers of sound. ’80s Echo & the Bunnymen meets ’90s shoegazers The Catherine Wheel on “Lectic,” while the rather poppy “Two Kinds” sounds like oversaturated Sonic Youth. The interestingly titled “Sick Hipster Nursed by Suicide Girl” features dreary, post-punk vocals over a hushed piano and somewhat muffled percussion. “Blizzard Scout,” a 2-mintue instrumental at the album’s near end, is dark and cerebral, evoking images of scenes from Eraserhead…which is, perhaps, exactly what Film School’s trying to achieve.

Caribou’s fourth full-length album begins without long-winded introductory build-up, engaging us, instead, with its very first note. Childlike, and yet intelligently so, the band’s dreamy pop aesthetic transmits fluttering sounds and misty voices. Andorra’s layers of bells, jingles, chimes, chirps, flutes, keys, and percussive echoes offer an enchanting experience not unlike delving into the musical milieu of a fairy tale. In Caribou’s case, the fairy tale is ’60s psych/garage band meets whimsical shoegaze meets a field of marigolds. Every song flows together flawlessly so one bleeds into the next like a series of surreal dreams.

Though certainly delicate and pretty, there’s something haunting about many of the tracks. “She’s the One” is an obvious love song, but it's lethargic and perhaps unsure. “After Hours” involves effects pedals and unidentifiable sounds that move together chaotically, as if competing for breathing room in dim-lit space. Here, the vocals seem particularly distant, and lazily chanting, which creates a spiritual atmosphere in which harmony loosely hangs. “Melody Song” feels restless, like a bird about to fly off course, and “Desiree” is at first sparse and then overcrowded, accompanied by irritating vocal lines, and a trite Pied Piper feel. When the band sings in unison on “Sandy,” Andorra is poppy and sweet, but on “Niobe,” Caribou take advantage of electronic means to portray and dictate emotion.

Since his teenage days as a noise band drummer, Joe “White” Williams has been fascinated with electronica. Years of experimenting have culminated in his forthcoming Smoke—an intrinsically nostalgic record that reexamines and reanimates retro pop via technological instrumentation. At only 23, Williams’ appreciation for this groovy pop of decades past (and extensive knowledge of generating, recording, and editing sounds) grants him a musical sensibility that far surpasses most of his generation. “I Want Candy” is the perfect example of Williams’ charm; his rendition is quirky and minimalist—more art pop than bubble-gum. Weird sound effects drive the familiar melody, which offers Williams the freedom to draw his own weapons on the electronic battlefield.

Upon first listen, Smoke sounds alarmingly similar to recent Beck albums (especially Smoke’s second track, “In The Club”). Williams, like Beck, turns to Motown, disco, funk, and old school R&B to unearth sexy beats and baselines for colorfully modern makeovers. “New Violence” combines said genres, but mainly incorporates ’80s new wave synths. “Going Down’s” smooth baseline and delicious vocal harmonies unite with laser-beam sounds, while “Danger” utilizes rough-edged Aphex Twin tricks, with more structure and straight-up melody.

The only point at which the album fails is its instrumental finale, “Lice In The Rainbow.” Here, piercing sounds don’t ascend or crescendo, but revolve around and around like an annoying child playing a Fischer Price instrument until dawn. Aside from this electronica faux pas, Smoke’s simplistic lyrics and dynamic effects offer versatility to any ol’ pair of ears. 

Originally a quintet, and now encompassing (at least) eight performing members, Arcade Fire’s sophomore album, Neon Bible, is an ambitious and mature follow-up to 2004’s critically acclaimed Funeral. As with Funeral, an album about growing up and leaving cherished people and places in the dust, Neon Bible is rife with an emotional and conceptual undercurrent, this time of discordant spirituality that touches on dystopian issues of our time, place, and age. All eleven tracks are separate entities, though the album flows breathlessly as one harmonious creature, encompassing poetic lyrics, choral backing vocals, and a vast and mighty array of musical instruments—from organs and pianos, to strings and brass, to a hurdy-gurdy and xylophones. 

Neon Bible is like an early 20th-century novel replete with musical motifs and lyrical imagery; each song (or chapter) is epic, telling its own little tale of struggle, hope, and personal triumph. “Black Mirror,” the opening track, is percussive and breathy until high-pitched and high-strung vocals enter. When strings, a generous collection of instruments, and echoing female harmonies join in, the entire song rises like a wave and then whirlwinds. The album picks up and starts fresh with poppy and energetic “Keep the Car Running,” and slows again with the reflective and wistful title track. Here, the melody and lyrics are simple yet profound, as the song exemplifies religious fears instilled upon us as children: “Not much chance for survival if the neon bible is right.”

“Intervention” embodies the irony of religion and war with the narrative of an injured soldier trying to support his despondent family: “Working for the church while your life falls apart/ Singing hallelujah with the fear in your heart.” Pipe-organ-heavy and traditional, the song itself sounds broken down, but still standing, much like an antiquated church or the persevering anti-hero of its story. The incredibly moving and musically dynamic “Black Waves/Bad Vibrations” releases pent-up energy midway through as Win Butler’s flimsy voice reaches its emotional breaking point. “My Body is a Cage,” unsettling and melancholic like an old Christian hymn, ties up the album—it crescendos to a magnificent swell of organs, voices, and militaristic drums as Butler croons, “Set my body free, set my spirit free” to a God who might not be paying any mind.   

Neon Bible is admirable for its ability to sound both optimistic and simultaneously grounded in fearful reality. Though the lyrics may be sensitive, and often downtrodden, Arcade Fire’s music, firmly rooted in organic instrumentation, lifts the soul to a higher place—“The sound is not asleep, it’s moving under my feet.”

Ever since Michel Gondry’s Science of Sleep, Charlotte Gainsbourg has been featured in who knows how many American magazines. She’s become our latest infatuation, though we’re certainly slow to catch on to her charms. Having already starred in about 30 films (some of them French, some of them English), Charlotte, with a famous duo for parents, has been in the spotlight since birth. What Americans might find so refreshing is that she’s the antithesis of superficial Hollywood without actively trying—poised, down-to-earth, au-natural, modest (even shy), and certainly blessed with genuine talent, who could help falling in love?

The same is very much true of her album. Reflective, introspective, and intelligent, her singing seems to embody her entire persona; breathy and dreamlike, it’s nearly lullaby material, but certainly isn’t meant to put one to sleep. 5:55 showcases Charlotte and only Charlotte at the crux of carefully composed instrumentation, which includes strings, acoustic guitar, delicate bells and chimes, some electronics and soft beats, and an ever-present piano. It’s the delicate piano, in fact, that perfectly balances her voice on songs like “Tel Que Tu Es,” where she sings in French, and “Beauty Mark,” which could be her theme song. “Night Time Intermission,” with horns over spoken conversation, is one of the album’s most unique and sounds like a poetry club performance.

The fact remains that while she provides beautiful vocals and obvious inspiration to musicians around her, Charlotte herself isn’t responsible for writing any of 5:55’s music or lyrics. Through several connections, she has amassed something of a super-team. This being said (and well publicized), the gentle vocals are unmistakably Charlotte and, therefore, every song her own. 5:55 is definitely an enjoyable “journey to the center of the night.”

Though not quite as horrific as the Marilyn Manson of the past, this onetime “spooky kid,” who evoked rage and condemnation from Christians and the US government alike, still retains his shock-value ability on Eat Me, Drink Me; if, to a lesser extent, because, well, he’s grown up (and also, it sure is difficult nowadays to actually be “shocking”). Like always, Manson is hell-bent on self-expression at any cost, professing his morbid spin on reality with ’80s-infused, sinister glam-rock. His serious lyrics convey all of the usual morbid motifs (corpses and tombs and worms oh my!) coupled with Alice in Wonderland imagery.

Eat Me, Drink Me is mature and melodramatic—a truly gothic tragedy about Manson’s tormented heart, suicidal tendencies, and painfully destructive romances (“I knew that our love was/ just a car crash away/ Love is a fire/ burns down all that it sees”). What Manson has always offered, along with his inner fears and masochism, is an age-old metaphor of “beautiful decay;” uttering his passionate “fuck you’s” over hypnotic melodies and all-over raspy, vocally driven guitar-rock. The opener, “If I was Your Vampire,” is a twisted love song with a deep bass line that grabs at thin air and perfectly balanced last-breath vocals pronouncing, “I’ll eat your ashes.” “Putting Holes In Happiness” and “Are You The Rabbit?” feature screeching, hair-metal-esque guitar solos, while “The Red Carpet Grave” is a dancey synthesizer free-for-all, where Manson states, “There’s the ones that you love/ The ones that love you/ The ones that make you come.”

Many of the songs on Eat Me, Drink Me are supposedly inspired by Manson’s latest love, Evan Rachel Wood, who is to Manson what Chloe Sevigny was to Vincent Gallo. Like girlfriends before, Wood stars alongside Manson in an incredibly erotic, blood-soaked music video, for the glossy “Heart Shaped Glasses,” that mixes Lolita fantasy with Bonnie and Clyde escapades for a hell-ride romance. No matter the real life drama, Eat Me, Drink Me is chillingly catchy. Though the title track might be the only evidence of those long-gone "Smells Like Children" or Antichrist days (and even that is a stretch), Manson has sure come a long way to explore the depths of emotion and reinterpret the dark and eerie fairytales that inspire him. 

Nobody makes self-destruction sexier than Trent Reznor, but the latest Nails record is more about the oncoming destruction of the world than the masochism or downward spiral addiction conveyed in previous releases. The entirely conceptual Year Zero is album as installation art, part of a complex scheme of fictitious characters and situations in an alternate reality game (an interactive narrative using the real world as its platform) centered on a dystopian future of destructive aftermath. The music, although integral, is not the sole artistic “product” or vision, and the message coursing through Year Zero is the vanguard of a grand-scale “Art is Resistance” project.

NIN endeavors have always been intricate and cryptic, yet Year Zero seems a rather straightforward venture as Reznor continues some of the anarchic ideas expressed in With Teeth, becoming more satirical and openly anti-government. By creating his own propaganda to mimic and counteract that of the US government, Reznor confronts the current political landscape, propelling his “followers” to rise up in the name of personal freedom. The video for the single, “Survivalism,” shows the band on surveillance cameras with uniformed agents breaking down the door.

Year Zero embodies Reznor’s poppy brand of modern-industrial—song after song involve harsh mechanic synths, thick drum machine beats, fierce and grating bass-and-guitar, alternating hushed and punchy vocals, and an experimental backdrop of distorted sound. It isn’t as evocative, varied, or abstract as The Fragile, which Reznor certainly spent more time perfecting, but Year Zero is solid all the same.

Essentially following his own formulas, the album includes a sad piano backed by static on its instrumental track (“Another Version of the Truth”) and a lyrical litany on “The Greater Good” (reminiscent of Spiral’s screamy “Eraser”) pinpointing political tactics: “Coercion, Submission, Passive ovation.” It climaxes at its midway mark with the vicious “My Violent Heart,” which illustrates Reznor’s aim to amass his own anti-army—“On hands and knees we crawl, you cannot stop us all.”

Unlike the introspective sadness (á la “Hurt”) closing other NIN albums, Year Zero’s finale, “Zero Sum,” reveals universal remorse. Its gorgeous melody and echoed backing vocals depart from the starkness of earlier tracks; Reznor sings, “Shame on us/ we knew from the start/ may God have mercy on our dirty little hearts/ Shame on us/ for all we have done/ and all we ever were/ just zeros and ones.”

 To put it quite simply, this album is pretty damn addictive. Situated somewhere between old-school punk and modern garage rock, The Ponys sound like a mismatched cross-breed of pioneers Sonic Youth (though most experimental indie bands do) and Jesus and Mary Chain, with a healthy dose of other classics—The Stooges, Talking Heads, Television, and even Nick Cave—mixed in. Loud and raucous, yet poppy too, Turn the Lights Out is controlled chaos: melody-laden but very free, with a cacophony of guitars following loose patterns, densely echoed vocals, and plenty of heartfelt distortion.

Screeching guitars on “Everyday Weapon” fade into feedback, while Jered Gummere’s voice is granted more clarity on the simple and sweet title track. “Kingdom of Hearts” is an up-to-date, louder version of Velvet Underground’s “Sunday Morning,” with a piano stuck between torrents of competing instruments. The riffs on “Poser Psychotic” and “Harakiri” are infectious—vocals drenched in sweat and heavy drumbeats drive it all home. While The Ponys conjure up a lot of essential influencers, Turn the Lights Out is a long way from a copycat record. It shines on its own accord, authentic in intensity and refreshing in its deeply rooted rock n’ roll passion.

He’s a graffiti artist of the underground New York scene, featured in the film Bomb the System and the book AutoGraf, and a talented solo musician who’s been booking his own shows downtown. Everything from Joe Semz’s rough vocals to his cynical lyrics to the organic strums of his acoustic guitar evoke an image of the rambling blues-man playing his heart out on a cold summer night (or alone in an attic, which is actually where Semz recorded his demos). Rusty and rustic, A Great Believer is crammed with enough nostalgia and lonely misery to compete with the likes of its influential predecessors, Bob Dylan and Neil Young. Coming from a self-proclaimed “street kid,” A Great Believer is one of the most honest, bare-bones albums I’ve encountered in awhile. At times lazy and slurred, it literally sounds drunk, hazy and purposefully unpolished, but this raw and unfiltered quality offers a peephole into Joe Semz’s soul. On “Christmas in New York” he sings, “I don’t got a family and I don’t got a home” and on the especially vibrant “Burnin all my Bridges” he admits, “I’ve been drinking too long.”

The album may be depressing, but it’s free of the whiney “o-woe-is-me” mentality akin to many recent bands and solo artists. Music for Semz seems the perfect avenue for conveying his pain and inner turmoil; many songs are literal confessions of shortcomings and dependency issues (“Thought I was a warrior, now I’m just a full-time coward”), but the desperation in his voice and lyrics is authentic; his songs are not intended to be teen-angst sing-along’s (thank God!). Semz is the real deal: introspective and wise, his use of music as emotional release and self-expression is keeping within the tradition of the blues. A Great Believer’s first and last tracks are especially Dylan-esque and a harmonica even comes and goes throughout the album. Some of the songs, at least to me, are a throwback to the grunge-era’s Blind Melon, whose classic bluesy sound blended with folk rock gave way to highly emotive and enjoyable melodies.

With lyrics such as “All I need is crack cocaine and heroin” and “Lithium and morphine in my bloodstream,” Joe Semz’s demons are laid bare. Though steeped in addiction, his outlook on life isn’t completely hopeless. The chorus of “Hey Hey,” my personal favorite, is surprisingly catchy as Semz sings, “I’m getting tired, but I’ll be okay.” His words relay tidbits of a rough past and a broken spirit, but they also glimpse into a potentially brighter future. “Rain and Blood” brings his life experience to the foreground as he asks “What do you know about sorrow, boy?” to the “trust fund kid on [his] daddy’s salary.” Semz, an outlaw singing tunes about living life on the edges of society, tells it like it is to anyone who’s listening: “There’s a time to be a kid boy, and there’s time to be a man.”

The only downside to the album is its tendency toward repetitiveness. Be that as it may, A Great Believer is a true gem: heartfelt enough to linger in your ears and your mind for days after listening. While Semz is “fighting til the death,” I myself am excited to see where this impressive first record will lead him.

(since writing this review in 2006, Joey Semz has passed away) 

As both man and artist, Michael Franti defies stereotype. African, Irish and German American, the musician-poet has been involved in a number of projects since the mid-80s. Beginning his career in an industrial punk duo, he went on to form The Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy, a band that fused industrial, jazz and rap, and then recorded an album’s worth of music for William S Burroughs. In the early ’90s, Franti became the founding member of Spearhead, who released three records before this year’s Yell Fire!, each combining several musical genres. Spearhead seems the perfect avenue for Franti to express his views; politically-charged, socially-conscious and advocating love, freedom, peace and acceptance, his songs are clear-cut messages to the masses about how to change, deal with and overcome the injustices of the world regardless of race or religion.  

From the very first line, Yell Fire! establishes itself as a meaningful record: “Those who start wars never fight them and those who fight wars, they never like them.” I’ve always held great respect and appreciation for artists who continue to use the medium of music purposefully as a means of activism and optimism. Franti spreads awareness and positive vibes without aligning himself to a political party or single ideology, which makes his music accessible to any type of person. Artists like Franti are increasingly hard to come by in today’s commercialized, formulaic, money-hungry music industry, where fitting into “the genre” is the main criteria for record-label success.

As Yell Fire! smoothly blends funk, hip-hop, reggae, folk and rock, the songs cross boundaries and any genre distinctions. Timeless yet contemporary, Yell Fire!’s sound appears effortless as Franti aims not to impress, but to inspire. Starting off on a serious note with “Time to Go Home,” which asks, “How many people did they drop the bomb on?,” the lyrics of the melodic third track, “I Know I’m Not Alone,” feel personal and full of hope. “East to the West” is my favorite: up-tempo, beat-driven, catchy as hell and reminiscent of Bob Marley’s “One Love,” it speaks of unity through individualism. The middle of the album makes it obvious that some of the recording was done in Kingston, Jamaica: funky and bright, songs like “Hey Now Now” and “Everybody Ona Move” are reggae-dance-party worthy. The enjoyable chorus of silly “la-la-la’s” and “I like my bass loudy” lessen the album’s potentially preachy-feel and seek to lighten anyone’s mood.

The album slows down a bit towards the end with poetic songs like “Tolerance,” where Franti really drives his message home. At times a touch too PG, it ends with the spoken words, “Believe in coexistence.” Listening to Yell Fire! gives me the feeling that I’m part of something, a revolution so to speak (“A revolution never comes with a warning”), or a movement towards peace. According to Franti, “Life is too short to make just one decision” and Yell Fire!’s mutli-influenced sound certainly proves this true.

To put it simply, The Obliterati rocks! Opening with a hyperactive drumbeat, when guitars and bass kick in after a subtle yell at eight seconds, you know you’ve found a record that packs a punch. Mission of Burma have been around since the ’80s, though they broke up for awhile before reuniting in 2002. I saw them play Coney Island’s Sirenfest in the summer of ’05, where their powerful songs and mature stage presence blew me away. I promptly purchased their self-titled album, released in ’88, and had “That’s When I Reach for my Revolver” stuck in my head for weeks. I have to say, I’m an even bigger fan of The Obliterati.

Deeply rooted in punk rock, the record’s vintage feel reminds me of arty punks Sonic Youth, but with vocals along the lines of Fugazi’s Ian MacKaye or even Iggy Pop. The energy level, highly charged, never dies; while the sound is aggressive, it isn’t especially antagonistic. Momentarily fierce and angry, and replete with feedback and distortion, there are also sing-songy melodies like on “Donna Sumeria,” which is delightfully Beatles-esque. With a deep bass line, classic-rock-inspired guitar and additional sounds serving to blur the edges of the instruments, the pace of “Donna Sumeria” quickens while a guitar screams over the madness. The sound becomes nearly deafening until, abruptly, it comes to a halt.

Track seven, titled “13,” showcases Roger Miller’s vocal capabilities and proves that Mission of Burma achieves far more than simple chord progressions; they’re apt to alter a song’s rhythm halfway through and mix well-written lyrics with shouts of “Ow!” and “Hey Hey Hey.” Though many albums start off strong only to sink into blandness somewhere in the middle, Mission of Burma are turned on full-blast throughout all of Obliterati. On “Let Yourself Go” and “Period,” they sound especially 1970s retro-punk as Miller sings, “I’m just a kamikaze sneakin' out the door/ Oh look out! Geronimo!”

“Good Not Great” is pure and intense hard-rock, while “Birthday” sounds choppy and raw. In one minute, “Careening with Conviction” is melodious, even sweet, and in the next, it’s off-the-wall crazy. “Is This Where?,” a bit slower-paced, has softer vocals, while the last track, “Nancy Reagan’s Head,” is oddly addictive: an escape into a deep cavern of distortion. While displaying the youthful freedom of a garage band (“You hide, I'll fuck you up.”), Mission of Burma are pros.