At first listen to Jim Hanft’s debut album, Weddings Or Funerals, one can tell that the singer-songwriter raised just outside Philadelphia has a passion for intimacy.  From start to finish, the album plays as something of an acoustic coffee shop session – with the occasional backing band thrown in the mix for a kick – to provide a warm, affecting collection of musical storytelling.Hanft’s voice, delivered with understated character, never strays too far from its roots, and the vocalist’s sound bears more than a passing resemblance to Deer Tick’s John McCauley – albeit minus some of that alternative folker’s cigarette-and-whiskey-tinged crackle.  Couple this with the fitting accompaniment of Hanft’s ongoing collaborative partner, Samantha Yonack, and the result is a delicate, lyrical album that should appeal to typical love-struck young ladies – and perhaps more than a few fellows – seeking their hopeless romantic fix.As for the individual tracks on the record, they range from quiet, reserved acoustic tales to a few more traditional, folksy melodies.  Overall, though, the songs maintain a simple tenderness, and the album’s strongest points are undoubtedly Hanft’s largely unplugged, minimalist offerings.  Tracks like “Kerosene” and “Alternate Route” provide poignancy to lyrics that would be lost in a more polished setting and emerge as album highlights.  As it stands, the collection all sounds like a rehearsal session that just happened to get caught on tape.  And, in this case, that’s far from a bad thing.Weddings Or Funerals is slated for release on April 10, 2012.  Jim Hanft will be hosting a CD release party for the album on April 11 at The Hotel Cafe in Los Angeles, California.

I don’t know quite what to think of T.J. Courtney. Even with a first listen to the rock artist’s new EP, Into The Sky, one would be hard pressed not to find similarities in his delivery to modern-day acts such as Nickelback, Daughtry, and the like – turn on any mainstream rock radio station, that’s what you’re getting with Courtney – although with perhaps a bit more of a grungy tinge. And, for a young artist, the sound on the record is actually quite tight, well produced, and crisp-sounding.Still, that may be just my issue with this particular collection of songs. Although there’s a certain crunch to Courtney’s music that harkens back to the alternative acts of the mid-to-late nineties, the mix rarely strays too far from its decidedly glossy core. There’s angst in Courtney’s message - with talent to back it up - but it’s all decisively hidden beneath the polish of the album’s final delivery. If Courtney were to embrace the raw roots that occasionally creep to the forefront on Into The Sky, I certainly believe we’d have ourselves a winner and a formidable alternative player to boot.

It’s good to know there are still folks out there fighting the good fight.Arriving at O'brien’s Pub in Allston a little before nine, I felt as if I’d stepped straight back into 1967 – there was a motley collection of denim, long hair and leather from corner to corner – hazy shades of southern psychedelia. First order of business once inside, I met up with some of the members of The Night Beats sitting at the bar, Narragansett tallboys in hand. They were personable and without airs. I asked them if they minded flash photography - Actually, could you strobe that shit for the whole set? That’d be cool. - I got the idea they were only half joking. We spoke for a while before the band went out for some pre-show smokes. I ordered a Blue Ribbon and settled in for the set.Listening to the opening acts as one of the uninitiated, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Sets from Apache Dropout and MMOSS were trippy affairs, the former shaking it up with a unique mix of surf-inspired reverb rock and the latter rambling out tight psychedelic jams with impressive focus. These bands were new to me, but the sound was old, classic.Before The Night Beats went on, I spent some time amongst the openers outside the pub. In talking about their music, they were universally genuine, truly loving of the genre they had taken it upon themselves to preserve – a heady task, but these were the people for the job.Back inside, The Night Beats walked on stage to a full house, properly warmed up by the previous acts and ready for some kicks. The band wasted no time jumping into it, and soon enough I was surrounded by a collective of acid-washed trippers, swaying and nodding to the raw crunch filling the room. The whole set was a thoroughly vintage affair – there was nothing forced or artificial about the sound – and the crowd responded in kind. I watched girls - underground disciples of the Age of Aquarius - dance about in covetable fashion whilst the males of the crowd embraced the distortion and the jams with stoned attention. Again, trippy.As for The Night Beats’ sound, comparisons to The Black Keys and their ilk would come quickly to the unversed, but that would be doing the band a serious injustice. These Seattle lads had something unadulterated in their delivery, their mood, and their style that you just don’t find in the more polished acid rock offerings playing these days. They were refreshing, showing this listener that there are still at least a few modern alternatives to another Blue Cheer replay on the turntable. The good old stuff ain’t dead quite yet.My experience with The Night Beats didn’t end with the music. After the show, I spent some time with the band. Danny, their guitarist and singer, talked about the road over smokes – It’s all spontaneous, you know, never quite knowing what you’re going to get with each gig. It can be exhausting – we’ve traveled the country coast to coast, top to bottom, back and forth - but the payoff is worth it when you play in front of people that really enjoy what we have to offer. That’s what it’s all about.As the band loaded up their van – exactly what you’d expect, with floral curtains and wood trim lining the innards – I was invited to join them for a few post-show drinks back at their quarters-for-the-night, a friendly’s apartment on the outskirts of town. I accepted, and we headed off, caravan filled to overflow with good spirits and a smoky haze. Some driving, a bit of creative parking, a short walk, and a self-inflicted elevator emergency later, and we had arrived. I stayed for a couple brews – still ‘gansetts, of course – while the folks played dice, lit up a few more, and discussed the vinyl playing in the background with genuine appreciation. I looked on, taking it all in, a fly on the wall to a group of folks trying to preserve the better days of rock and roll in this little loft-sanctuary. Drunk, beat, and anticipating my impending early morning wakeup, I decided to take my leave around three. Shaking hands and heading for the door, I could hear the crackle and break of another record slipping on as I exited for the stairs.

Heading to The Paradise, I’d never seen RJD2 live. No, like many of my fellows, my experience with the artist had been restricted to lone headphone listens of his dusty-funk compilations. And, to be honest, I thought that was good enough. Foolish me.Fresh Produce opened the night up with a solid introductory set, blending club standards and old school discotheque relics into an increasingly energetic mix. Nothing too groundbreaking, but the duo’s eclectic sound and tight turntable skills managed to build the crowd to their collective boogie-ready.After about an hour set, Fresh Produce packed up to make room for their headliner. RJD2 walked on stage sporting a welding mask and a belt-mounted synthesizer, fully in character as he moved within inches of the throng on the floor. With distorted vocals and a bit of synth-induced crowd play, the masses were soon adequately prepared for what was in store.First minutes in, and already the DJ’s mastery of his craft was apparent. Whereas the artist’s openers had taken their time, slowly building to crescendo, RJD2 wasted none, setting things into high-hop territory with one of his characteristic diamond-in-the-rough vinyl beats. Snare and horns kicked in, and we were off.For anyone worrying that RJD2’s performance might not hold up to a live setting, rest easy. On this night, the man was nothing if not a thoroughbred entertainer. As for the technical aspect of the music, no one could argue over RJD2’s sensei-status on the turntables – his breaks were tight, scratches in all the right places, and every track played like something you just might’ve heard on the radio a couple decades back. But better, livelier. Still, as any concertgoer knows, technical prowess alone does not a live spectacle make. Clearly, RJD2 got that memo, too. It was truly a sight watching the DJ spin with trippy film painting the wall behind him and a horde of acolytes bopping in accord to the beats at his front. He was calm, methodical as he sifted through records in search of just the right sample for each occasion. And, with each successive track, the audience grew more dynamic, more eager for the next drop.The night’s set consisted of old standards and newer album cuts in about-even proportions. As was expected, classics such as “Ghostwriter” brought the crowd to the verge of euphoria as they stomped about to the brass-hook soundtrack, while new hits easily found a home amongst their more venerated brethren. It was powerful stuff, to be sure - not the sort of thing you typically find listening to the album cuts under the cover of headphones.Put simply, RJD2’s set was as close to flawless as one could ever ask for in a disk jockey. Coupling an instrumental mastery of his genre with one of the most vivacious crowds I’ve ever seen inside The Paradise, it was as far from the anticipated laidback session as I could imagine. All I can say, the man is wicked. See him live, it’ll change you.

Ian Tyson is a cowboy, sure as Hell. And with Raven Singer, the 78-year-old songwriter’s second album following a near-debilitating throat infection, he makes certain to remind his listeners of just that.For the uninitiated, Tyson began his prolific career as one-half of the folk duo Ian & Sylvia in the early ‘60s, penning classic standards such as “Four Strong Winds” and establishing himself as a significant songwriting presence in the industry. Some years and nearly a dozen albums later, Ian & Sylvia disbanded, and Tyson returned to western Canada to pursue his first passion in ranching. Following a multiyear hiatus from recording, the cowboy-songwriter released a new-grown offering, Old Corrals & Sagebrush. The album marked the beginning of a three-plus decade solo career that, with the coming debut of Raven Singer, shows few signs of slowing.Clearly, Ian Tyson remains dedicated to his music after all these years as he boasts the release of his fourteenth album for Stony Plain Records in Edmonton. Still, longevity does not necessarily dictate quality, and, in this particular case, the music in question must stand up to an impressive, sizable, and revered song backlog spanning generations.First thing of note is that Raven Singer is not a product of the country-twang Tyson who pressed Old Corrals & Sagebrush (or any of the musician’s numerous subsequent albums, for that matter). No, this collection of songs shows a more delicate, weathered side to the singer’s persona – the result of age, travel, and plenty of scars from that long, long road of life.Despite the change in tone, Raven Singer is a cowboy’s album at heart, steeped in Western tradition and narrated simply and honestly. Tyson plays around with his half-whisper, half-hoarse crackle throughout the album, offering a mostly subtle listen with some pepper sprinkled in for flavor. The singer’s backers put forth a tight effort as well, offering strings, piano, and pipes to compliment Tyson’s raspy croon. Songs like “Blueberry Susan” make up the collection’s majority, showcasing Tyson’s new, softer delivery in their tales of the hills and days gone by, while “Saddle Bronc Girl” and a rebooted “The Circle Is Through” promise that this cowboy hasn’t quite lost his kick. All in all, the album reminds one of an old rancher strumming his guitar around the campfire, offering a jumping-off point for the young bucks to join in the story.No doubt, Raven Singer is a crisp album with Canadiana tales abounding throughout. While casual listeners may not find the album quite as accessible as Tyson’s earlier, more youthful offerings, fans of the true Western style will probably enjoy these stories from a venerable old cowboy who still plinks around on his battered six-string.Ian Tyson’s Raven Singer is scheduled for release on May 29, 2012 through Stony Plain Records.

The Congress’ Whatever You Want is a good-ass record, plain and simple. The album, a southern rock tribute to everyone from Molly Hatchet to The Grateful Dead, plays strong from start to finish with little let-up along the way. For the most part, The Congress focus on loud and gritty rock & roll, but they do manage to throw in plenty of psychedelia and rhythm & blues to mix things up, and it never gets too repetitive – a fate that often befalls young bands with their debut sets in the genre. In fact, in trying to describe The Congress’ sound, one word immediately springs to mind: developed. These boys know what they’re doing, and they do it damn well. While there’s certainly a healthy fun-and-loose jam vibe to the album, the collection stays pretty held together throughout its duration, never rambling off without returning to form in due time. Whatever You Want is a mature record, and those looking for the next new act in old school southern rock would do well to check out The Congress. If they can keep to the standard they’ve raised with their debut, we’ll certainly be hearing more from this young and talented band.The Congress’ first full-length album, Whatever You Want, is available now.

Let me begin with the disclaimer that I only consider myself a casual fan of The Expendables. It’s not that I don’t like their music; far from it, actually, but I’m not about to start referencing old B-sides off the top of my head or anything of the sort in this review. That being said, I did enjoy Gone Soft, the band’s first all-acoustic album and an overall solid offering.Now, while I’m sure that lifelong followers of The Expendables will find plenty to celebrate with the alternative takes in this collection, I’ll hold myself to discussing the album as a standalone entity. And, as such, Gone Soft provides a pretty solid listen from start to finish. The musicianship is tight throughout, and one can’t help but hear the similarities to acoustic offerings from others of the band’s ska-punk brethren - first to mind is, unsurprisingly, Slightly Stoopid’s Live & Direct, a comparable reggae-infused acoustic album stemming from The Expendables’ releasing label - as mellow songs like “24/7” and “Bowl For Two” meander along unplugged with positive vibes and soft vocals to carry the delivery.Still, Gone Soft does stray a bit from its roots during a few isolated moments, as far as I’m concerned. A textbook example, there’s “Die For You,” the last track on the album and a downbeat swansong to an otherwise entertaining jam session. It may be just my opinion, but I felt that the track’s somber strings and downtrodden tone left a bad taste in my mouth where there should only have been a lingering optimism. It’s an easy fix, I suppose; stop listening at Track #11 and you’re good to go for a laidback acoustic set list that’s perfect for a summer day at the beach or by the grill.The Expendables’ Gone Soft is available now for preorder from the band’s website, www.theexpendables.net.

As far as supergroup side projects are concerned, PHILM is a strange beast, and their debut album, Harmonic, follows its creators’ suit like a bipolar demon-child on acid. PHILM, consisting of Gerry Nestler (vocals/guitar, Civil Defiance), Dave Lombardo (drums, Slayer), and Pancho Tomaselli (bass, War) has a rawness to its sound that plays well with each musician’s individual style. From Nestler’s prog meanderings to Lombardo’s heavy kick to Tomaselli’s weighty lines, the lack of studio sugarcoating throughout Harmonic lets us in on both the subtlety and the crunch of PHILM’s delivery. Nothing’s hidden; not the flaws, not the fury. In fact, one gets the idea that the band’s live show probably sounds quite a bit like their album recordings, a heady task for any industrial-jam-proto-psychedelic-punk band.For those looking to get into PHILM, let’s be clear that Harmonic is a truly exhausting listen. The album’s constant shifting from the near-death metal of unrelenting tracks like “Area” to the empty-space progressive jams that encompass “Way Down” and similar songs promises to take a serious toll on the casual listener, leaving only the dedicated to reap the album’s benefits. It’s an abusive relationship, to be sure, but some of the peaks on this record make it all worth the battering in the end.PHILM’s debut album, Harmonic, was released on May 14, 2012 and is available now.

The McCauliffe Brothers Band’s debut full-length, It’s Likely, is, to be quite frank, a mixed bag. A self-described rock/funk/jazz/improvisation/pop act, the North Carolina band treads the line between genres with varied success throughout their first album. To be sure, some listeners will find fault with the band’s musical schizophrenia or the lack of definition in their sound. For my part, though, I enjoyed the set as a whole. All in all, the McCauliffe Brothers Band sounds like The Offspring would have if they were bumping Phish back in their formative years. They’re raw, absolutely, but there’s a blatant optimism in the hooks that overshadows any immaturity in the overall delivery. Songs like “As It Was” and “Take” showcase the McCauliffe Brothers’ melodic awareness, despite the tracks’ relatively barebones production. Contrarily, the album’s title cut, “It’s Likely,” plays like a basement opus, putting the group’s instrumental prowess on display with an impressive, lengthy jam. In-between songs offer varying degrees of improvisation and pop sensibility – all with enthusiastic musicianship to carry the tunes – providing an interesting set for those willing to endure The McCauliffe Brothers’ stylistic growing pains. For all its inconsistencies, It’s Likely is a fun listen – college radio at its finest, really – and I would recommend the album. It’s Likely, the debut album from The McCauliffe Brothers Band, is available now in digital and physical pressings.

For the record, I believe that Pretty Lights Music (the label) represents the future of independent electronic music, offering digital, freely available releases to the public and paying the way with goodwill and a collective reputation for putting on tight live shows. Now, that’s not to say I’m all for the new school way of doing things – I still pick up a compact disc every now and again – but it’s this innovative business model that’s allowed Pretty Lights to introduce the world to some truly talented individuals and create an iconic underground brand along the way.Commentary aside, Eliot Lipp, the newest member of the PLM crew, seems right at home alongside his label-mates with his debut record, Shark Wolf Rabbit Snake. The production here is top-notch, clean to a fault yet showing trademark Pretty Lights love for a little vinyl-era funkiness. Downtempo, neon-laced tracks like “The Snake,” “The Sunset,” and “Sneakin’” would be right at home blasting out of the Doc’s Delorean back in the day, while “The Wolf,” a jazzy switch-up, sounds like something that might play at an art gallery in SoHo on a Friday night. Lipp certainly works variety into his compositions, but it all melts together to create an album that is just so, damn, cool.For all my praise of the record, Shark Wolf Rabbit Snake does fall short a couple times along the way. One of Lipp’s weaker moments is “On N’ On,” where the artist attempts to replicate the more developed hip-hop prowess of fellow PLM-ers like Gramatik with only moderate success. Similarly, “Mountain” stands out as an underdeveloped piece, coming off as filler material when compared to the ambitious efforts put forth on the remaining songs.Still, this is mainly personal preference talking, and the isolated low points on Shark Wolf Rabbit Snake should do little to take away from what Lipp has accomplished on his impressive debut. Fans of Pretty Lights Music or dub-funk-hip-hop electronica would do well to add this album to their playlists. Eliot Lipp’s Shark Wolf Rabbit Snake is available for download from www.prettylightsmusic.com.

Olly Oxen Free, the newest album from South Carolina-based band Dangermuffin, is a fun listen. Blending elements of roots rock with a sprinkling of southern slides, improvised instrumentals, and meandering drum breaks, the trio plays an interesting sort of rambling-jam music that showcases quite a bit of range. While Dangermuffin clearly finds its source material in down-home Americana, the group somehow manages to avoid much of the monotony typically found in lesser genre offerings. The result is unique – songs that begin as simplistic musings build to unrushed, relaxed backyard opuses in due time, and dedicated listeners will find hearty reward by record’s end. Diverse (yet grounded) tracks like “Homestead” and “Sea Funk” demonstrate Dangermuffin’s strengths, while the remainder of the album fills out the set for a right enjoyable play-through.Dangermuffin’s newest album, Olly Oxen Free, is available now on iTunes.

Even with just one listen to Ruby Jane’s new album, Celebrity, it becomes immediately clear that the seventeen year old singer-songwriter is quite the talented musician. Boasting a mature vocal delivery and practiced instrumentals, the indie-folk record is solid throughout, with few weak points to detract from a complete collection of songs.As a folk record, Celebrity will satisfy most fans seeking a fresh young talent in the genre. Not that Ruby Jane hasn’t any world experience; a brief glimpse at her bio reveals this, and her lyrics vocalize the same hardships, fears, and anxieties, albeit with an underlying youthful enthusiasm. Throughout the set list, there are very few stray, inconsistent moments, a daunting task for a young artist.Still, the album begs the question: What’s next? Don’t get me wrong; for a folk singer, Ruby Jane surpasses many musicians twice her age. However, it would be interesting to see what she could do in a more varied setting, away from her folk roots. Celebrity is concrete, but I’d venture to guess that Ruby Jane could explore a bit stylistically and still come up with some quite interesting results. Ruby Jane’s new album, Celebrity (empire of emptiness) is available now.

Domino Effect’s Music For My Soul is a rock-hard reggae album that shows its lineage throughout, sounding like a cross between Pepper and SOJA with classical roots to back it all up. As far as the mix, the vocal delivery is a dead ringer for Kaleo Wassman with emphasis (as the album title suggests) firmly rooted in the power of music as personal salvation.For the most part, the album remains conservative in keeping to core reggae beats and sounds. However, on tracks like “Music Is My Religion”, Domino Effect stretches the musicality a bit, adding in some impressive guitar licks for character. The bulk of this album might stay pretty mellow, but there’s some skill to back it all up.Of the recent reggae releases I’ve listened through, Domino Effect is certainly one of the more solid offerings available. From start to finish, the album doesn’t really have any glaring weak spots, and roots fans will certainly enjoy this clean little summer mix. Domino Effect’s new album, Music For My Soul, is available now.

Listening to northeastern synth-tinged rock band Jimkata, it’s obvious that these boys want to add their own special blend of spice to the standard of indie fare that’s become business-as-usual in an increasingly predictable genre. And with their fourth studio album, Die Digital, the foursome augments what might otherwise function as stale pop-rock with vintage keys and electronics, adding a layer oftentimes absent from other lyrics-centric acts of this sort.The album’s track list is pretty consistent at its core, employing guitars and synthesizers over almost-anthemic beats to reliable effect throughout. A few cuts do manage to stand out from the steady flow - “Chain Store” will remind listeners of a modern-day Cars tune with its poppy artificiality, “Electric Stone” melds an insistent island beat on acid with an electrical jam vibe that stands the weather on its own, “American Cars” has an early U2 build to it that transitions into a climactic synth finale, and “Low Low” plays like a possible Band of Horses B-side, albeit a bit cleaner and less pressing in voice. The album in full may be lacking slightly in terms of fire or range, but momentary high points certainly make appearances in the songs above.Still, to be honest, Jimkata’s brand of electro-rock tends to leave me on the fence more often than not. See, it’s not that I take any issue with the idea of digitizing rock-n-roll – even John Paul Jones busted out the ole synthesizer on occasion – but there has to be something more to the addition than its mere presence in the mix for me to feel that it’s necessary. On Die Digital, I would have liked to hear some of these electronic instrumentals play out a bit longer than the four bar intros we’re entitled to on nearly every track; unfortunately, it’s almost as if the band could only stand fleeting lapses into electronic loop territory before jumping back to the comfort of typical indie-pop land. At the end of the day, Die Digital doesn’t deviate from formula; it merely augments it with a few strategically-placed synthesizers. There’s definitely a place for electronica in underground lyric-rock, and I’d love to see the two genres find their flagship crossbreed. I’m just not quite sold on whether this is the form that should make the mold. Die Digital is available now on iTunes.

Let's get it out of the way -- yes, we're talking about Gregg Allman's son. And there it is, think what you will.

Not that (Devon) Allman wants to make his career as his father’s lad. In the liner notes for his debut album, Turquoise, the artist’s folks are clearing trying to distance the kid (relatively speaking) from his old man: (Devon) grew up… surrounded by a humble life away from the rock and roll circus that was his father’s band. We get the point.

And, predictably enough, Devon and company consistently try their hand at genre-crossing so as not to invite any easy-target Allman Brothers references that our critics’ lot would be quick to pounce on. By Allman’s own admission, Turquoise is a divided record: It’s part ‘dusty road driving music’ and part ‘tropical getaway’ music. This is not a straight-shot Southern rock album.

But why try so hard to sever the family ties? At the end of the day, the record’s strongest elements remind first and foremost of Devon’s prodigal kin, so why fight it? The younger Allman is actually quite the proficient guitarist in his own right, and his playing’s got some soul when he gets going. It’s that near-melancholy nostalgia in Devon’s songs (similar to the Brothers’ Band in their heyday) that holds them up, keeps them from becoming just another bush league singer-songwriter offering for the pile. Couple Allman’s strings with a barebones backing band -- mostly drums and bass to complete the three-piece jams with a couple sparse guest spots sprinkled in -- and Turquoise has plenty of humble character laying the foundation for what could be a solid record.

The album jumps right in like it’s got something to prove -- “When I Left Home” wastes no time on foreplay with a heavy-handed introduction, and the chorus would fare well at any rowdy Southern bar after midnight with rye flowing. “Don’t Set Me Free” keeps up the pace next, strumming along with a laid-back determination to say something of substance, get something across to whoever might be listening. Later in the set list, “Stop Draggin My Heart Around” is a solid cover, though it may lack some of the grittiness that Stevie Nicks and Tom Petty’s Heartbreakers provided the original (but none of the urgency -- Allman and guest vocalist Samantha Fish keep the track’s insistent vocals at the forefront throughout). No complaints here at its inclusion on the album.

In between its Americana rock n’ roll kicks, Turquoise is a mixed bag. Fronted by its meandering guitar riffs, “Time Machine” would be a perfect mid-album reprise that teases at the elder Allman’s inevitable (though outwardly avoided) bluesy influence on his boy. But, unfortunately, the pushy good times come, good times go thesis of the track comes off as something of an afterthought to the soulful licks in the layers beneath. It’s not necessarily a bad tune, but sometimes less is more. Here, Allman feels obligated to articulate in his vocal delivery what could have been left to the quiet reprieves of his musing guitar, and it’s excessive. Similarly, “Strategy” kills with its mellow guitar interludes that could fill a rainy day but dies when the chorus forces its way onto a stage long overcrowded by too many clean-cut grungers (think Creed on supermarket jazz). Even deeper into the record, “Into The Darkness” rides the Soul Train and shows Allman stretching his vocal chops like a Al Green while saxophones wind between off-beat jazz guitar. Maybe it’s not the singer’s forte, but the effort confirms his desire for versatility in the mix.

Fifth on the track list, “There’s No Time” shows Turquoise attempting to shift tempo to island time, even biting an early sitting, waiting, wishing line from the Jack Johnson jam. It might be a matter of personal preference, but Allman’s heavy-handed singing seems a little out of place on the swinging dub groove. The tune might be a fun diversion for a live set, but it rather muddies the waters on this particular album. “Homesick” follows suit with another reggae-inspired digression. This one’s not so over-the-top and hints that Allman might actually be on to something with his ‘tropical getaway’ hook (even while he croons, I want to go home… everything’ll be alright -- can’t fight inertia or the tides, it seems). “Key Lime Pie” offers one final musical jaunt to jolly island country after “Darkness”. Despite more of Allman’s proficient guitar, this one can’t help but come off as something Clapton would throw in as middle-of-the-road filler on one of his more recent releases.

“Yadira’s Lullaby” unplugs Allman’s guitar for the first time and shows the musician at his most intimate. At two minutes and change, the acoustic instrumental sits pretty, pure and simple -- a nice touch as the album winds down. Finally, “Turn Off The World” chases “Lullaby” and never abandons the previous song’s sentiment, sticking to acoustics and some minimal brush-fed percussion beneath the somber vocals. It fares well as a swan song for the record, maybe a little slow but offering closure as Allman’s hushed voice echoes, wash off some of that rock and roll…

About three quarters of Devon Allman’s debut is rock solid. His sound and technique are refined, and there won’t be any questions regarding musical ability coming the way of this son-of-a-rock-god. But even after a few listens, I can’t help but wonder if the boy doth protest too much (apologies for the allusion -- sometimes the oldies put it best), dedicating more energy to playing anything-but-Allman when it might just be his saving grace. Not to confuse Devon’s sound with his father’s -- I’ll be first to argue that the youth’s carved his own niche in the corner -- but while he’s throwing his polished guitar into so many rings (classic rock to island jams to fingerpicked ballads, the list goes on) he might be the first one forgetting that the Allman Brothers were born of Southern rock; Southern rock wasn’t born of the Allman Brothers. And the fact of the matter is, Devon’s shining moments on Turquoise lie south of the Mason-Dixie line. It’d be a shame if he heads for the hills just because he thinks it’s too crowded back home.

Good Panamanian acid-jazz-fusion by way of Kansas City can be hard to come by these days. Well, at least there’s Making Movies.On the whole, the prog-Latino quartet’s self-released second album, A La Deriva, is strange South American psychedelia; in moments, it’s overwhelming or simple, radical or routine. Consistent? No. But there’s something distinctive enough about the record to warrant a listen.From the start, it's clear that Making Movies enjoy teetering on the fringe. Songs begin with haphazard introductions, broken melodic cuts and shifts before the movements grow or jump to smooth. The hooks to follow are transient whether they're powerful or contrived; A La Deriva has always got somewhere else to get to, beginning to end is a journey and we're not allowed to make ourselves at home for more than a minute or so. Again, the method's hit or miss, but there are some bits to this album that you're not going to find elsewhere.First track's characteristic of what's good to come -- can’t understand a damn word of it but hell if I wouldn’t dance to “Cuna De Vida” in some Panamanian dive with the rest of the locals.The second offering, “Lo Que Quiero” has a trippy hook when it picks up and could probably find its way onto the soundtrack of a throwaway Antonio Banderas joint but doesn’t follow up the opener quite so strong as I would have liked.Moving on, "Pendulum" is obviously trying to solidify crossover appeal with the album's initial English foray. The tune keeps a relatively simple pace, and it's okay. Nothing to grab the masses; maybe a few traditionalists looking to experiment will take the bait.A quarter of the way through, "Te Estaba Buscando” brings percussionist Juan Carlos Chaurand’s offbeat tapping to the forefront until carefully picked string notes climb in. I can appreciate the sparseness of the arrangement and the unique driving singalong near the end, but it all seems a little cluttered. A frantic high come from nothing, tripping across the record for a moment before everyone simply moves on.“Ego Trip” antagonizes in its place with minor chords and a faux-angelic chorus and makes you wonder if the I’ll be your saving grace line is just that or a contrivance uttered to seduce hopeless romantics in the crowd. The song is pretty telling of the album as a whole -- sloppy and a bit unsure at times of just what it’s saying, chorus intense and joined by the masses, but the emotion is there -- messy guitars, vocals, beats to match the ambience of the lyrical mind.We're left to keep wondering on what can only presumably be a love ballad lost in translation (“Luna”) next. Another potential Dos Equis ad in the wrong hands but spurring an affecting response nonetheless. The chants over singer Enrique Chi’s cries are powerful, trippy -- it'll all get to you.“Ciego Sin Querer” screams with more cries that could be right at home in an early Floydian freakout from the Saucerful of Secrets days and underlying jazz that belongs in a SoHo supermarket. A high watermark for the record.If "Ciego Sin Querer" is the height of celebration on A La Deriva, “Ready For The Rain” is the morning after. Written for a lazy Sunday, and it works as such. Don’t expect the track to carry you far, but it’ll do the trick if you’re looking to sink back in a stony bed for another hour or two. (A side note, the guitar solo couldn’t help but remind me of the synthesizers on "Welcome to the Machine", albeit with some more organic string sprinkled in.)“Deriva” echoes in the aftermath over struggling backup, organ cuts and stifled snare with a little strumming and resonance. Not quite filler, not so much to hold on its own.Winding down, "Muerte" shows the collective playing with salsa roots, traditional as the album gets, near the end. This one's for the Latino purists, and they won't find much fault in the delivery."Chase Your Tail" wraps up with quirk, humbly decorated with enthusiastic rural fiddle riffing over guitars and simple percussion while the band sings non-lyrics behind Chi's musings. It's pretty, a swan song with some hopeful vibrance leftover.On the whole, producer Steve Berlin (Los Lobos and Ozomatli, among others) actually surprises with the freedom he allows Making Movies during A La Deriva's set, forgoing some of the polish from his other productions in favor of extended acid-tinged jams and cracking yells. If there’s magic in A La Deriva, it comes when Berlin keeps his hands to himself. Making Movies insistently treads the line between a peyote trip in the desert and Latino salsa, though weakness occasionally glares when communication beyond the guitar and percussion’s raw emotional immediacy becomes an ephemeral priority. Eclectic electric folk from Panama. A La Deriva isn’t a perfect album. There are slow, idle periods, sure, but I can’t help being drawn back to each hook, each insistent overture scrambled in the mix. Maybe it’s a sad necessity that the languid stretches only can make the peaks profound, but that's everything A La Deriva has to offer -- calm and waves in a South American storm.

For those out of the loop (myself included, prior to a brush-up via press release and some idle internet perusing), Locust originally left its mark in the nineties as the ambient solo venture of London's Mark Van Hoen. Listening to the digital musician's output from that period reveals calculated electronic soundscapes with a collective beating heart that could be anywhere from vapid to moving (depending on your particular opinion concerning ambient electronica's standing in the branches of the musical genre-tree). Since its initial tenure, Locust has become an all-but-retired entity, relegated to minor tribute from the cult and mass amnesia on the part of the uninitiated.Born from the archetype of Locust's early work, this new incarnation of Hoen's project responsible for its latest release, You'll Be Safe Forever, boasts the addition of fellow musician Louis Sherman (synthesizers) and strays slightly from roots to achieve some moments of understated organic climax amidst distinguishing found-sound resonance. The record's baseline remains a droning low, but the addition of Sherman's improvised keys over Hoen's characteristic breakbeats occasionally stirs the hulk beyond the deep space ambience of Locust's earlier renditions.You'll Be Safe Forever is essentially an improvisational construct held together by Hoen's composition and accentuated by Sherman's meandering synths. Like most embryonic ambient offerings, the set keeps itself intentionally grounded in prototype, musing beyond its overture (see "Fall For Me") in short bursts but always returning to that initial theme. While there remains a core confidence in Locust's delivery throughout You'll Be Safe Forever, the underlying thematic movement could have perhaps been condensed to the realm of an extended play with minimal loss in the arena of substance.The album's peak tracks are broken by a series of interludes throughout the set. These range in character but always tend to slow (or halt, in some cases) the set's escalation to a humble consistency -- "I Hear A Quiet Voice" is lyrical, a moody flourish that disappears as quickly as it came; "The Worn Gift" is immediately angelic with synthesizers drifting in and out of their Pearly Gates key before fading to naught; "Remember" is unhurried at first but builds to incessancy with a simple two-note hook over organic notes; "More Like Prayer Than Science" never amounts to much. A sparse jam not unlike the opening to Floyd's "Careful With That Axe, Eugene", it's true to title and merely hopes for something to come of it (without response) --  and strictly none of these ephemeral intermissions survive long enough to grow on their own (for better or worse, depending on the particular movement). Upon dissection, Locust's method seems to involve a formulaic rejection of electronica's upper echelons -- there's no Icarus complex here; the duo claims itself a purveyor of the holy ambient dub break only and won't have a thing to do beyond the purity of its tonal Crete. At the least, we can applaud these veterans' fealty.While the record is one decidedly stationed in place, I'd be remiss not to acknowledge those moorland heights achieved over its course. You'll Be Safe Forever markedly kicks in with its third track ("Strobes"), when adamant tribal drums hit with immediacy over a pulsating rhythm section. Toss phasers and digressing outerspace reverb-vocals in the mix to complete a solid three-spot for the list. Later, "Just Want You" builds on this blueprint but gambles with a club drug-fueled trip to provoke the listener out of stasis. It's as if the instrumental fanfare and build-up of a Muse track were forced to lay the foundation for an early dub replica, and the result is a bad trip with a commanding broken-beat pulse -- (It's superb.) -- probably the liveliest moment on the album, a hybrid crescendo of the synthetic and the crude. Most everything after seems to wallow in the hangover like a ketamine hole, only rarely emerging human for brief stretches."Oh Ya" is typical ambient syncopation, echoing wood blocks and synthesized chords over chimes in off-kilter vibrato and traveling little. "Do Not Fear" is good, probably more fully developed than its predecessor (and substituting wobbly bass and hard snares for the aforementioned's airy percussion) but certainly cut from the same cloth. It's here where the album's namesake emerges in outspoken female vocal delivery that forms a noticeably artificial peak within Locust's consecrated valley. These two songs could have been combined for brevity's sake; as it stands, the movement is a little overdrawn."The Washer Woman" could be soundtrack to some dark psychological thriller during the throes of isolation and it's as if Hoen and Sherman struck the chord missed by "More Like Prayer". A taut milieu, despite seeping shadows in the texture.Locust temporarily breaks protocol with "The Flower Lady", a few minutes of ambient trip-dub that would be right at home with the mad analog soul of a Digital Mystikz set. Not the most characteristic album cut, but a personal favorite nonetheless."Subie" begins on the same track as "The Flower Lady" but soon ebbs into the flow of less atypical Locust fare. Again, intensification gives priority to atmosphere and, while the song picks up a bit near the end, it remains primarily a tour-de-(mellow)-force for Sherman's keys. Completing the cycle, "Corporal Genesis" mimics the quiet meditation of Sigur Ros to end the album. A fine spiritual closer.

It’s free and restrained, naive and formulaic; it’s the trajectory of what’s to come in tune these days and going forward. Palenke Soultribe’s second entry in their recent audio trilogy, the foreign MAR, is right out of the textbook of the ethnic familiar-obscure.Lately, there’s been increasing notice given to these eclectic EDM-roots crossover acts. Everything needs a drop these days in the realm of pop, but the devil’s in the details and a lot of artists are emerging from the clutter dead to rites. Palenke Soultribe tows the line, close.MAR has so many tangible roots that you’d think it’s utter overkill (at first); still, it makes sense in its own way. The trick, which this South American hybrid has refined more than so many of its self-proclaimed ‘genre-jumping’ compatriots, is in the consistency of the arch. Seems every other album today that plays with both the electric and the organic takes pride in the hodgepodge, the whatever-comes-next (it’s all good) shuffle, and it’s risky business.So where does MAR focus? Best description off the top of my head, its near-trap tribal Sudamericana folk. Sometimes, it’s a mess – “Las Penas Alegres” never rises far above electronic folk noise, while other tracks (“Boom It Up”, “SOS Vitamina” especially) emerge with crunch and distinction early on (the mood set here largely carries through). Of course, exceptions exist – “Missing Information” reminds of Chronichitis-era Slightly Stoopid with its combo pack of digital wobbles n’ drops and organic dub – sometimes (as with this particular track), the outside cuts are actually high points. Then you’ve got good-fillers like “This Song Is For Whoever Feels Lonely”, which hops from its Latina base of operations to a chorus that could effortlessly latch onto the next Jersey Shore spinoff as a theme song. Yes, MAR is all over. So do you abandon the source and tap elsewhere? Hell if I know, but it’s a fine line these boys are playing in the margins.MAR is a pretty solid album, perhaps not as strong as its acclaimed predecessor, ORO, but no major complains nonetheless. Palenke Soultribe’s stylistic blend of authentic South American roots and artificial drum-and-bass tightening is responsible for some solid summer party jams, and their record (mostly) works from start to finish. Still, it’s damn easy to mix slush for the sake of exploration or making a name on the fringe, and this duo’s one of those that could fall to either side of the tracks moving on; even a tight set like theirs doesn’t make a body of work if it all falls to pieces in the grand scheme of things. For an hour, though, I’ll let MAR play; it can’t hurt.

With TAUK, it's best to ignore the foursome's wordy pandering (We really wanted this new album to be a statement... Homunculus has everything to do with how we as humans interpret ourselves and our surroundings. It acknowledges the inherent duality that exists between our mental and physical beings and to me that's where it relates to our creative process... Cool, Zhongfeng, now enough with the koans, please) and just listen to the music. Yes, these fellows are formally trained one-and-all. Yes, they're quietly and quickly becoming New York darlings. Still, ignore it; just listen to the music.

Homunculus is an instrumental jam-fusion offering from start to finish. Regardless, the beast is wholly lyrical in delivery; she breathes and speaks, Coltrane jazz on a fine kick.

The album starts off quiet, all crackle and low hum. Then, next second before you know, it’s right there in the mix. And jamming. And real, real good. Without a doubt, the first notes of “Dead Signal” boot up like an STS9 joint, replete with all the soul and pulsing heartbeat of those live-improvised outerspace dub-dwellers and packed in just as tight. I enjoyed.

The mood set in the opener, TAUK proceeds to roll in the hay and the hills and the heavens through the heart of the record. “Afro-Tonic” sways about in namesake pentatonic before resetting, growing again, and emerging with a full-built rip-roar that, for lack of a better description, feels like you’re climbing to the Bob-omb Summit in Super Mario with Phish for your first time. The original of a couple likeminded tracks, “Hello Narwhal” introduces itself with a heavy Sabbath riff before devolving into meandering supermarket jazz for a stretch of the breaks. Near the song’s end, TAUK gives a taste of its drug of choice with this little guitar riff (barely twenty seconds) that just gets to me, hits with poignancy in the controlled-chaotic swirl. The moment’s one of a few on the album, probably a couple minutes at most over the entirety of the set, but the emotion in those little notes carries far more weight than any orchestrated symphony ever could. “The Spot” seeps melancholy for a switch, theme music for lost souls. When it does, it picks up with a Mountain hook, organs and matching-minor guitars spacing the void so fluently, and yet so out of touch. The movement returns to earth with a piano breakdown at the end, hip as hell like an early RJD2 groove and peaking as if it’s the finale to an old Baretta episode – Dirty Harry riff-raff, straight in the wrong decade. The magic Soul Train keeps rolling with “The Chemist” and sounds like an 8-bit trip with Foxy Brown as conductor – another old-school lick, another electric explosion; then jump right back in the game and cycle her over again – good chemistry, indeed. An extra arcade-inspired level follows: “Dirty Mouth” breaks its beat with a commanding bass line underneath phasing chords and echoing crunchy riffs. Absolutely showing my inner nerd, but this is what should have been bumping wandering around the seaside villages in Suikoden on the old Playstation.

The title of “Curtain Call” hints at this particular play’s coming end. It’s pretty and just as proficient as the priors, but we’re going down. By “Carpentino’s Rebirth”, the first signs of monotony are sneaking in; the song makes up for repeating what’s already come and gone with a frantic drum beat and sidewinding guitar, still apparently some energy to spare. “When In Doubt” is finally showing signs of a calm near the end of the set. It’s not bad, but the vehicle’s starting to run downhill, tank approaching empty. “In The Basement of the Alamo” finishes off with a couple lively death throes.

And then it’s over.

Sad as it is, TAUK’s biggest issue is their saving grace; they’re fine-tuned and mechanical, and they present themselves in the same vein. As is usually the case, it’s tiresome and borderline pretentious listening to the prodigies discussing their art. But the well-learned machine is the same one that’s entirely responsible for the taut lines and religious riffs throughout Homunculus, so we’ll cut the boys somewhat of a break. Track-to-track is a blessing; keys match when they should and go their own way in a dream. The problem, boiled down, TAUK wants to refine their image (as the young bucks tend to) as much as they do their sound; if they’d just leave it all to the music... there’s gold in them psychedelic hills, I tell ya.

The young D.C. trio going by Mission South is set to release their sophomore extended play, Migration Vol. 2. No doubt, these boys are rather proficient (and workers, too, as their extensive touring schedule can attest to). But aptitude doesn’t necessarily dictate achievement, and that’s where this particular band teeters.Mission South preaches soul and the blues; what we get is a mechanical child of Randy Newman and Lenny Kravitz. At times, it’s good, sure – “Saint” is slow, meandering roots rock that lazes and riffs on an old ballad as it ponders leaving home (a personal favorite) – still, the effect is as temporary as any sound come across on this short album. “Photographs & Fables” maintains the simple licks that embodied “Saint”; the immediate vocal delivery just creeps out of place. It’s not so much a bad song in its own right, but the track’s unevenness during its course muddles an otherwise promising skeleton.Other entries in this brief record provide less account. In the earliest moments, “Introduction” is pastoral and lulling. To follow, “Free” is clean yet provides little edge. (Maybe that’s the point, but the song doesn’t jump in any direction.) “Peaches” wants to play at Southern court with Kings of Leon, and the melody tries its damndest to inspire the impossible (for now). Rarely spectacular, nothing to find pressing issue with – seems to be the way on this player, I suppose.Finally, “Thriller” offers some promise in a solid last cut. (It could fit on Are You Gonna Go My Way if quarter need be found.) As the trio admits in lyric confession, they’re just living in our wildest dreams here, but who’ll fault them?None of this second Migration is poorly undertaken; Mission South might just be reaching beyond their station a bit too soon.

Kurt Vile's fifth long player is a humble opus if there’s such a thing. His lyrics could be hopeful, could be melancholy, it’s tough to tell – the almost-eponymous opening track (substitute “Day” for Daze in the title) sums it simply, it’s hard to explain, (my love) in this daze. Vile’s vocals throughout Wakin On A Pretty Daze are soft and flatline, yet they tend to hint at a humble crispness around the edges. As warning, his melodies keep alongside his voice, slow and meandering with only the slightest deviance. Sometimes they overstay their welcome – you can’t be in a rush to hear Daze – but, like war stories from a tired old man, there’s wisdom in the musings.The singer-songwriter's roots grow mostly in the grass of 1993. On songs like “KV Crimes” his band the Violators back the harmony with Stratocaster hooks over Vile’s droning-emotive vocals (I think he lets out a lone, understated woo that might be the most eccentric his singing gets). “Was All Talk” beats an insistent drum-and-strum that will surely remind of R.E.M post-circa “Electrolite” or something of that vibe. It’s basic tribute (Making music is easy, watch me! Vile enthuses). No need for this one to fill its almost eight minutes frame, though. Early Nirvana and the Pixies made a preternatural child in the uncomfortable “Shame Chamber” with Vile wavering, shay-ay-ame on you... I can’t even look myself in the mirror (the Strat plucks a high chord and ends the dither), suddenly someone’s wooping and wooing from a peak over an idle-jam solo, fade her out and it’s done. “Never Run Away” is a shoegazing Tom Petty, airy and affecting as can be given the circumstance, banging and losing drums over a revolving guitar-axis. I know you’ll never run away, it’s true what Vile says, teasing that he’ll venture away from the compound that’s drawn us in all as he hunkers down in his sole lonesome octave. “Girl Called Alex” is another one, reverb for added significance over what’s heart is a simple recollection. In the fills, the Violators hint that they might break out, but it’s a wholly empty promise; they’ll be staying put for now. Too bad, I enjoyed the distorted riffs and the organ-keys that relieve themselves to an accordion hum. Second thought, this one’s a good tune; Vile has plenty to consider, it seems. A requisite shift in tempo occurs on the same note approaching final resonance. There’s something here.Wait! We’re past the twelfth fret with “Pure Pain” and it’s not so bad, now, is it? The tune’s hook jumps out from the haze; it’s almost startling amongst the clouds, despite an optimistic undertone. But then it floats back down to Earth, sliding strings carrying the weight. An ephemeral breeze catches for another chorus, but Vile’s returning from his trip to form – his outro falls to muttering and we don’t know where he is anymore. I like this one for just what it is, a turn and a comedown.“Too Hard” caught me off-guard (it shouldn’t have, really) again with fingerpicked notes I could have sworn were from a “Rain In The Country/Crumbling Land” tape (an aside: as a bootleg, Omay Yad comes highly recommended). Similarly, the lyrics aren’t so much a song as a message from a (too soon) world-weary traveler to the girl back home: Take your time they say it's all around / and I think I'd say I know just where that I am bound / There comes a time in every man's life when he's / gotta hold tight to the heart of the matter at hand / So take your time, baby girl, ‘cause that's, that's the best of all... A subtle fade to “Snowflakes Are Dancing” narrates the scene with whispering acoustics and some minor obscurities. Those looking for an archetypal Vile composition should come here to stand in the lingering zephyr, chilling on a pillowy cloud / comfort of codeine / and springsteen pristine / you shoulda seen / just what I heard (I’m starting to think this is perfect, I said to myself when the dance was nearly over).“Air Bud” doesn’t have anything more to add, just strange days inside / my mind... (here’s where we toss the leftover mumbles and picks)... and then what?(Well, this is interesting.) “Goldtone” has the Violators escaping to an island paradise (Vile promise it’s not in their heads: Sometimes when I get in my zone / you'd think I was stoned / but I never, as they say, touch the stuff...) No idea where they’ve ended up, but it must be a pretty view from up high or adrift at sea, listening to the swan sing on that codeine and haze while the sun sets in the distance.

Horns and go, “Step Inside” insists immediately. The tune takes a nostalgic turn near the end, riffing on some old jazz, but it’s largely a characteristic overture for Kings and Queens – a slight shift from the early days of John Brown’s Body has taken form here, albeit grounded firmly in roots from the same tree.This band hasn’t rested on its early-dub laurels in passing years (see Amplify); no exception here. Kings and Queens toys with brass in self-coined “future roots music” throughout its twelve-song collection, showcasing mastered instrumentals over a recognizable brand of shape-shifting pop-riddim. “Invitation” is almost Skindred – for a second – then it’s back to basics. Good. “Shine Bright” and “The Battle” are similarly solid tracks recorded as if standing ankle-deep in island sands. Harmonies, beats, what you’d expect from the band.What separates John Brown’s Body from the white-boy likes of Slightly Stoopid and Pepper is the build; the Body peaks high, higher than the others by a long shot. (Maybe SOJA comes close, but the Virginia activists are far more dedicated to causes then meditation in their melodies.)Even so, Kings and Queens would be remiss in the eyes of American reggae fanboys if a call to arms was ignored utterly. John Brown indulges: “Plantation” is so-so, going through the motions; it might fare well in a dubbed-out mix somewhere down the line but singer Elliot Martin’s vocals seem a bit strained as it stands. “Empty Hands” swirls like a Scooby-Doo chase on a politico-reggae groove, waiting for Redbeard’s ghost and his crew to reveal themselves in a police state. “Dust Bowl” crackles in a Marley speech and hooks on near-pop. (This one caught me by surprise, a return to prior structure.) “Starver” wants to say something as well; its choir is haunting, and the band cries for an unmentioned desire (we want it, we want it). Between the title and the vague yearning for something of substance, this one’s textbook armchair activism set to tune.Interesting enough, the lead single (“Old John Brown”) is probably the most eclectic spot on the album. It’s an entertaining song, something Raffi might have penned if he was singing about the gallows pole instead of belugas. I almost wish they’d spend an album’s worth on this story, maybe it’s not so polished but there’s fun in the message for change.Time to settle down. “Fall On Deep” relaxes, and the requisite island organs meander in. This one doesn’t need to roam, content in a pretty place. Yes, we gonna fall on deep, together... “Deep Summer” is just that, a groove for a sunny day in the heart of July. The sax pulls away from the Body for a while, but it’s not going anywhere.Topping off at last call from a vacation pool-bar, “Searchlight” has instrumentals that could easily back a Hannah Montana radio-friendly. I guess it works on its own; no idea what it’s doing here, though. Be ready now, ready now, Martin insists. You heard it here first: John Brown’s Body is making a play for the Top 40.Jokes and curiosities aside, Kings and Queens is quite enjoyable. John Brown’s Body always lets off solid reggae vibes, and I can’t burn ‘em for shifting gears on this drive chasing a new wave. (I’ll always prefer Among Them, but this’ll do fine.) It’s a new incarnation, still king albeit of a different realm.

I remember back a couple years ago I was spending New Year’s Eve at this little ski hill pub up in New Hampshire, and there was a live band heading up the evening from a corner stage. They were good too, playing your standard classic rock fare of the Stones, Petty, and the like. Every time they’d hook on a new tune, I immediately heard the source—here’s a Richards riff here, there’s Tom’s nasally drawl there—if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, these gents had formed a holy fan club. Now, I can’t recall the name of that evening’s particular quartet, but rest assured if you’ve frequented any local live-entertainment pub operation you’ve seen the sort, talented tonal-scriveners of the highest caliber.In any case, that bar foursome’s style is pretty much exactly what you’re getting with The 4onthefloor—granted, they’re busting out original tracks throughout in lieu of recycled material—there’s a staunch static to the record, the delivery of a career cover band having their go in the studio for a hindered shot.Let it be said again that Spirit of Minneapolis is nothing if not a showcase of technical achievement from start to finish—vocals and backing are all superb in delta blues-rock character—but there’s a lack of scope, and like an old Florida bungalow, the key never changes to the lock.“King of the Jungle” takes no time to get loud, bumming a clangy guitar with ‘70s nostalgia written on the sleeve. It’s belligerently lyrical, fervently tapping a Jim Morrison vein—I half expected our lead to start dubbing himself Mr. Mojo Rising on the hook... “Enough” creeps up with meandering guitars boosted from a Pearl Jam stage—first line: There’s too much music in the world, nothing we haven’t already heard... the start of a concession speech already?From here, we’re simply dropping off into mostly standard post-blues fare built on solitary riffs, nothing so outstanding but certainly solid filler.  “Stand Off”, “Engine No. 4”, and “Hard Rain” fall deep in this category. “Off The Cuff” calls on Black Keys sentiment for its variant hook, and “Bonfire” shows off some vocal range, but they’re both built still on that one, ponderous riff.The 4onthefloor’s go-to gimmick is their stubborn loyalty to a four-bass drum setup that has the entire band stomping for the entirety of their set. It’s something, the niche, but there’s only so far one minor hook can carry an act. A couple notes: “Some Days” carries on the tradition of a rock star come home with a quick foot-stomping chorus that would fit right in at a barnyard romp. This one’s over just as soon as it began; later, “Toast to the Land of 10,000” gives the audience a fifty-second romp, but already the band’s gone near-acapella in the name of novelty. Two down—so where else is there for this stunt to hop?One track I’ve left out, “Sanchez”, has this cool little riff out-range of the familiar four-floor bass construction, and it’s one of the few moments where the band doesn’t seem quite so intent on making their name beyond familiar Midwestern households. The hint of original soul here uplifts an otherwise mechanical record from the flat-line plain. My personal favorite.The 4onthefloor is definitely intent on tapping the raucous energy of the loudest dive bar they can otherwise recall, a better bet than the house band at your local haunt with their obvious love of the particular jams they’re cranking. I’d lay down cash that the gang puts on a highly entertaining live show perfect to chase barrel bourbon—there’s too much vigor not to—but The 4onthefloor and Spirit of Minneapolis need something more in the tank to drive beyond the land of cheap-draft saloons.

To start, Camera Obscura introduces Desire Lines with a brief, sweeping overture (simply, “Intro”) that hints at the structured dreamscape to come—not that any future tracks on the record revisit the string arrangement procured here; I mean to say that this short, overwrought musical construct belies the band’s aspiration to sublime grandeur in obvious subtext. But that’s all just intellectualizing what amounts to a barely a half-minute movement on the album. The simple fact is, once I heard Desire Lines’ introduction, I knew exactly what I’d be getting for the next forty-odd minutes—contrived simplicity well done for the sake of weight—and it’s almost too bad, because you never fully lose yourself in the more elementary notes, cringingly aware the band wants you to forget for a time that it’s all an act. Camera Obscura tells a story in the lyrics and mechanism of Desire Lines that is nothing if not an admirable attempt at layman ethereality. But these folks are too consistent to feign providence in their riffs’ origins.Finally to the music—“This Is Love (Feels Alright)” is whimsical and breezy, and I enjoyed it as a piece.The middle third, and heart, of the album (Tracks Three to Nine) systematically alternate between two—and only two—forms: “Troublemaker”, “Every Weekday”, “Do It Again”, and “New Year’s Resolution” run a little faster in tempo than “This Is Love” (albeit in the same sedated spirit), while “William’s Heart”, “Cri Du Couer”, and “Fifth In Line To The Throne” remain adrift with a more casual strum. In these tracks, Camera Obscura references sources from Moose to My Morning Jacket with categorical precision— it’s almost as if the members behind the Camera were born of consummations during an indulgent afterparty for The Scene That Celebrates Itself—for better or worse, Desire Lines is a well-versed product, though it cares not to admit it... (and just like that, this album is drawing to a close.)“I Missed Your Party” is appropriate in title—growing with some horns in the mix for a long-awaited shift from the now-familiar groove, but it’s too late. Sorry, I missed your party...And why the hell did it take so long? “Break It To You Gently” is actually enjoyable, not tedious, with its neon-lite synthesizers that The Human League might have indulged in had they survived to ’93. Little darling, I tried, at least look on the bright side... Put this track alongside “This Is Love (Feels Alright)” and you’ve got yourself quite a single ditty. Too bad the pair gets lost amongst the necessities of a full-length creation.Desire Lines ends with its titular finale, another slow track to smooth the set to a rather underwhelming close.They say first impressions are impossible to wholly overcome—so true with Desire Lines—and it’s unfortunate, because there’s certainly some fun to be had amongst the set. But it’s tough to enjoy these outwardly whimsical, shoegazing melodies when I can’t help but feel—albeit perhaps misguidedly so—that the folks in Camera Obscura are celebrating their own breezy hipness from the curtains. That being said, at least there’s labor behind the cool—I doubt anyone would underestimate the time Camera Obscura has spent honing their seraphic sound—the artists might be the pin-adorned, high-def hipster offspring of Norah Jones and Tim Gane (you’ve encountered their ilk), but at least they’ve taken the time to find an outfit sewn of thrift that matches.

It means “My Country”—Mon Pays, that is—to the native Malian, Vieux Farka Toure. According to the guitar virtuoso, the album is a tribute to his home, produced during a period of ethnic and religious strife that has brought unrest to the landlocked West African nation. The hope and zeal behind these songs is tangible.Mon Pays is a beautiful collective piece. I’m far from familiar with the artist or his prior work, but there is an underlying prowess to each individual melodic movement that rarely subsides throughout the progression, and I found myself suitably impressed with the ardor behind the endeavor.This is a traditional African record in many ways, yet Mon Pays exudes an oft-untapped lifeblood sanguinity in comparison to similar regional ventures—pleasant, flawless music for a lazy Saturday on a sun-kissed deck.If I had to provide a close cousin to Mon Pays from my own personal sphere of reference, the most pertinent I can think of would have to be For Octavio Paz, another largely acoustic offering from Six Organs of Admittance and one I truly favored in its own right. Yes, I must be reaching. All I can promise is that the sorts of folks who would indulge in Vieux Farka Toure’s music will certainly enjoy the album.

Maybe I’ve grown jaded and all, but lately the gimmicks and ploys and artificial soul spewing from some of these up-and-comers in the ‘industry’ (loose interpretation) have been dancing on nothing short of exhausting. Too much self-awareness, far too little genuine appreciation for the necessary steps on the ladder to iconic reverence. Folks wanna be first-off famous—you cannot fall in love with the rock stars, to paraphrase my favorite flick on the subject (you’ve seen it). It’s a barren wasteland of lowly pomp and posture, if you ask this guy.On the other hand, JJ Grey & Mofro'sThis River just broke me in a grin, pure and simple.The album is strict blues-rock from down Florida south, and that’s perfectly fine. There’s no pretention  no mechanical image construction—just honest riffs and Southern sensibility. Yep, enjoyed this one.“Your Lady, She’s Shady” gives a hammer of a first impression, crossing “Hard to Handle” by the Black Crowes with early Chili Peppers (circa “Real Men Kill Coyotes”) over Stevie Wonder funk. One deeper, “Tame A Wild One” offers a sing-along chorus that could easily find its way into the Great American (neo-Fifties Barroom) Songbook alongside any number of Traveling Wilburys tunes (think Roy Orbison meets the theme and horns from Sanford and Son—believe it or not, the fit’s quite on point). An early favorite.And the whole set really just carries on from there. I’ll leave out some details for you to discover on your own—I highly recommend a purchase of the record for anyone at all interested in classic funk stylings—and instead just throw some influences that I could skim off the top (apart from the aforementioned)...... James Brown, the Family Stone, sprinklings of Herbie Hancock, Curtis Mayfield (actually, most anything off the Super Fly soundtrack, for that matter), Jagger and Richards—I’d say that’s enough.To wrap up, This River is catchy, you can play it on a loop, and yer old man can satisfy his foot-tapping instincts to the beats and the breaks. Just one of those albums you can’t fault, not a bit.

Shades of raw Buzzcocks in spirit and this distinguishable brand of Interpol-Strokes scenester amalgam in recurring riffs—adjusting their own description to account for the requisite self-romanticizing inherent in any young new band’s internal visions of their portrait—that’s Bad Cop more or less.The trio’s debut E.P. is grinded-down polish. Anarchy on synthetic drugs. High-gloss Stratocaster punk trying to recount stories some denim-rocking uncle of ‘66 told through an acid haze back in the glory days.(Go figure they’re from Nashville, home of Chet Atkins, Skeeter Davis, and the Golden Countrypolitan Sound.)Production credit going to Brad Schultz (Cage the Elephant) is no surprise here—fingerprints courtesy one of the juvenile underlings of “Ain’t No Rest For The Wicked” can be found on all five tracks with little detective work—though the youths behind Light On aren’t nearly old enough to talk of the world-weariness they seem to anticipate.The record is derivative, I know, but Bad Cop is experimenting with so much substance that, same as bubblegum or penicillin, the three vagrant-alchemists might have actually mixed something to last in a strand.

The Mother Hips have been around for twenty years, and I’ve never heard of them—I think—actually, on second thought, they do ring a bell. But that might just be residual from my Acid Mothers Temple salad days...In any case, Behind Beyond is the band’s latest disc, released in celebration of their platinum (or china, if you’re old school) anniversary. The set includes ten tracks born of their “California soul” style, and listeners can expect a bevy of bites from somewhat sundry influences—psychedelia, strummin’ country, and those undeniable pop aspirants, amongst others.Having already dropped a hefty retrospective set (Days of Sun and Grass), the Hips are no new sheep to the stage; additionally, the major critical players (R. Stone, Mojo, the new-hipster New Yorker, etc.) seem to enjoy their stuff. Always a telling sign.Behind Beyond explains why. The Mother Hips steal all the right licks, mimic the ideal indies, and package their product quite nicely. Sure, some tunes fall a little short (we call it filler), but that’s beside the point. The Hips are... hip—lead songwriter Tim Bluhm recites his melodic mantra in typical City that Knows How guru fashion; his music promises a Mecca of Northern spirituality, brought clean via jangly guitars and rolling acoustics.The album’s influences are tangible. Alt-pop tracks like “Freed From a Prison” and “Behind Beyond” were lifted from Guster’s arty days; “Tuffy,” “Best Friend in Town,” and “Shape the Bell” were born in a southern honky-tonk bar of Tom Petty’s Heartbreaker seed—“Creation Smiles” is a similar, bluesy offering, but it’s largely underwhelming—all of ‘em sneak in some guest origin-stars, too: not-so-careful listens reveal hints of My Morning Jacket and half-doses of Foo Fighters. Yes, here is the land of simplistic range.The best cuts, though, have more to offer in the way of multifaceted originality. Or, in other words, mishmash. “Isle Not of Man” provides xylophone-hooked soul over off-chord progressions with a solo that wavers in the territory between The Wall and the “Sultan of Swing.” Changing pace, “Rose of Rainbows” starts off like a bootleg demo to the theme of ‘Sanford and Son’ before devolving to a standard Cali-pop outfit—with a Train-inspired Latin bridge to boot, of course. As an exercise in storytelling, “Jefferson Army” surprises, floating in an expanding haze of early British psychedelic prog that’s up and gone Californee-way for the summer. Keeping in key, “Song for JB” plays its melody in near-country ballad. Rolling from the Hippie Highway, it provides mellow yellow conclusion to the set. A simple, fitting closer; no more or less.

I’ll be honest: Chicago is probably the last place I tend to think of when we’re talkin’ bluegrass. Still, the Henhouse Prowlers have gained a healthy following out in the city they call home, so I figured a listen couldn’t hurt all that much.Hopping in, the foursome’s not too rough around the edges—they’re speedy, low-gloss pluckers, and their record plays something like a ragtag barnyard session you’d find in a millennial Monte Hellman joint.And so it hit me early on (right around “Lonesome Road”) that there’s only one way to characterize this record: it’s a snapshot of a Midwestern flyover town, if you’re saved the background and conclusion of the picture’s story; existential-pop-Polaroids taken with a banjo and country strings, if you will.To be sure, Breaking Ground is a rather good album; taken in bits, most of the numbers play well on their own and make for good foot-stomping nouveau-grass melodies. But B.G. isn’t so much a cohesive long player as a collection of singles—soundtrack for when the Man with No Name passes through some likewise anonymous Main Street community on the eve of the big town hoedown—“Drunk Again” is a telling sample; on the other end “Ain’t Too Proud to Beg” is a functional cover, and little more.I enjoyed Breaking Ground; eclectic when possible, proficient where it needs to be, the album makes for a respectable set in the nostalgic new-bluegrass arena (of hay and red-washed wood). Pick and choose some favorites for your own mixtapes; Henhouse Prowlers don’t worry so much if you stick around for the duration or just stop by for a country glimpse.The Album release party is at Old Town in Chicago on 8/24

If Sound Tribe Sector 9 got a case of the spits, if “Coffee” and “Smithereens”-era El-P was swallowed by Deep Medi Musik, if RJD2 dosed yellow instead of smoking his jazzy tea—there you’ve got something close to Lotus’ new effort, Monks.It’s unsurprising that the veteran act’s production is top-notch as they bite their own studio pipeline for samples and breaks to create a thorough hip-hop affair that’s both subtle and acid-tinged in waves. Hooks do their job and linger for some pleasing aftereffects—(aptly mixed with quirk and wobble in all the outer space)—and the craft is a sickly sweet fringe record, one of the year’s desirables (in my minor book).So, yeah, we’ve got ourselves a solid base here for sonic exploration, looking at Lotus’ instrumental cuts and all they bring. But the guest features the band has managed are equally superb: Mr. Lif, Lyrics Born, Gift of Gab, Ras Arcane, and a couple other stray Beat-poetic-priests dot the rollin’ n’ trippin’ soundscape. Stir the lyricism and good vibrations, and it’s oh so smooth—nothing disagreeable to be found from start to finish, and that’s coming from a perpetual polemicist. If anything, Monks resonates like an old church in abandoned woods—high religion for lost souls—but most’d never know the place was even there to begin with.But that’s enough for vogue n’ vague ad copy—how ‘bout those tracks? Well, Brooklyn hipsters can take the “Great Molasses Flood” on their unicycles and all the way up to their rooftop heirloom tomato gardens; drive on “He Ain’t Well,” and Ozay Moore starts throwing speedballs like Rittz in his underground prime; “Four Tips” is the descendent of Gorillaz; “Cloud 9” is spiritual as a Benedictine (here going by the name of Doodlebug, of course)—“Cannon in the Heavens” and “Atlas Slugged” are similarly beautiful in hallucinogenic surrealism—and “Simplify Unwind” (brought to life by Mr. Lif) sits atop the stone throne... just a sampling, but it’s all quite representative.As the record winds down, “Monks (Old)” plays it’s minute jam—a throwback to Lotus’ roots—and all of a sudden we’re on our way back to reality. Sure was a nice little respite, though.

I have walked so far, so far...I’ll concede, I suppose it’s easy to get a little jaded to old-hand refinement these days, what with the driving influx of fresh bubblegum content fit for chewing in three-minute stretches. For those artists—including our own Susanna and her most recent partner Ensemble neoN—who dive into deep cuts as a rule and not an exception, the present state of the union can be suffocating. Like an insistent bouncer at a low-rent exotic club, today’s audience is only asking one thing during the screening process—where’s the single? All others, hit the road.Now, I’m sure there’s a band of loyalists reading this who’ll accuse me of such similar ignorant tyranny with what I’m about to say, but the simple fact of the matter is that Susanna’s Forester set indulges in its ethereal minimalism (nearly) to the point of excess. This isn’t a blanket rejection of what the Norwegian songstress is attempting here, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t poke a couple holes in the holy zeppelin and let some air out.The Forester drifts through the fog of haunting pastorals, low to the earth and rarely emerging from the periphery. The first two-thirds of the title track sequence are characteristic, showcasing avant-garde virtuosity in a distant display. Backing instrumentals tend toward subtle flurries and extended drones, while Susanna’s airy poetics more-than-intermittently take center stage with her echoing riffs and lyrical prowess.And that’s where The Forester wears thin on me. It’s not for any lack of player ability—singer and company have that in spades and then some—but Susanna continually refuses to adhere to the adage of strength in omission—or, I guess what I’m trying to say is, when every whispering note lingers and echoes into the darkness with a heavy-handed sense of worth, do individual moments of otherwise-significance degrade to the point of tedious noise? Every track on the album is a cornerstone for a stone church the artists refuse to build—heavy and beautiful, exhausting to bear. The Forester is a short album, clocking in just under thirty-four minutes. And, for what it is, the record feels significantly longer—I won’t say that I ever found myself hoping the songs would dwell in place any more than they did.Again, I promise I’m not casting the release off as an utter waste; there’s a sparse complexity to the soundscape that Ensemble neoN has created, and I respect the baroque nuances that tease Susanna’s lyrics along. Near the cycle’s completion, “The Forester” finds the perfect mix of simplicity, drone, and vocal insistence that I wish could have stayed with me longer. Further down the line, “Lonely Heart” offers an eclectic arrangement of life and fluttering minimalist musings that is, in its style, teetering on strange-flawless. There are moments of experimental clarity to be had here—for the patient.Still, the circle winds ‘round back to where we began, as Susanna muses to her last quivering note beneath the cover of a string bass and a Beat flautist lost in a poppy field; meanwhile, we’re left lonesome to wonder which lines bear repeating down the road. And, honestly, all said and done, I’m not entirely convinced our particular folk-priestess visionary could even tell us what she sees on her canvas beyond the ink.

Let's call a spade a spade—this is the Hipster Sound in its purest form, for better or worse. Arp’s More is British Invasion presented by The Strokes, with a touch of “Penny Lane” derivative on keys. You with me so far? Bueno.Now, the man behind the creation, Alexis Georgopolos, and his people will remind you this is a very New York album—(of course it is)—and they’re quite right. Tracks cross Clap Your Hands Say Yeah with a blotter sheet of early Philip Glass to make this set hip-as-thieves to the ear—whether you like it or not is, accordingly, beside the point.And I won’t sit here knocking Georgopolos’ ability as a songsmith—the fellow’s personally responsible for most of the sounds on More, and those pipes can whistle, too—but the real issue with his Arp persona is he doesn’t know if he wants to make Transformer or Ummagumma with his debut (traditionally speaking) song cycle—“More (Blues)” is his skeleton for a “Perfect Day;” “E2 Octopus” his “Narrow Way.” The rest of the songs fill in blanks with varying effect.In the past, Georgopolos has worked as a composer on a smorgasbord of projects (I’ll drop a couple of ‘em later, promise, Al), and he’s certainly gathered himself a following in circles. Here, though, he can’t quite bring himself to abandon those avant-garde-baroque-meets-bare-bones-psychedelic dabblings long enough to smooth his cuts to a handful of acceptable three-minute clips. None of the tracks are particularly bad—except the subtly pretentious nothingness on the song for Charlemagne Palestine (whoever the hell that is), during which I had to skip nearly four minutes of recycling pianist-monotony for fear of lapsing into a jolly migraine—but none are really all that great, either. Arp wanted to pen “When I’m Sixty-Four;” he came up with “Octopus’s Garden.”The penguins who’ll raise their monocles to read Arp already have. He’s one of those indies with enough clout to sell some vinyl in Brooklyn and maybe Fog City, and that’s alright. Still, don’t count me among the initiated; won’t catch me whispering with the young esoterics: Look! He’s biting doo-wop AND The Beatles—what an artiste! (Amazing, he cut his teeth in avant-garde circles, too!) Just because Georgopolos has done everything—soundtracking Chanel to curating The Kitchen and beyond—doesn’t mean that “A Tiger in the Hall at Versailles” is any more understated profundity, any less dullard theme on a short loop. Nope, I apologize, but at the end of the day, here’s lookin’ at Arp, the organist who was too damn cool for the Lonely Hearts Club Band.

I met Mark “The Shark” Stevens a little over a year ago through mutual friends in Boston. What immediately comes to mind when I think of those first nights out at the bars is that—for better or worse—the kid was always right in the mix of things. One of those guys who knows everyone; always looking to buy the next round; always the most in-your-face; always leaves with the biggest tab—no, if Shark’s anywhere near the joint, you sure as hell won’t miss him.Now, besides being a tour-de-force in a black leather jacket at the resident pubs, Stevens has also been a stand-up comedian for the past seven years—an obvious career choice for such a loud little bastard, if you ask anyone who has spent more than a couple minutes in the same room with him. Mark “The Shark” Stevens has done shows in New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and New York here in the states. He used to run his own room up in Toronto, and Humber College has an award in his name for producing. Most recently, he performed at Foxwoods, and he’ll be heading out to Los Angeles for a feature at the Comedy Store in December. If you ask him, though, he’ll be first to tell you that those shows mean damn little compared to his next event.Back in March, Stevens found out that Judy Kerns, aunt and mother to two of his closest friends, had been diagnosed with breast cancer and would have to undergo a double mastectomy. Since then, she has begun radiation therapy in an attempt to further treat the cancer. The costs associated with these procedures have come largely out of pocket.In the aftermath of this news, Stevens has set up a charity fundraiser in the form of a comedy show to help alleviate some of Mrs. Kerns’ medical expenses, many of which are not covered by health insurance. On November 21, comedians Greg Murphy, Danny Crohn, and the legendary Tony V. will all come together to perform in support of Mrs. Kerns and her recovery.I asked Stevens to give a little personal background on the show and those involved:“Normally, as both a person and a comic, I’m kind of a wild party guy. I love heavy metal and kickboxing—I’m not always exactly what you’d call the good guy all the time.Then I found out my best friend’s aunt, Judy, had stage four breast cancer. My friend, Nick Barry, and his cousin, Kristy (Judy’s daughter, who is also a dear friend of mine), have been like family to me since I was sixteen. Now, at twenty-five, I have to be there for them and use my talents for something worthwhile. I’ve lost family to cancer—it’s a terrible and devastating ordeal for anyone affected by it—and if I can do even one thing to help, I’ll give every last breath in body to do so.”Anyone who knows Mark personally has seen both sides—the carefree joker, and then the friend who will run headfirst into a brick wall for those around him, shouting his signature “Metal As F—” the whole way to impact. I would encourage anyone in the area to come out this November for some laughs and to support Mrs. Kerns. And I wouldn’t put it past Shark to pick up the tab on a couple rounds, either.FUNDRAISER INFODate & Time:

• November 21, 2013
• Doors at 6:30 PM. Dinner served at 7:00 PM. Show starts at 8:00 PM.

Location:Giggles Comedy Club (Saugus, MA)Performing:

• Tony V. / Greg Murphy / Danny Crohn
• Hosted by Mark “The Shark” Stevens

Tickets:Tickets are $25 and include free cheese pizza. They can be bought at the door the night of the show (or call 978-886-4221 for presale).Facebook Page:https://www.facebook.com/events/462195717227060/

You’re listening to Threace, and you’re smoking a hand-rolled tobacco joint and drinking mescal from a vintage mason jar and proclaiming it the True Agave Spirit of the South; your record player was bought used and old, you tell anyone who’ll listen; you’re bemoaning the death of the open road in modern times while you sit in circles amongst the likeminded in your New Amsterdam meatpacking district loft. I know all this, yet the scene’s alright by me this time.CAVE’s third release—dig the title?—was presented to me with all the markings of another hipper-than-thou funky acid long player (presented by Creem). From the band:“Threace is an album that appeals on all levels: animal, abstract and alien, and all at once; one multi-colored-circa-2013 grab-bang... Recorded on a 1” 8-track Scully machine that may or may not have spent some quality burn-in time at Muscle Shoals, Threace was half-planned and half-jammed using different mic placements, building up from a basic set of as few mics as possible. Then, they got out the razor blade and... well, this isn’t the Rolling Stones! They used it to cut tape (and realities) together into a metro-musical albumen that’s only started to flower in this world.”Alright, now that that’s over...Despite their best efforts to be too cool for any school that’d have me, I found myself really getting in on the jams while I was writing some overdue pieces needed elsewhere—(unfortunately my Smith-Corona’s busted at the moment, otherwise this’d be textbook hunt-and-peck music)—and I’m what you’d call selective (some might say pretentiously ornery) about such things, so good on ‘em for that, give the gents a couple points already...To be specific, the set borders frantic Beat jazz with whipped snares keeping time up to the precipice of low ‘70s sludge rock—and back and forth she rambles n’ shifts. CAVE’s apparently done away with their lifeblood organs in favor of pawned six-strings, and the result is—I hate to admit—captivating. I’m not ashamed to say I’ve skipped my fair share of middling improvs just to claim that I reached the supposed ‘climax’ of some of these niche jammers; Threace encouraged me to no such ends. Subtle where it needed to be, religious when the fever struck, this album pulled all the right punches and nailed all the right hooks to kill any dead space that usually lingers in similar releases.If I had to notch a lone track from the list (and I wouldn’t—the five on here play real nice together), I’d have to say “Arrow’s Myth” does it for me. Tasteful, still bristling woodwinds riff over sludgy crunch for an organic Beatnik experience that could still play in a fifty-max dive on the outskirts of Sioux Falls—that’s something.When the set winds down, everyone can leave the scene to “Slow Bern,” the quiet bastard child of “No Quarter” if John Bonham was still wide awake toward the end—swan song for a Chicago sound that, in reality, never quite was.Like no-name cheap tequila, I always approach these self-lauded indies with plenty of salt on my gums. But CAVE’s got me with this one—they’re good in my book. Who knows, maybe I’ll even be a bit slower to judge the next book by its coverage...... probably not, though.

I’m not quite sure what to make of this one—on the one hand, Passage of Pegasus is a tidy little dream pop album with tight instrumentals and a light concept; on the other... no, I just don’t know. A short anecdote:Once upon a time, I found myself on a late night adventure deep down the Interweb rabbit hole when I came across a series of videos by one Professor Soap (by his own account, he makes “music, art, and happiness” for the uninitiated—present company very much included until then). The short musicals (see “Spirit Quest Journey” for a primer) were strange, trippy—amusing, certainly—but then they were through, and I was left wondering, what’s the point?I’m not saying Breathe Owl Breathe is Professor Soap, or vice versa. But this idea of novelty that carries both products is a tough one for me to fully get behind when the end result is something of a neutral affair (think Polyphonic Spree on a heavy Xanax dose)—in the end, it all just seems a bit overwrought for the sake of minor notoriety in small, alternative circles.Now, let’s be clear, there are some pleasing moments on the record, and the set really doesn’t do anything wrong per se—“Silent Movie Real” boasts adept yet casually enjoyable instrumentals, “Hologram” sounds like Eddie Vedder leading his flannel-wearing tribe on a vision quest, and—speaking of which—the actual “Vision Quest” here, with its whimsical, joyfully surreal delivery, gives Breathe Owl Breathe a banner track to hang their hats on. (Whatever those hats are supposed to be.)In the end, if I had to cut Passage of Pegasus to a one-line tag, I’d say the record is something akin to David Bowie hosting story time for the grandkids in full get-up. And that’s certainly something; I just think I’d rather pop in Dylan’s “Hurricane” if I’m looking for a heady folktale with some strings.

So what does a Racoon Wedding sound like, exactly? Something akin to Kings of Leon circa Aha Shake Heartbreak if the boys went on a bender in Nawlins and never quite lost the itch they caught down in the Big Easy.Raccoon Dead On the Side of the Road was strictly an in-house effort—well, in warehouse, really—the Canadian sextuplet recorded this album over five days in an old Paris (Ontario) flop, and multi-instrumentalist band member Scott Wilson mastered the tracks. The result is essentially a rarities tape with the royal treatment, and it sure is one helluva Canuck smorgasbord.The record is loud and crowded, yet it all blends together like the boisterous roar of a Saturday night dive you’ve been indulging at for too many hours. Lulling moments seem to come without notice, inevitably building to another tussle, another kick and a yell. There are noises and influences aplenty in the mix—horns are a big piece of the Racoon puzzle and add a unique, boisterous element to the set; trombones provide just the right level of somber drone to an otherwise drunken swinging John festival on “Local Ghosts;” “Of the River” picks in waltz like Deer Tick’s “Smith Hill”—another toasted ode to romantic sins—then there’re hints of everything from working class ska to the punch of Cold War Kids (sidebar: Anyone heard from the kids in a while? Hope they’re doing alright...) and the old porcelain sink in need of repair.Apologies for throwing all that at ya in one bundle; but, then again, that’s pretty much Raccoon Dead to a note—anything and everything they can get a handle on, kickin’ and live. Regardless, bet the ol’ warehouse—we’ve got ourselves a damn good record here.

I’ll keep this one short and sweet, let y’all enjoy the record for yourselves—and it’s a tight one, trust me.First, though, a little background’s in order for anyone new to our man behind the Rebel Era LP. GRiZ (alias of producer, DJ, and—yes—classically-trained saxophonist Grant Kwiecinski) is a young buck at twenty-three, but his sound is already somethin’ else. Following up his debut set, Mad Liberation, with the funky-electric Rebel Era, the indie jockey’s starting to make some noise with his rounds.And, apparently, there’s an impetus to the sound. GRiZ elaborates:In a time where words and phrases like the occupy movement, personal freedom, the NSA, riots, elections, and war are on the tips of everyone’s tongues, I can feel a shift in global energy. This is a time where classism and competition is tearing a rift in society. A time where imperialist democratic capitalism is fighting its way to dominate cultures and separate people into selfish consumers. A time where people are turning against the powers that be and are speaking out against these values. A time that is inspiring people to seek change. It’s the time that we live in, an age that we created...... But—(and I’m paraphrasing the rest of the snippet here)—this album’s gonna change all that.Right.To be honest, I could care less about Kwiecinski’s politics, but the kid’s record sounds like the bangers that Pretty Lights was churning out back in the spinner’s underground glory days—think funk, soul, dub-intrinsic wobbles n’ drops, and a hip-hop undertow that’s nearly impossible not to get swept up by immediately. Toss the woodwind player’s masterful, jazzy sax atop the pile, and these tracks combust, spontaneous and blazing ‘til the smoke clears. It’s wild.There’s really not a weak spot to be found on Rebel Era from start to finish, so I won’t do a track-by-track run-through; just go and load up the mix—whether you’re looking to chill, cruise, or get down Saturday night style, this one’ll hit the spot. Scout’s honor.

Welcome to Cowabunga is a short EP (only three tracks deep), so we’re really not getting a full lay of the land here, just a quick tour de psychedelia. Still, the set runs long enough to reveal some telling references—start to finish, Cowabunga could’ve been My Morning Jacket’s doing if (lead singer)’d been smokin’ a pack o’ Marb Reds on four hours sleep every day the past ten-odd years; a little bit more of a stretch, but I’d be comfy enough tossing in a comparison to Dead Confederate, too, just for kicks (albeit a jollier, trendier incarnation of the sludge quartet.)What’s too bad about this record—but a good advert for the band, I suppose—is that she just sort of... ends. When “Keep Your Heat” cut out on me the first time around, I found myself suddenly left sitting in the dark, wondering how the Nashville six-piece would’ve filled the space remaining for a viable full-length. Regardless, Welcome to Cowabunga is a tight little release that should be enough to warrant a spin of their earlier, self-titled long player for those still diggin’ in the southern psychedelic landscape nowadays.

BIG Something sounds like Incubus and 311 had a baby and played moe. for the kid on repeat the whole time he was chilling in the womb—interesting offspring, to say the least.The six-piece is definitely a touring band at heart, and you catch the vibe early on that their self-titled player is a pretty accurate rendition of what you’d get at a live show—always a point of contention for those in the jam band brigade when they hit the studio—the instrumentals here are tight and focused, and vocals never trail off in their respective (lengthy) mixes. In bits, the band combines classic jam influences with crunchy riffs straight outta the sludge rock canon and electronic breaks that’d make the Disco Biscuits proud. Yeah, start to finish, y’all can color me rather impressed. (And Widespread Panic has been known to tire me out.)Aside from the aforementioned, BIG Something’s influences are definitely eclectic as hell—“The Glow” sounds like something Nujabes would bite; “The Undertow” is a stretched-out Pepper track; “Vibrations” and “Illuminated” jam like classic island-friendly dancers; guitar solos on “The Moonshine” are particularly electric; “EWI 4000” could’ve been a Dreamcast leftover from the Phantasy Star soundtrack (solid reference, eh?); finally, “Bright Lights” acts as a mellow closer, working in early acoustics that roll to a fiery finale—but, through all that, the record somehow manages to keep focus for the duration. It’s a sure sign of a seasoned band, and this here is nothing but a seasoned band in my book.BIG Something’s sophomore album clocks in at over eighty minutes in length—nothing too spectacular for a jam band, but there’s certainly plenty of opportunity to water down the product over such a long bridge. Thankfully, that ain’t the case here—BIG Something is a rock solid release, surely fit for the accolades that’ll be coming in hot and heavy when it officially drops. Ya just can’t knock an old school live rock band kickin’ funk, jazz, and electronica with a fever—this is fun, good times music for yer earhole—no bones about it, nothin’ more to say

Some things never change.

It’s already out that Mazzy Star’s Seasons of Your Day—their first album in some seventeen-odd years—is a lark’s call back to ’82 and the Paisley Underground, boasting the same beautiful shoegaze melodies behind She Hangs Brightly and So Tonight That I Might See that so endeared singer Hope Sandoval, guitarist David Roback and company within their underground circles in their heyday.

Mazzy Star’s current tour in support of Seasons finds the band quite comfortable in that old form—Sandoval’s voice is just as haunting; Roback still orchestrates his minimalist band with quiet mastery—and the duo’s following is strong as ever (don’t get me started on how near-impossible it was to nab a pair of tickets to the tour’s Boston leg...)

On that note, actually, let me just say I was quite surprised to see a Mazzy Star date in Boston at all—apparently, their last time through the Paradise was a borderline-toasty brouhaha amongst the crowd. Thankfully, this evening’s audience was categorically respect, a dyed-in-the-wool collective of early-Nineties children out for a Thursday throwback—needless to say, there was plenty of plaid and broken-in denim in attendance—and, aside from a few stray flashes and cat calls, the show went along incident-free. From a venue that I’ve seen turn into a drunken ruckus when Blind Pilot and the Low Anthem came to town, that’s saying somethin’.

Let me also mention for a minute here why any of that’s significant—you see, Ms. Sandoval’s got something of a complex when it comes to performing in front of an audience, and she’s not exactly known for well-faring when a crowd turns rowdy. Still, for such a notoriously stage-averse performer, she sure can command a room—when the girl opens up and sings, it’s almost mesmerizing—even standing perfectly still in the grey and blue.

Mazzy Star’s set design goes right along with their lead singer’s stage disposition—the dim room was illuminated only by a few candles, while subtly shifting imagery played across a backing canvas—dark, minimalist psychedelia. For a while, I felt like I was on a trip to ’67.

Now, as for the performance itself...

First off, the important thing to remember is, what you’re getting with Mazzy Star is a true-to-form rendition of their studio material, no more or less—on this night, Sandoval said precious little between songs (though she did keep on about how cold Boston is in winter), while Roback and the others remained silent throughout—their brand of live show is certainly at a far end of the spectrum, and it won’t appeal to concert-goers seeking any sort of pomp and flare. But, for the rest of us, damned if the band can’t play on the spot.

For a band that survives on sparse, hushed arrangements, Mazzy Star’s live sound actually filled the room at the Paradise quite nicely, if I’m saying so me-self. The night’s set featured a healthy balance between stripped acoustic numbers—where Sandoval’s voice came off particularly affecting in echoes over David Roback’s lonesome guitar—and classic full-band psychedelics, replete with keys, strings, and tight drum breaks to keep it all in line. Old standards were pulled alongside tracks from Seasons, each and every one to short, appreciative applause. The scene reminded me of the classic Unplugged showcases that used to air with the likes of Alice in Chains and Nirvana, back when everyone and Kurt Loder were wearing flannel.

Much of Mazzy Star’s appeal comes from their faithfulness to genre and the cohesive nature of their live set list. To be sure, classic tracks like “Fade into You” could’ve been written a day before the closing “California.” Even the psychedelic acid-tinged freak-out that ended the first encore (yes, there were two), which saw Roback and his backing band exploding with a sound that’d make ya feel like you should dig in for some tantric sex and start worshiping Satan while Sandoval riffed on lines straight from the Lizard King’s mouth, fit in just fine with the rest of the more subdued offerings.

In the end, I’ve really got nothin’ to say about Mazzy that isn’t already common knowledge amongst the initiated—I’m just glad our girl Hope decided to brave the Boston winter and show-stopping heathens so’s I could see what all the fuss was about with my own specks.

Here we have—singer-songwriter Todd Snider (usually a solo fellow) and bassist Dave Schools (Widespread Panic) leading the charge, Neal Casal (guitarist for Ryan Adams, Chris Robinson); Chad Staehly (of Great American Taxi) on keys, and King Lincoln drummer Duane Trucks (nephew of Butch Trucks, who worked the set for the Allman Brothers, if you want a reach of a tie-in)—the Hard Working Americans. It’s a solid crew. Good chops, know their stuff.As for the songbook, it’s all new standards, written by others and covered by Snider’s posse in celebration of that working man he keeps going on about. (Every record needs a theme; this one should strike a blue collar chord with the younger alt-country crowd.) The tracks run the gamut: “Blackland Farmer” instills barnyard roots; “Another Train” swaggers like an Aerosmith jam from the Attic; similarly, “Straight to Hell” is a bluesy ballad Steven Tyler’d drool at (though maybe this one’s a bit more status quo when it comes out); “Down to the Well” and “The Mountain Song” are mellow Tom Petty nuggets, the latter dipped in that Allman Bros. sweetness; meanwhile, a few tracks—(“Run a Mile” does for a sample)—play by-the-books, but they’re well done regardless; late in, “Mr. President” is a fun ol’ drinking ditty, if nothing else.The band here plays well together, and Hard Working Americans does what it sets out to for the album’s duration without too much labor. Sure, it’s a bit of a one-trick pony, but at least the teeth look healthy when they chomp.

This time ‘round for Zion-I, the duo’s MC Zumbi has a mission statement. In brief—“The sole purpose of the MC is to energize, invigorate, and guide the listener to a higher state of mind, whether that be reflection, relaxation or enlightenment.”Production behind the MC here as he goes to work on the task at hand is classic West Coast with Eastern underground dubs n’ breaks sprinkled in—think Wu-Tang meets Def Jux featuring the righteous sermons of a bizarro, born-again Mad Child preachin’ redemption. Five songs deep, Masters of Ceremony has producer Amp Live biting the Doors, repurposing a drone-y, “Drop It Like It’s Hot” Pharrell hook on the titular track, and polishing the whole set with the hard brass and subtle keys he’s known for under Rasta tinges.Zumbi’s righteous message nestles snugly in said mix, never coming unraveled or taking too many cheap shots. At times, I’ll admit, the point of the matter gets lost in translation between shout-outs to shorties, yayo and killers—(I’m paraphrasing)—but at least the conversation’s been had.Definitely worth a listen for new disciples or the ‘ready-converted; be looking forward to future entries in this promising series.

Colour is a short, smooth trip.Tropic Harbour’s new EP begins with its honey-sweet eponymous opener—“Colour” features rolling surf-inspired pseudo-flamenco guitars over echoing snares and Mark Berg’s dream poppy vocals—and the end that comes a few minutes in is a lingering sentiment you won’t soon shake.With its intro through, Colour sails on to “Golden Rays,” a Fitz and the Tantrums riff-meets-Beirut’s melancholy grandeur under the vulnerable voice that Raggi brings to Of Monsters and Men.And that’s all there is here—not quite ambient, lazily outgoing, Tropic Harbour’s Colour is a brief, memorable stint on an island of its own.

The venue’s Velvet Jones, a small-to-medium set in downtown Santa Barbara with Zion-I headlining—my first California show. Born and bred in New England, I had zero idea what I should be expecting from the Friday night gig out here on the western coast.

I arrived early to a long line out the door. The crowd was a mixture of flannel-sporting college’ers and local twenty-somethings looking like they’d only just transplanted the few miles south from Isla Vista and traded in their hoodies for button-downs over the summer—something similar to what I’ve come to expect in Boston somewhere like Brighton or the Paradise, albeit with that quintessential Cali touch tossed in.

The real difference here came out with the openers—Vancouver’s Aileron offered borderline mainstream pop-hop with some residual underground flair, MkSmth (jockey Mike Smith) lent an electric trap breakdown midway through that hit me wholly unprepared (like a strong kick to the head—I still haven’t shaken the set), and Sol’s introspective, lyrical verses provided an ideal transition to headliner MC Zumbi’s same-tribe style—yes, I’ll admit this was a laundry list of unknowns to me at the time, but those in the audience knew every line, every drop. Or at least they were feeling them—this was simply one of the most enthusiastic audiences I’d come across in a long time, regardless of who climbed on stage next. An eclectic set, sure, but hell did they take it all in stride.

The crowd sufficiently prepped, Zion-I emerged. Theirs was a veteran set—as expected—running the crowd through old tracks circa Mind Over Matter and beyond, radio-friendlies like “Coastin’” and its ilk, and then of course a handful of tracks from their newly-minted Masters of Ceremony extended play, all met with the same enthusiastic rolling and bobbing throng facing the stage. Far as my opinion matters, there wasn’t a weak link in the bunch.

It’s a heady feat to fly through a decade-plus worth of material and still have everyone tagging along right there with you, enjoying the ride, but that’s precisely what we had here. Not a flinching moment from the masterful Zumbi, and Amp Live’s turntables were on point. Factor in the duo playing for their West Coast home base, and there’s that little extra special sauce to really make this one a solid entry in Velvet’s log.

Representing’s titular track opens harmlessly enough with pan flutes that could’ve come right out of a fifth grade recorder songbook—off-beat, a few clinks on the cymbals, notes here and there... and then those reverb-laden drums start to build in the fourth bar, the trills become methodical... and we’ve arrived.From here on out, the album can be divided into two halves—the first, a solid mix of old simplicity and new production, an all-around fun listen without many breaks. For upbeat reggae vibes, you needn’t look further than “Rock the Night” and “Fill It Up.”Then at number four we get to “In Your Area,” which features Slightly Stoopid’s Kyle McDonald and is a dead ringer for an Everything You Need b-side. This is the turning point.Post-McDonald, the album starts to slow its roll, drawing from Tribal Seeds’ dub-ier toolbox to craft some interesting sounds, to say the least. And a good share of the latter tracks fare just fine at the slower tempo—“Blood Clots” featuring Don Carlos is actually one of the album’s strongest offerings, in my opinion. Still, parts from this traditionalist stretch do fall prey to some of the contemporary trappings of the genre—polish, pitch correction, and reverberation are all well and good—(hell, it sometimes feels like modern reggae wouldn’t exist without ‘em)—but I wish Tribal Seeds would’ve focused on the unique—not the go-to—when in doubt on this record. With the shining moments that are already here—Mykal Rose on “Herb Stock,” the “Night and Day” breakdown, etc.—this could have been a truly special package if it could hold on for forty-minute. Instead, Representing falters with snippets like a riddim release on loop (see “Undercover Lover,” which immediately reminded me of the Street Soul Riddim Selection that introduced Romain Virgo’s “Cry Tears for You...” as well as eleven lesser verses over identical backing)—no, there are no bad songs to be found, and they’ll definitely all have fans, but I could personally do without the glossy keeping-up-with-the-selectors filler here. Oh well, though, even Zeppelin had In Through the Out Door.While at times convoluted and others bordering on the generic, Representing doesn’t fall prey to any glaring issues for the duration of the set. A lack of explosiveness might keep this one from reaching the upper tiers, but there are enough diverse features here to keep the album fresh throughout—something a few of this band’s more one-dimensional peers tend to struggle with—and Tribal Seeds is consistently rock solid on delivery. With summer right around the corner, this is a great handful of songs to throw on with the barbecue and chill.Representing is out May 13th.

The Mother Hips’ve been around long enough and released a helluva ‘nough material that this collection of rarities and demo tapes, Chronicle Man, is gonna be for the band’s ready-converted disciples first and foremost. That being said, I still have my bones to pick with the set, as well as a few highlights of note. Let’s get down to it...

The problem with a compilation like this, fishing through decades-old material for an album’s worth of songs to appease the cult, is that you’re bound to end up releasing a handful of content that’s already been given the unfavorable once-over. Sure, this is a for-better-or-worse situation, but I have to assume the Hips had their reasons for leaving at least some of these tracks alone back in their early heyday. ‘Rediscovering’ one of ‘em here doesn’t do much good if the end result is a vanilla demo that lacks enough polish or grit to stand on its own—(see “Barefoot Sea Chantey”)—then it’s just hip Christmas stocking filler, and who needs that?

And then there are the explosive goodies that should’ve seen the light of day years ago—“You Can’t Win” and “Loup Garou” are fun Petty-esque hat tips, and “Rich Little Girl” is just what an album of leftovers deserves—maybe a little unpolished, a little sloppy, but there’s that soul you can’t just let die in a storage box-coffin somewhere.

But mostly, this record will satisfy those simply looking to expand their Mother Hips collection, add a bag of B-sides to their playlists, catch some old hooks that never quite sunk in. As an example, the eponymous “Chronicle Man” has questionably thin lyrics and a few too-monotonous rolls for a normal release, but there remain unpolished sonic snippets of gold that deserve at least a brief moment of recognition. Songs of this ilk are the bones of Chronicle Man, and if that’s your cup o’ tea, dig in. Otherwise, the Hips have got a couple hundred more tracks for you to sift through.

Chronicle Man is set for a July 15 release.

Those on the Henry & Co. payroll say “breezy melodies and relentless grooves” are par for the course with Onemanphunkband... okay, I’ll allow it. Sure, this funky little EP doesn’t really go all that far, but does it even need to?

The Onemanphunkband sound is decidedly stuck a few decades en retro—I hear mined flakes of Rod Stewart and the Stones, back when everyone was goin’ disco; “Soul Shaker” is what would’ve happened if someone made Kool and the Gang pump out a track for a ‘70s police procedural; Prince might’ve dropped something like “Sing a Song” in an old album as filler—far as it goes, the short set book-ends between “As It Is,” a dragging standard, and “Phunky Cup,” which rounds things out with a traditional showcase jam that shows the most fire of the bunch, though it’s still comfortably in key ‘til the fade.

All in all, the Invisibles are giving us a light, easy listen here that won’t push too many buttons and shouldn’t have a problem slipping in with the usual weekender tracks on a sunny burgers-and-brews afternoon. Really, all you’ve got to ask yourself then is where you’re wanting to go—if it’s nowhere but the front porch for a whiskey or a tallboy, then you’re in luck; otherwise, you might be better off elsewhere.

Never has an LP’s title been more apt—Eccodek’s sixth and latest, Singing in Tongues, is foreign to the letter. (And no, I couldn’t tell you what tongues we’re talking here.)

But that’s precisely the point—the source material for Singing, originally pressed as a loose improvisation by Jah Youssouf of Mali, has since garnered treatment by Canadian fusers Eccodek that borders on reverence in presenting the African musician to a world audience—the dub-and-bass collective’s leader, Andrew McPherson, treats Youssouf’s voice as a delicate treasure, shielding it from misuse while allowing his words to rise above the throng of drums and Moog riffs for brief moments of holy clarity. This is a clear, level-headed sonic construct, and Eccodek rarely forces any one sample to the forefront unnecessarily—what’s lost in translation is unimportant; what remains is all that matters.

There’s no reason to pull individual tracks on this record—Singing in Tongues should be heard as one sound, a solitary journey from start to finish. This is an hour of beautifully simple tribal dubs, led by Youssouf’s musings, sparsely populated with humble electronics and archival sounds as needed, and nothing more. These songs have ventured to the vast beyond of outer space, and now we get to listen while a shaman drunk on ritual wine tells the story in his native tongue. This is meditation music for an electric audience, and while it might not move mountains, it’ll certainly clear your head for a spell.

When I first heard “Control”—in my opinion, the strongest track on Arc & Stones sophomore release, As You Were—I immediately thought, S—t, man, this reminds me of Bang Camaro—I miss those crazy bastards. Now, I will say that the rest of As You Were showcases the band’s ability to shift their tone from Camaro’s this-amp-goes-to-eleven mentality to elsewhere-territory, but that raw energy’s never too far gone.

In the press, Arc & Stones have garnered comparisons to Queens of the Stone Age, Kings of Leon, and the Black Keys (i.e. everyone who’s anyone in the alt-scene this year)—and those are easy matches they’ll keep getting as long as they’re circling the radar—but, for me, that’s not what sticks from the band.

These guys toe the line between the cleaned-up sludge that’s invaded rock radio these last few summers and the Last Great American Rock Band residuals of the early 2000s—think Audioslave, Velvet Revolver, et. al.—the one(ish)-and-done supergroups that took the Classic Coke formula of rock n’ roll and poured one more J.D. cocktail to toast the good old days. Does Arc & Stones have themselves a Cornell or a Weiland, a Morello or a Slash? Hell if I know. But they’re rock-solid, and loud. Even if they just turn out to be the redheaded stepchild of Scott Stapp and Jane’s Addiction, wouldn’t you still take ‘em over the next Nickleback? I can’t speak for the masses, but if I’m slugging tallboys at the neighborhood stage on a Friday night, that’s all I really need.

As a general rule, I tend to avoid double albums like—well, not quite the Plague—maybe just a pretty girl with a slightly-suspect cold sore, or anything by the Dave Matthews Band. And honestly, the one double-record set I’ve ever really dug as a whole was Floyd’s Ummagumma, and only then because that oeuvre de strange-junk quietly embraced its own clusterf—ktitude and didn’t ever insist that anyone should be listening to the thing—just that they could, if they felt like a trip down the rabbit hole. Because, hell, let’s not forget that even The Wall deemed it necessary to include “Bring the Boys Back Home” (in the name of narrative continuity, of course). And then there was that third helping of “Another Brick in the Wall” we all needed so much to hear... It inevitably rings true—invest too much in the real estate, and you’re bound to buy some crap just to fill the space.

On Patrol, the debut two-pack record from Brooklyn-based D.O.T.S. C.O.N.F.U.S.E. M.I.N.D.S. (liberal use of capitals and periods theirs), has plenty of fill’er-ups of its own—it’s gonna happen whenever any band of greenhorns throws twenty-plus tracks on vinyl their first time around—but even the painfully excessive Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, wherein Billy Corgan explained to us just how angsty the early ‘90s made him feel for more than two hours while a rather insisting orchestra played from the pulpit, left the world with “Tonight, Tonight,” “1979,” and a respectable bucket of lingering alt-staples you’ve probably heard in the past week. And DCM’s froshie release is a helluva lot more fun to listen to.

A sampling platter of what’s between the lines of On Patrol, in no particular order:

(1)  The Dookie-does-Brooklyn tracks, i.e. loose ‘n’ snarky songs like “Steve’s Mom” and “JennYouWhine” that are exactly what you’d expect’d happen if a bunch of aspirant twenty-somethings from Dumbo got PBR-drunk in the middle of the day and one of ‘em with a Robin Thicke haircut pulled out his “thrift store” Martin to jam. Probably a kid who listens to the Strokes and Jimmy Ray (but only ironically.)

(2)  “She’s Back Again,” i.e. one of the more lyrically juvenile tracks on the record, which boasts such highbrow lines as “She comes around at recess / She won’t share her Reese’s Pieces / and she makes me so depressed / by the way that she is dressed.” Someone can try telling me there’s a metaphor here, but I ain’t buying it.

(3)  The archetypal Molly Hatchet-lite tracks, i.e. “Where or Where” or any of the handful of other southern-influenced straight-shooters that made the final cut—pretty clean across the board and not an overly weak one in the bunch—the backbone of the set (if it needs one.)

(4)  The jam tracks, i.e. the Grateful Dead-friendly crunchy folk tunes that include “Simon’s Tomb” and “Midnight Spite” in the bunch, happy-go-jolly and never trying too hard to get nowhere in particular. Dots could be onto something if they steer their vintage Huffys in this direction.

(5)  The Blues Traveler-ers, i.e. pretty much whatever no-worries poppy day-off territory the band was heading toward with “Destination Getaway.”

(6)  “Step,” i.e. a Widespread Panic opener slowly but surely devolving into Of Monsters and Men-meets-Mountain Goats melancholy sing-song, and my personal choice for best of the bunch, aside from maybe the first half of the “Simon” duo found elsewhere on Side One.

So that’s that. All-in-all, On Patrol is a respectable collection from a group that’s decided to have all its growing pains in one blink—there’s good, there’s bad, and there’s “Mister Twister,” sure, but what the takeaway should be is that DCM seems to be trying where it counts and (relatively speaking) leaving the rest of the hipster-perbole to higher minds. That, and they seem like decent-enough folks who enjoy the goings-on of the whole so-called business. And in a day and age when the Pixies’ songbook has gone from a haphazard bag of “that’s not half bad” three-minute’ers to “this is Art, man...” what more can you ask for?

The first Lotus pressing I ever got my hands on was their last, Monks, this tight little package that threw-back to the glory days of trip-hop you’d never hear about unless you were in—(see Deltron 3030, Doctor Octagon, et. al.)—and, in the process, brought the mellow-fellow known as Doodlebug and his “Cloud 9” musings into my life. Here was, far as I could say, a honed-vet jam band biting hip-hop, and I dug it. Now, listening to Gilded Age the first time around, I’m just thinking—the hell are we going this time?

Age has an entirely younger sound than Monks, one that caters to the cool kids over the once-cool. The set features a sixer of new jam-rock tracks, plus a handful of reworks to satisfy any downbeat electronica-philes in the audience. And, if we’re being honest, it tickles me right pink that we’ve still got anyone around these days who can play the field like Lotus continues to do, record after record, on and on—I mean, you don’t hear Mac Miller riffing on Disco Biscuits too often, do ya? (Well, you might, but that’s beside the point...) No, Lotus never got the memo to stay home on the Phish farm, and the result is a unique body of work that ebbs and flows free of the trendy tides or jam generics.

And it’s not really that Gilded Age is just good, per say—Monks was good—Age, while similarly solid in delivery, has those subtle intangibles that really make a record last—the titular “Gilded Age” stands my litmus “Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast” test and sprinkles these beautiful little bits about a crunchy bass-session that never goes too far off the deep end; then there’s mi favorita, “The Oaks,” which had me half-expecting one of today’s unce-unce’ers (see Tiesto) to come in with some hand-throwing house drops until the whole thing went down on a “Sleepyhead” trip instead and couldn’t help but give me that you-know-it-must-be-good urge to just f—king drive, until you’re somehow arriving at this lost little shrine to Jerry Garcia, pixies darting about, sprinkling their angel dust for anyone in the vicinity to catch.

Or, something like that.

So yeah, I’m pretty much sold on Lotus—anyone who can roll with Tycho, Company Flow and Mux Mool without skipping a beat is alright in my book—and Gilded Age is just one of many, many sounds on the band’s radio waves. Like this particular set or not, but you can’t sleep on the effort.

This all started with Lizzy Grant—back before Lana del Rey’s somehow-transcendent Born to Die managed to convince the vogue among us that trailer park chic was most certainly in, there was this beautiful young girl singing tortured-soul musings out of a doublewide, claiming that hell and salvation could all be found just cruising down Main Street in any blue collar town—simple as that.

Or you can keep going further, all the way back to ’93... while Souls of Mischief were chillin’ to Cobham’s “Heather” on a breakbeat rework, Los Angeleno Hope Sandoval was still singing “Fade Into You” in the dark—later that year, the Mazzy Star single would break Billboard’s top five, and down-on-their-tempo female vocalists had their first blip on the critical radar.

Now then, onto Sundowner. Singer-songwriter Mary Roth’s second record under the HT Heartache moniker falls somewhere between the aforementioned iconics, Lizzy and Hope, the arbitrarily aloof and the withdrawn-by-nature, to create this lasting little piece of gothic Americana that’s well-worthy of note.

As a whole, the album is—for what it’s worth—quite what you could find yourself expecting if someone told you this indie L.A. songstress was strumming on flyover heartstrings to make her name. The aura’s calculated, sure—Gus Black, who has directed a handful of HT Heartache’s promo videos and certainly influenced her presentation, consistently casts the musician in vintage filmic shades—but albeit-artificial VHS clips and hazy black-and-white shots can’t take away from Roth’s haunting voice and mature, reserved delivery on keynote tracks like “Cowboy Poetry” or my personal favorite, “Roam Cold Highway.” The result is a strangely optimistic piece that could, in the end, only be a product of the City of Angels—subtly musing hope over bittersweet riffs, and the premeditated melancholy that has you feeling like you might just be hearing these notes for the first time, like watching the otherwise-untainted Pacific sunset through Hollywood’s tinsel and smog.