I don't listen to much jungle. Actually, I don't even know what jungle is per say. When I read, "breakbeat mutated into the chimeric convergence of reggae bass, doubletime breakbeat rhythms and Jamaican soundsystem boom known as jungle," from Aprohdite's bio, I was an enlightened. Then, after listening to Aftershock several times through, I have to say that it's a damn good description. Basically, Aftershock is a party record, for club kids. Aside from occasional late-night headphone session, this album isn't for casual listening. When you listen to Aphrodite, it's expected that you "shake yer booty," or something to that effect. It's not complicated music; it's music that's about good feelings and breakbeats. For instance, the sparse, Jamaican-styled crooning of Barrington Levy over the backing beats of "All Over Me," gives the track an atmosphere that begs for you to get lost in it. Moreover, dancefloor anthems "Heat Haze" and "Chinois" ascend from tame beginnings, drawing the listener in, until they break into a monstrous, consuming concoction. However, while many of the albums track can stand alone, it's better to look at the entire picture. In that sense, Aftershock is kind a journey. A journey through a world that I'm not too accustomed to, but a world that seems to be filled with all night raves and sweat-stained dancefloors. Aphrodite himself has stated he's "got one foot inside the drum 'n bass scene and one out of it." Indeed, the drum 'n bass influence was the first thing I noticed about this album. The other thing I noticed is the use of live vocals, which stands out most on the tracks "See Thru It" and the album's first single, "Hoochie." In a world where 90% of music is created by machines, it's nice to have that human touch on the record as well. Those two aspects help make this album much more accessible to the average listener. [www.v2music.com]

Ben Kweller is cooler than you. Yeah that's right, he is cooler than you. Not only was he the front man of the heavily under-rated band Radish when he was only 16, but now at the ripe old age of 20 he has released one of the happiest, most fun albums of the year. When I heard that Ben Kweller was releasing a solo album this year my mind drifted back to his former band Radish and seeing them live in Charlotte, NC. At the time the band's album was released Ben was only 16, but for those of us who were able to appreciate the band's music, it was obvious that this was just the beginning for Ben. Four years later Ben is a little more grown up and still goofy as ever, however his debut solo album Sha Sha is somewhat different that the music of Radish. While Radish had a strong alternative rock feel to it that was very characteristic of the time period it was released, Ben's latest offering has a more pop feel to it. The first thing that came to my mind was the music of Ben Folds. The similarities between the two move beyond the fact that both of their names are Ben, and they both use the piano as one of their main instruments, they also both manage to create really catchy melodies that you sing to yourself long after the disc has left the changer. Kweller manages to incorporate quite a bit of guitar in the album, but while at times he is working the distortion like on "Commerce TX" on other tracks like "In Other Words" it is all about the acoustic, the piano, and some really pretty string arrangements. It is this ability to combine the more solemn piano tracks with the rock that makes Ben Kweller really stand out as a musician. I have to admit, I am a little biased when it comes to Mr. Kweller (as if it isn't obvious). I think it is great that even though his first band fell through, he was able to take another stab at the music business, and at the same time take his music in a new direction. I just hope the rest of the music world is able to see the talent that lies behind that 20 year old and allows Ben to keep making new music to impress me. [www.benkweller.com]

You've unfortunately never heard of My Vitriol. Like any worthwhile rock it isn't getting loads of radio play, and there doesn't seem to be a ton of promotion for it anywhere. Finelines slipped in under your rock radar and may fade quietly into the night. This would be an extreme injustice to you and your CD collection (or mp3 collection - I'm not pushing product here). Finelines is a smart rock record. There's not an ounce of rap on it. There's no ridiculous tight snare drum invading the space of the songs. There's no stupid guy in a red baseball cap telling you to get some better beats. My Vitriol have written a high energy, catchy, sometimes in your face, talented rock record. "Always Your Way" is a perfect example of how the harmonic vocals merged with fuzzed out guitars and bleeding beat blend together so effortlessly. Fortunately it doesn't stop there, the album continues on with "The Gentle Art Of Choking", "Cemented Shoes", the irrestible "Tongue Tied", and the should be huge radio single "Grounded." My Vitriol seemed to have slipped past the gates of MTV and Clear Channel radio and are just waiting for you to discover them. Fans of Failure, newer Deftones, Hum, Abandoned Pools, and maybe even some Mogwai should enjoy this album. I had to deduct some manstyle points for "C.O.R. (Critic Oriented Rock)" that presents itself as some sort of statement against critics and how they treat rock music, but it justs sort of unneccasarily abrasive. Maybe I'm the one missing the point. Overall, My Vitriol seem to have a promising career ahead of them and will hopefully continue to create highly enjoyable rock records regardless of their commercial success. [www.myvitriolusa.com]

The first time I heard the Liars I was in awe. A single two-minute composition of danceability, crushing rhythms and lobotomizing guitars compacted nearly everything I innately knew music could create, but never has. Until now, of course. With They Threw Us All In a Trench and Stuck a Monument On Top, originally a Gern Blandsten release now residing beneath the Mute/Blast First label as a post-punk visionary, the Liars don’t mess around – they go for the kill and have an awful fun time in the process. And, trust me, you’ll be more than willing to proclaim their name in conquest and join them in their crusade to destroy music. The Liars send shivers down your spine right before they snap them, swoon with a jittery swagger before crushing you with deadly rhythms and throw down drum machine stomps before torching them with cacophonous noise. Although all this is succinctly demonstrated in “Loose Nuts on the Veladrome,” such descriptions don’t even begin to convey the sheer power, raw aesthetics and experimental outcries the Liars purvey. But the Liars don’t just thrash without meaning or sense of expansion; They Threw Us All is the sound of punk-noise teaching itself how to jive on the dancefloor. As brooding as their brand of keyboard-aggro noise is, they also manage to encompass outlandish musicianship and slather it with fun-infused dance sequences. Drum machines and the rhythm section’s sheer chaos slaughter the weak stomached and squeamish on “Nothing is Ever Lost or Can be Lost My Science Friend.” Also, while Angus Andrew spits, “Do the twist/ Dance this direction,” on “Mr Your on Fire Mr” there is no body that could resist the thick rhythms that cement your mind while the guitar zings an abrasive squeal on the two-minute conformity dismantling tune. But, of course, there’s much more to the dance-inducing dirtiness than first appears; somewhere between the cowbell breaks, synthesized handclaps and mauling distortion, it all becomes clear and you realize that the Liars rely on no past touchstones to dial into acclaim – they utilize originality in its truest sense and ingenuity in its most primal state. They even go as far as a hypnotic half-hour bombardment of bass-laden, distortion buzzing grinding on “This Dust Makes That Mud” that ultimately shoves They Threw Us All to a halt of glorious noise. These four don’t just break the mold; they obliterate it into nothingness and eradicate it with aural neutron bombs. They Threw Us All is the sound of music being reconstructed, torn apart and torched to flames all in the name of greatness. They call themselves the Liars – don’t forget it, it’s one of the only synonyms for dangerous, astonishing and fucking amazing music. [www.liarsliarsliars.com]

It’s all here – the obligatory chord crunching, the arena-sized vocal hooks and, of course, the inane screams that sounds like it should rumble from a chest-beating Tarzan. Yes, if you couldn’t detect already, the new metal plague has invaded the immunity of yet another crew of aspiring musicians. Meet TRUSTcompany: an outfit of four Alabama based musicians formerly known under the moniker of 41 Down who plan to cash in huge on the new metal propaganda running the heavy music scene with their debut, The Lonely Position of Neutral. However, despite the negative connotation of “new metal,” TRUSTcompany can sculpt mature melodics from a vocalist who can sincerely sing more genuinely than nearly every imbedded act monopolizing radio. Although that solitary asset weighs heavily in the band’s overall appeal, TRUSTcompany become bogged down when they attempt to fit the formula of popularity rather than write quality rock songs. Specifically, on such tracks as “Downfall,” Kevin Palmer strews a somewhat compelling melodic voice – if vacant of originality – before blunt-headed bludgeoning permeates through the song in the form of respectability depleting growls. Perhaps the best cut squandered off of this debut disc is “Deeper Into You,” a track that pleasantly opts for atmospheric touches rather than boring guitar riffage and pleasingly subsides with the primate screams. But what more can you say about a band consciously attempting to morph into the mold desired for rock radio playlists and MTV airplay? It’ll fit within the gap of all the Linkin Parks and Puddle of Mudds in the world and remain completely forgettable. Their album title of The Lonely Position of Neutral is perhaps a bit more ironic than they intended. But, sadly, their position is not so lonely with all the bands succumbing to common grounds of sheer drivel. So, lucky for them, they have some company at the bottom tier of rock music. [www.trustcompanyband.com]

The latest release from The Flaming Lips is not as good as The Soft Bulletin. There I said it. And for every album that the band puts out from here on in their career, they will never top the impact that The Soft Bulletin had. Granted, Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots is in the same vein and definetly has some remarkable and memorable songs on it, but it's not the extreme change of pace or redefinition of sound that The Soft Bulletin was. Okay, so enough glorification of an album that's already been released and already been praised by any publication with any tiny amount of common sense. What makes Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots worth listening to? Everything about it. The band has put together another batch of songs that seem to defy categorization - it just sounds like The Flaming Lips. The band has developed a sound that combines lazy vocals drifting through soothing instrumentation occasionally interrupted by big (or fast) drums. The album has a consistency throughout that occasionally hurts the overall listening. If the album doesn't have your attention you may be surprised that you're actually several songs in with little noticeable change in pace. However, "Do You Realize??" demands to be noticed, regardless of your attention span - and holds the title of Best Song on Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots to this here reviewer (yea yea, it's the single.. so what?). "It's Summertime" and "All We Have Is Now" are also noteable tracks, mostly due to their somewhat personal nature. Yoshimi is The Soft Bulletin if it wasn't written blantantly about personal matters and presented itself under the guise of a mild concept album about a young Japanese girl battling pink robots. The strength of The Soft Bulletin was in it's extreme redefinition of the band and it's personal subject matter. Yoshimi takes that redefintion and proves that it wasn't a fluke, but unfortunately the band has regressed more into their veiled (and somewhat goofy) subject matter. Either way, we still love them and give this album the Silent Uproar Seal Of Approval. [www.flaminglips.com]

First time I saw the name Something Corporate I thought it was a pretty damn clever band name – boy was I wrong. If this band is clever then Enrique Iglesias is a modern day Plato. Something Corporate, simply put, is exactly what they profess themselves to be... something corporate. Leaving Through The Window is 57 minutes of over-produced, pop crap. They are signed to a punk-pop label, but there’s nothing punk about these kids. Oh yeah, the lead singer plays the piano, but let us not call them pioneers just yet. We’ve all heard what Ben Folds can do with a piano. Well, Andrew McMahon might as well not play anything and just sing. You can’t even say the piano is a supporting instrument in the band; the producers just bring the sound in now and then to remind you that they’re “cool” because they have a piano and they’re signed to Drive-Thru Records. Sorry, but it’s going to take a bit more than that to catch my attention. In all honesty, the only song that is the least bit notable is “If You C Jordan” (clever ain’t it? …Do corporations not know how to spell?). Coincidentally, it’s one of the few songs that put the piano in the forefront to drive the song. The chorus is big and grand, they say, “Fuck you,” and it’s got this kind of 80’s rock vibe (I mean for goodness sake, the leader singer listens to Toto). Aside from “Hurricane”, the band’s only attempt at the punk-pop label they’re so quick to flaunt, the rest of the album is stock and unmemorable. The kind of music that allows you to listen to almost an hour of it and then not remember a damn bit of it. Expect the standard, sensitive pop-punk lyrics about immature love, high school grudges and kissing drunken girls mixed with super-produced, pop-rock ballads when listening to Leaving Through The Window. Surely there’s something else you’d want to spend your money on? Right? [www.somethingcorporate.com]

Punk – in its days before mall glamorization and the prefix of pop, at least – has always aimed to be the exception of the musical scene and its predicted harmony. It’s been suicidal and perilous when popular culture glorified submissive and docile music in its traditional ‘70s days. It’s been energetic and spastic when indie gurus were championing stoic performances from the likes of Pavement and Modest Mouse in the early ‘90s. And it’s simply been dedicated to clashing and dismantling pop pretenses since its inception. But if punk’s been the deliberate antagonist to all preconceived notions, I suppose the opposite should be, well, expected. With irony at its finest, Pretty Girls Make Graves contort the ex-members’ pedigree of the dismal punk flavor of Murder City Devils and the heavy handed hardcore of Kill Sadie to form a much different, upbeat outfit than its precursors. Although the punk ethic is staking its claim around Pretty Girls Make Graves’ incipient full-length, Good Health, these West Coasters opt for an album brimming with sleek and spiky guitars, playful and exuberant female vocals and meandering drizzles of keyboard – un-punk characteristics in a punk born band. “Speakers Push the Air” even opens the disc with an organ ascension that quickly saunters into a full fledged gallop of thumping bass and dance inducing rhythms. It’s punk music just, well, not. Good Health may exercise its musical muscles in only 27 minutes, but Pretty Girls Make Graves maximize this opportunity by injecting energy and a Pixies-esque dichotomy of guitar abrasions and catchy pop hooks into the recent musical climate. While it may not be the descendent of supreme originality, Good Health is shedding punk’s easily detectable outer shell and mingling it with fun festering tunes of all kinds to conclude with an album awash in good music. Even if it’s at the price of punk nihilism, that’s a trade I’ll happily make. [www.prettygirlsmakegraves.com]

Hype – we all know how it works. It often propels severely average bands into star-studded acclaim to gleam on magazine covers, glitter on the radio and streak across network television. Innumerable musicians will never live up to such stature, but of course a select few capture the adulation humbly – or they just don’t care in Nirvana’s case. So, now after garage’s vintage undertow of popularity featuring the near infamous “the” bands, streams in a wonderful new breed who delve into late ‘70s post-punk making them, uh, post-post-punk. The simplistic guitar/drum/vocal brilliancy of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs’ debut EP enters with a literal “Bang!” which is both the title of the opening track and its perpetual sound. The three Yeah Yeah Yeahs have only 14 minutes and five tracks to introduce themselves and they don’t waste anytime – Nick Zinner slings his guitar around like a rubber band zinging around a claustrophobic room and Karen O playfully exudes endless stamina through odd vocalizations that drip with sensual energy through your sound system. Even through a minimalist approach and a limited time continuum, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs exercise the paradox of creating the dynamism of seasoned veterans with the spontaneity of infantile musicians exploring their first noise-making device. “Art Star” perhaps best compacts the new post-punk incarnates: herky-jerky rhythms literally explode into a volatile episode of smashing treble screeches and inaudible screams all soon recouped by a girlish voice cluelessly singing “do do do.” But this trio of soundcrafters are perfectionists in extracting the exact ratio of noise experimentation to sweet saccharine pop – “Our Time” and its ode to their New York home splendidly resonates with the latter. Even with a concise EP of five tracks, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs have established a foundation of musical magnificence that oozes with more energy, class and just plain ol’ charm than the entire onslaught of neo-garage acts combined. Let the hype deservingly commence. [www.yeahyeahyeahs.com]

Much like their male counterparts in the Rapture and Gogogo Airheart in their respective gender, Erase Errata and Numbers are [predominately] feminine mainstays in the tumultuous environment of lo-fi post-punk. Dabbling in electronics, chunky fills of white noise guitar and toy drummer-like beats, these two Californian outfits unite for a split EP to show why their underground culture of noise concoctions are supremely better than the glamorized mainstream music that also floods their home state. A certain type of cohesion and camaraderie is usually expected when a split EP is released, but these two artists coexist in seamless harmony. In fact, a passive listener may have to lend a bit of concentration to this disc or they might not even be able to hear the differences in aesthetics between Numbers and Erase Errata. But beyond this, both of these divinely indie bands offer killer tunes that could resound from your friend’s four track if you could only harness the energy these bands perpetually exude in eight recorded minutes. Numbers open this four song EP with “Goin’ Insane,” an ultra-lo-fi ditty that strings together analog keyboard bleeps and bloops, spastic treble guitar shocks and scratchy female vocals that crinkle beneath the sonic schizophrenia. While it seems that Numbers barely get their blood pumping and engines revved before they hand this EP over to Erase Errata, their less than four minutes of jerky, minimalist post-punk gurgles with comparisons to !!!, the Seconds and the Contortions’ similar indie dance-wave rock. Through heavy jazz bass lines, brittle drumbeats and squeaky shards of guitar that bubble with spastic energy, Erase Errata also plaster their name into your mind with music that smothers the lo-fi end of the punk-wave spectrum with songs like “Retreat, the Most Familiar, Extensive, I Bet!” However, as elaborate and expanded their song titles may be, the four women of Erase Errata practice near-mechanical punk sprawls in a few succinct minutes that should be diagnosed with Riddelin. With less than ten minutes of material to work with, it would be hard for one band – let alone two – to purvey their message and compact their signature stitched music in a correct manner. However, both Numbers and Erase Errata clearly solidify themselves in the rampant undertow of indie post-punk with enough sharp guitars, jagged rhythms and lo-fi eclecticism to keep any child with ADD firmly attached to this 3” CD. [www.tigerbeat6.com]

I first heard Aimee Mann's voice during the movie Magnolia. Right, I know, who didn't? Anyways, the point I'm trying to make is that I was mesmerized by it. "Wise Up" was exactly what that movie needed at that exact moment. Mann seemed to sum up all that was going on at that point in the movie with a simple pop song. Maybe that was what I was hoping for with Lost In Space, but I was slightly disappointed nevertheless. Disappointed only slightly, I said. Lost In Space seems to be a fitting title for an Aimee Mann album. With all the problems she's had in the past, it's just inspiring to see her release her fourth album on her own label, Super Ego. It's that life experience and those hardships that make Lost In Space stand out from all the other albums just like it. Believe me, I think female singer/songwriters probably make up 10% of the population of the United States. Though do no fret, Lost In Space is quite refreshing. One of the first moments comes during the track "High On Sunday 51". Combined with a Ben Harper-esk slide and an acoustic backbone, the song is a beauty. When Mann utters the words, "Baby, please let me begin, let me be you heroin. Hate the sinner, but love the sin," it will send shivers down the spine. Changing gears slightly, "This Is How It Goes" begins with a timid Mann, accompanied by a lone acoustic guitar, but swells and builds into a passionate, melodic chorus. Then, in another instant, the album finds it's self deep in the middle of "Pavlov's Bell," maybe the most driven track on the album. It's on this track that Mann lets the electric undercurrents - that only loomed in the background and overdubs of previous tracks - out into the open. On the whole, exquisite musicianship and a palpable spirit, that seems to channel pop masters of the past, pervades Lost In Space. When I read that "Humpty Dumpty", the first track on Lost In Space, was chosen to be the single, I was a little dismayed. Well, you see, that's my least favorite track on the album. Yes, it's a good song, but it's because of the nursery rhyme cliché that I'm already biased against it (a little dumb, I know); the other songs are so much better, honest. Yet, amongst all the piano-playing, guitar-toting singing and songwriting gals out there, Aimee Mann and her Lost In Space are up, way up on my list. [www.aimeemann.com]

Before excavating any information on Fury, I placed Resurrection – a twelve minute EP of dirty hardcore punk – into my stereo. After its thrash had concluded and the guttural cries of punk liberalism had subsided, there was one piece of musical lineage that the fast and furious recording reminded me of: The late ‘80s in Washington, D.C. Seeing as how this is 2002, I was surprised to discover that is precisely what Resurrection is – a raw, nonstop, blood pumping recording that has just now been transcribed into CD format and reissued through wide acclaim courtesy of Jade Tree. When Minor Threat perspired true punk ethics before imploding and ceasing to exist, Fury would have been the perfect opening band to augment the city’s rambunctious punk flagship. Averaging two minutes per track, this six song album features classically christened rivet headed punk – galloping, speed addicted rhythms, guitars being dismantled rather than traditionally played and sneering vocals that screech and scream in a manic march. Hopefully the aptly named Resurrection will allocate Fury’s rightful place in the echelon of punk dynamism as a lost classic that still radiates with relevance to the blustery punk scene of today. Despite time elapsing over a decade since Fury’s reign of flailing, frenetic punk injected hardcore, this deceased D.C. outfit still sound resoundingly fresh and exhilarating. However, homogeny does disrupt the disc’s distinction from track to track, but with an overall eminence as powerful and riveting as Fury’s brand of punk rock, little complaint can stem from such a plea. Regardless of time restraints and era aptness, Fury still create, uh, a fury that should be championed and appreciated as a missionary from old school aesthetics to hopefully relinquish the pseudo-punk pop of Sum 41 and Blink 182 that continues to litter the airwaves. [www.jadetree.com]

I’ve never liked straight up punk music. Of course everyone has their snarly side where the Ramones, Sex Pistols and the Clash reign supreme, but never have Pennywise, NOFX or any other mohawked ‘90s punks found a comfortable position in my musical milieu. So why do I like this fucking record so much? In all respects I should dislike the Distillers who raise punk’s antagonistic clenched fist to smash corporeal suits and square mainstream musicians. But with Sing Sing Death House, their sophomore chord sweltering powerhouse, these four pierced, tattered and tattooed fist flyers – to paraphrase Refused – definitely have a bone to pick and a few to break – and I actually like the pain. As a prerequisite to mentioning the Distillers, you have to cite Manic Panic punk pioneers of Rancid. Not only does Sing Sing Death House slash a few chords from the band, but Brody – the Distillers’ vocalist/guitarist/sole songwriter – is married to Tim Armstrong, Rancid’s leader. And it shows. You wouldn’t expect any less from Tim’s lifemate – her voice sounds like two grit sandpaper bruising the microphone, her guitar punches punk’s gut with snarling whiplash and her lyrics feature freedom-influence scream-a-longs. Or as Hell Cat, their respective label, states it, “that feeling when the German Shepard sinks its teeth into your nuts.” Works for me. But for every one minute scorcher that literally screams by [“Hate Me”], there is a track brimming with sour melodics that stick to your mind like a trauma [“City of Angels”]. This is everything punk is and always has been – pseudo-sloppiness, anguished dispositions and caffeinated rhythms – but with more sticks of dynamite and a much bigger detonation device. Sing Sing Death House marches with a middle finger raised high as a homage to its forefathers and thrashes with rusty chords that would kick the shit out of everyone in its path while putting an invigoration top spin on a three decade old genre. Love them or hate them; the Distillers are here. [www.thedistillers.com]

I’ve been fumbling over words, phrases, sentences, genres and descriptions of just how I could encapsulate Jucifer’s absolutely confounding release I Name You Destroyer into a few hundred words of verbosity. So, first, forget succinct pigeonholing genres and retract all preconceived notions of what women in rock usually portray – it’s all about to be annihilated. Jucifer is a boyfriend-girlfriend pair of musicians who wield their crushing guitars and propulsive drums like a Melvins tweaked noise experiment; but they assert you that they are the premium rock blend by stating they, “recorded without ProTools, loops, samples, studio musicians, big shots or lackeys,” in their liner notes. And this is precisely where previously drawn lines blur, genres become dismantled and jaws begin to drop to the floor. Although Jucifer unleashes rock the size of mountains from your stereo, Amber Valentine [for the most part] concocts the ultimate antagonist with whispers that hang in the ethereal stratosphere around the snow-capped peaks of the music. With any other vocalist I Name You Destroyer would glide by with nothing but rock ‘n’ roll abrasives scarring your ear lobes, but Jucifer places lulling ultra-feminine Portishead-like vocal beauties upon the think distortion of sound below it to sculpt a most intriguing dichotomy of music. While the opener, “Little Fever,” paves the way with such a template and the listener becomes consciously comfortable under such a peculiar composite, “Queen B” then fractures what you thought Jucifer encompassed into shards of splintered rock primordial soup. Valentine’s out-of-nowhere searing screams on “Queen B” come along with such visceral power that it would make the whole conglomerate of girl trio Kittie, sludge-shit-rockers of Otep and hardcore wannabes in Still Breathing blush with inferiority. However, as different as Valentine’s bellowing is on such a track, it actually makes up the solitary low point of the album; but don’t worry, Jucifer quickly recuperates with “Memphis” – a piano laden journey that eventually bursts into sonic black holes of My Bloody Valentine-like feedback via Sonic Youth. Throbbing bass lines, ambient electronic abstractions, squalls of ultra-violet feedback, seductively vaporous vocals, piano compositions, romantic acoustic licks, incendiary drum signatures and crunching lowbrow rock – it’s all here in it’s pinnacle apex of performance. I Name You Destroyer is the underrated album of the year thus far and it’s surely destined to destroy the consciousness of conformity and build it’s own indefinable orb that demonstrates and stretches every bit of music that the term “rock” implies. [www.jucifer.com]

Counting Crows have spent about a decade making the same music over and over again. Along the way they've hit the mark occasionally, but, on the whole, nothing really beats their debut, August & Everything After. Recovering The Satellites was still a great sophomore effort, but 1999's This Desert Life left me wanting much more. The new effort from the Counting Crows, Hard Candy, is about as permanent as a good piece of candy. It's definitely tasty; I just want something a bit more satisfying guys. The opening title-track is reminiscent of the "Rain King" vibe from their debut, but, because it seems like they done that exact same song before, it doesn't grab as hard as a good opener should. "American Girls" is a great radio song and it should continue to do well throughout the summer, but back-up vocals from Sheryl Crow isn't going to save this song from warming the bench come winter (So help me God, if Mr. Durtiz screams "Yeah!" at the end of another song, I will smack those extensions right of his head). The first great song of the album is the third track, "Good Time". Duritz gets back to that poetic angst that makes his lyrics hit home and the band matches the mood with a great backing track - think Pink Floyd. From then on out, the album has its ups and downs. "If I Could Give All My Love (Richard Manuel Is Dead)" starts out with an annoyingly happy riff but transforms into a decent track. Whereas, "Butterfly In Reverse" waltzes through your ears and transcends anything the Crows have done before. "New Frontier", which is aptly title, is the band's attempt at new wave… let's just say it's not as bad as you might think. From then on out the CD takes a pretty solemn and subdued turn, except for "Why Should You Come When I Call?" It's got such a nice way to it that is makes all those sad songs seem sadder. The closer, "Holiday In Spain", is nice enough, but damn those lyrics are the cheesiest shit I've ever heard Adam Duritz spew. It just doesn't wrap up the album properly. I praise the Counting Crows when they're energetic, but chastise them when they go too far with the exuberance. I enjoy all the slow ballads but frown upon putting to many of them on one record. Man, I'm pretty picky, huh? Well, I assume you are too. Let's just say that Counting Crows fans will appreciate this album, producer Steve Lillywhite did an excellent job producing and the album sounds superb. It's not their magnum opus and they aren't going to get any new fans, but at least they are consistent. Heck, it's better than This Desert Life and that's enough for me. [www.countingcrows.com]

I believe that it would be fair to assume that the majority of true art delivers its virility with a sense of cathartic release – previously restrained emotion finally seething into our tangible world. However, Xiu Xiu [pronounced “show show” or “shoe shoe”] take art and warp it into insanity and dismantle catharticism into utter dementia. At least in the first few tracks of Knife Play - their latest release on oddity independent imprint 5RC - that is. Although as Knife Play progresses you hear vocalist Jamie Stewart calm down to off kilter whispers beneath avalanches of converging synth-noise, Knife Play’s first two tracks would drive away the weak hearted and light stomached alike. “Don Diasco” and “I Broke Up” are truly the sound of a man’s consciousness breaking the stitched seams of saneness with lyrics such as [and I am not making this up], “This is the worst vacation ever/ I am going to cut open your forehead with a roofing shingle.” As sadistic as it is, lines such as that imbed mystery and desire to unravel the truths behind such lunacy. However, after you sink your ears into the tumultuous synthesized drum machines and dementia influenced vocal tendencies, Xiu Xiu compiles seemingly aimless bells, horns, vibraphones and keyboards into chasms of orchestrated cacophony. Knife Play resides as a haunting confluence of noise abstraction that is seemingly doomed to little more than cult status due to the outlandish lyrical content and eccentric notions of junk-tronica. Xiu Xiu acts as a blender of an obtuse angle of instruments that are mixed together in a fashion that is not pretty or beautiful by any means, but cohesive enough to flesh out a complete album of dark motifs and odd rhythms. If nothing else, it’s an interesting listen – but replay of such an obtrusion wears thin. [www.xiuxiu.org]

Once upon a time there was a singer. He liked rock music. He joined a band. He played for a few years. Then he went solo. Now, after that child storytelling episode, I’m willing to bet that you envision Chris Carrabba and his emo bookmarks of Dashboard Confessional. But, in fact, Jonah Matranga and his pseudonym of Onelinedrawing are the centerpiece of that plotline. Long before Chris blotted tears with the emo hankerchief there was Jonah who ditched his seminal rock in Far for a shot at heart-mending solo songwriting. However, with the advent of Dashboard Confessional to MTV, magazine covers and the like, Onelinedrawing actually seems to have a selective audience – and not just on the smug independent level, either. As Visitor now reveals itself on the indie pop label Jade Tree, Onelinedrawing seem apt and ready to cut into the recent influx in emo disciples – after all, Jonah does deserve his share. However, this is where the cynic in me rears its head and Visitor begins to shed its initial heart-splintering teary-eyed delight to unravel Onelinedrawing as weak, tacky and hyperbolic acoustic drivel. Maybe I don’t understand this new heart-on-sleeve emo thing or maybe I just don’t want to, but Visitor lacks the dynamic appeal that other solo songwriters – mainly Sparklehorse and Elliot Smith – thrive beneath. Instead, Jonah puts sappy jangle pop along with acoustic guitars to torrent emotion that bypasses the term “palatable” to fit solely atop “tacky.” Despite the gashing weaknesses, you have to commend Onelinedrawing’s friendly disposition that glares from its website and quirky straight-from-the-journal charm that Visitor illuminates. That is if you can get past the painfully annoying lyrics of loss and rejection and feeble instrumentation. But, of course, that is what officially puts the prefix of “emo” into emotion. And that’s just fine, but I still don’t get it – why would I want to listen to some man’s aural diary put to a jangle-y guitar and impotent piano again? [www.onelinedrawing.com]

Murray Street is a party record. Not like Andrew W.K. is a party record, but a party record in the sense that when you get a bunch of your friends over for a few drinks and lively discussions you could easily put on Murray Street for the backdrop. That's not to say that it's a complete non-confrontational album. It has it's moments that would make the room fall silent and soak in the music. Like about 4 minutes or so into "Rain On Tin" the slow languid buildup really takes off. "Radical Adults Lick Godhead" falls into the same category but draws out the buildup a little longer. Murray Street has it's share of kitschy songs too - like "Plastic Sun" with it's spastic guitar and nonsensical lyrics. Of course, those three songs aren't the only standouts of the seven, every song has something redeeming about it but overall it's not an album you'd pop into the car CD player and take a long trip with. It works better as an album hanging around in the air occasionally interrupting to remind you that it's not all atmosphere. The lack of manstyle points comes from the almost too subtle nature of some of the songs and the ability to forget that they're even there. Not being a longtime Sonic Youth fan it's hard to describe what era of their career this album mostly relates to, but it definetly does the group justice as a master of their sound - whatever it may be. The production is top notch, the musicianship is pretty masterful even when it's just subtle squelching feedback. [www.sonicyouth.com]

Often considered as mavericks, the plight of the folksinger is their undying urge to let loose of all those overly articulate, poetic feelings bottled up inside. You've got your political and personal Bob Dylans and Ani Difrancos, whose music and words can take you to an altogether unique place. Then you have your Tom Waitses and Johnny Cashes (He's more folk than country to me, ok?) who take you back, let you revist memories and feelings you've already encountered. Neither is better than the other, and each are poignant and vibrant with their tellings of life; Real and unglossy, unfettered and uncut. Eileen Rose, much to her credit, falls into both of the aforementioned categories, as she revisits old wounds and dissects new ones, all over the tumultous twang of steel guitars and Joplin-esque harmonica solos. The whole album is literally on big broken-down back porch for Rose's wheezy and Newport-addled voice to swing on. A very melancholy, raw record, Long Shot Noevena is bluesy, folksy, and much like bed-head in the sense that it cannot be bothered with loopy backing sounds and the twinkling shine of modern-day pop-scholck necessity. This does not make the album faultless, however. The title track has femme Bob Dylan vocals and scratchy funereal cadence, yet it acts like green logs- No fires, only fuming. "See How I Need You" and "Big Dog" are sweet and loping, sad and plodding, but there seems to be a great supression of something deeper, which only truly comes out in "For Marlene", a story-song about a woman in some forlorn state; The song is truly painful and undilluted, mostly due to Rose's unabashed croaky voice and it's tragic-yet-euphoric moan. On "Wheels Go By" and "Snake", Rose truly has fun with cowpoke melodies and tumbleweed beats. Sample snakey lyric: "Got a snake in my hip/ Shimmy 'til I shed my skin". These songs make the CD more than background music yet not enough to be the forefront of any event. "White Dove's Awake" is glorious in colors of sensuality and steel guitar punctures, while "Two In One" isn't much more than a fizzy hoe-down. Far from dissapointing, Eileen Rose's sophomore album is a great effort and gnarly, original piece that challenges all the pop and electronic-driven stuff out there without alienating anyone away. At best Rose is soothing and cathartic, and at worse she's background music, but considering the fact that 95 percent of the music on the radio today is basically background, then Rose is doing well. Let's hope to see her on satellite radio soon, or at least opening for her kindred spirit, Mr. Tom Waits. [www.sanctuaryrecordsgroup.com]

For approximately two years I have worked, off and on, at an arcade. Besides becoming unusually proficient in games such as Skee-Ball, Crazy Taxi, and Tekken Tag, I have also become sublimely acclimated to the "call noises" of each and every game in the arcade. A "call noise" is basically the noise a game makes in order to entice you to drop your pieces of silver into the game, the gentle persuading beckon of the game for you to caress its buttons and grapple... Okay, I'm not trying to get pervy, but that's what the games do. And I know when games are down, needing tickets, or needing a swift kick due to the call noises that have been ingrained into my head. It has become second nature, and no call noise is interesting or different or new. Sadly, this is not just a story for your amusement or even for your chagrin: This is how I feel about the new Paul Oakenfold album Bunkka. It's predictable, easy, and not in the least mind boggling/blowing/or bummer. It's not bad, per se, but it's all you'd ever expect from trancey-type Dj's, who put echos higgeldey-piggledy across the CD and nice, steady, lulling beats on each track. Just for the interested, Bunkka features Bjork-ish vocals ("Hold Your Hand") but nope, no Bjork- Can't capture her on something as blank as this, as well as Crazy Town member Shifty Shellshock rapping ("Steamy-Eyed Star"). Even Perry Farrell gets as boring on "Time of Your Life", as Grant Lee Phillips gets lazy-esoteric on "Motion". Okay, so I won't trash this album totally, because it's got some, er, okay tracks mixed in this Eurotrash effort. There's "Get 'Em Up" with Ice Cube showing the same infamous malice he made popular in the NWA, a neat cameo by Hunter S. Thompson ("Nixon's Spirit") as well as a moody, pretty ambient track aptly-named "Zoo York", and the brilliant and aboriginal guest vocal of Nelly Furtado and the brooding magnificent vocal of Tricky on "Harder They Come", which could make worm's meat of anything from Dirty Vegas... Bunkka is not a bad album, but it's nothing new, nothing exciting really, and, frankly, it's just as well that Paul Oakenfold stick to "Swordfish" like soundtracks, because that's the only place where his redundant and non-innovative style has any room. The saddest bit about all this negativity is I've seen Paul Oakenfold perform before, and the only great thing about his performance was the dancing painted girl (I don't know if she was with the show), which, like the guest vocals on this album, makes it painfully obvious that Oakenfold's star cannot shine alone. [www.pauloakenfold.com]