Maybe it’s me, but a rapper rapping with hard driving beats behind him, using oodles swear words, and doing it with a well-worn British accent is kind of silly. That’s not to say The Streets (Mike Skinner) is silly. He’s not any more silly than Eminem. Perhaps Eminem is silly, too. Scratch that. Mike Skinner (The Streets) knows how to craft a song and he does so well, with his freewheeling lyrics, aggressive British garage rock and dance beat songs, and yet, with all that, his latest album, “The Hardest Way to Make a Living,” is a definite step down from his previous albums, particularly the critically acclaimed “A Grand Don’t Come Free,” the Skinner album one should be paying attention to, that was fully drawn, delivering a narrative with characters, conflicts, themes, plots, resolutions. He’ll be hard pressed to create a better album for himself. “The Hardest Way to Make An Easy Living” is not it. His new songs shine a light on his new found fame and Skinner’s life within that framework. It’s derivative. Rappers complaining about how it’s more difficult to do drugs due to the fame they’ve acquired and rappers rapping about trashing hotel rooms simply is not that interesting. Artists always seem to fall into this trap. Novelists writing a novel about a novel writer writing a novel, for instance. The artist M.C. Escher drawing a picture of a hand drawing a hand drawing a hand, for example. It’s OKAY, sure, but there’s no substance there. It’s surface. It’s not the meat and bones of who the people are. It’s not life blood. Yes, the top of the iceberg is interesting but the iceberg, groaning right there below the surface, is much more affecting. This is something Skinner hasn’t yet learned. He does, however, puts together some good songs on the album - “When You Wasn’t Famous” and “Can’t Con an Honest John” gets your blood pumping and makes you want to get on the dance floor. But at the same times he’s written some real stinkers - “Two Nations” about Skinner’s views on America, “War of the Sexes,” Skinner’s commentary on love, and “Never Went to Church,” Skinner’s meditations about life and death that I simply can’t take at all seriously when he talks about “prangin’ out” a few songs before. A truly good lyricist, Skinner can do better than this. Let’s hope he gets back to what got him to where he is in the first place, a young Briton with something true and honest to say. [www.the-streets.co.uk]

Hyperactivity is a funny thing. Sometimes it gets to the point you feel trapped in your own skin, no outlet for this unexplainable source of energy. All my life it's something I've "fought", mostly with any ADHD med known to man, but it's still there. I guess that's why I love music, and in this case Sufjan Stevens. With his new album The Avalanche everything that makes him the artist fans adore is still there. Being an album of "outtakes and extras" from a universally acclaimed work like Illinoise brings a certain stigma. That is, unless it's the first Sufjan Stevens' album someone is listening to, the listener will immediately compare it to Illinoise. That's what I did, and whether out of eternal reverence for my first Sufjan Stevens' album or not, The Avalanche does fall short. However, that will probably be the only case in which it does so. Just from the cover of The Avalanche anyone can see Sufjan's modesty about this project (note the "shamelessly compiled by Sufjan Stevens" and how it was named for the truck on the cover, an appropriate sign of excess). What some still don't know is that originally Illinoise was planned as a 2-disc album, but was scratched late in the process in favor of time and the realization that it was perhaps too ambitious. Logically, The Avalanche is similar in style to its predecessor, but that in no way is a negative. In The Avalanche, everything is there from before that would matter to a Sufjan fan, and stick out to a first time listener. His voice? Like always, as soothing and thoughtful as a man's can be, turning his narratives into more than just stories, and more than just songs. The instrumentals? Working together with his voice, the banjo, trumpet, and others bring the songs to their triumphant, invigorating climaxes of which Jenna Jameson would be jealous. Also, and a major part of Sufjan's appeal, he plays the role of storyteller, weaving narratives about places even Illinois residents haven't heard of into pieces of music that connect with the listener on a base, emotional level. Then again that's what he's always done that's made him unique. He takes obscure newsclippings, or events more than a century old and evokes the listener to hang on every word, as if through listening to him tell tales of others, you can somehow grow to understand yourself even better. While this album may not be the essential work that Illinois is, any fan would be remiss in passing up on The Avalanche, an album that seems to harness the full range of human emotion to enthrall, energize, and calm its listener all from a set of speakers. Album Stand-Outs: "Pittsfield," "The Henney Buggy Band," "Saul Bellow" [www.asthmatickitty.com]

Critical darlings of the 90’s pop scene have returned after a long hiatus with Every Kind of Light. Being a fan of this group since way back to their first release on Pop Llama, it was a return I had most anticipated, but perhaps it was in not being able to relinquish the mythical rock-and-roll egos built up by so much industry adoration. Maybe it was just in the paths that their individual pursuits took them after the “breakup” that caused the Posies’ newest effort to elude the strong foothold that could have brought them back into the public eye. After all, a renewed interest in the group at the dawn of the millennium was all based on the repackaging of old songs and Every Kind of Light is the first new material to be released by the band in nearly a decade. Almost immediately, the lack of cohesiveness in the music that often results from uncompromising changes in direction amongst its members is evident. Starting out a little darker than any of their previous releases with “It’s Great to be Here Again!”, one who has followed the band throughout the years feels the promise of a masterpiece that harkens back to the days of yore. But while there are a couple of notables on the album ("It’s Great", Conversations), the duo of Auer and Stringfellow seem to have lost everything that made the Posies what they once were. It feels as if both came to the table with different ideas and, unwilling or unable to find a middle ground, achieved results via coin toss – and this never works. As such, they continuously fail to deliver where once they had…in glorious form. On songs like “I Guess You’re Right”, and “Last Round”, where one would have expected from a band who once wrote so eloquently of the emotional depths of heartbreak at the very least a lump in the throat, the sensation seems unfocussed and, well…resigned. Historically, the Posies' ballads had a melodic sorrow that made the pain of their lyrics even more unbearable. This has been replaced by musical score seemingly influenced by being stuck in an elevator for days on end…or in the case of “Could He Treat You Better?”, tripping on acid with Pink Floyd playing in the background, which is not a particularly good way to lament about your romantic sorrows. As someone who has followed this band since the very beginning, I was really looking forward to the premise of Jon and Ken having taken their decade-plus of real-world experience back to the studio and collaborating on something that reached far beyond their early efforts. But Every Kind of Light falls way short of this. One can only hope, perhaps, that they rediscover the passion and influences of their youth or perhaps find an appropriate compliment in bandmates to re-ignite that charisma. But after so many years it becomes difficult to hold out hope (what is it they say about dogs and tricks?). At least they lay claim to producing four amazing albums that no one will ever come close to duplicating. And in that the Posies will hold, at the very least, a small legacy in the music world. []

Her first album was too cute for its own good, blunting the force of Nelly Furtado’s adventurous and strong willed personality. Her second release was brilliant, but never caught on. Now, with Loose, the Portuguese-Canadian has put all nine balls in the pocket. From one track to the next, this is a collection that shows her diversity in all its colors. She gets things started with “Afraid,” boasting a tongue-twisting chorus sung by a group of girls who can’t help but crack up with the humorous joy of it all. The single, “Maneater,” is one of the weakest tracks, but is still leagues above the competition (read: Gwen Stefani’s attempt at co-opting harajuki culture on her recent solo misadventure). From the sexy hip-hop give and take with Timbaland on “Promiscuous” to the burgeoning rhythms of "The Busque," an incendiary duet with Juanes, Furtado proves herself a mistress of internationalism who is funny, poetic, and beautiful. Much of it is fast and furious, but she slows down for the occasional ballad. “Showtime” finds her in Alicia Keys territory, and “All Good things Come To An End” closes the album on a melancholy note. Standing out from the bustle of grooves is “In God’s Hands,” a slice of romanticism that insists that, no matter how we screw things up, we can’t completely kill love. [www.nellyfurtado.com]

If you like succinct, wrap-it-all-up-in-a-neat-three-minute-package songwriting, The Secret Machines are not for you. In their bio vocalist Brandon Curtis states, “Some things are worth soaking in. If you think of music as a picture or a story, sometimes you want to be immersed in that world for a while….Just because it can’t be said fast, doesn’t mean it’s not valid.” With Ten Silver Drops, Curtis and his bandmates have created an album of driving, psychedelic rock meant to be absorbed rather than hurriedly experienced. When bands that specialize in psychedelic, tripped-out rock succeed, they have managed to take a song through a wealth of emotions while holding tight to a fundamental emotional and musical thread. When they fail, it is because the thread has unraveled and allowed the song to dissipate into a fit of self-important meandering. Fortunately on the majority of Ten Silver Drops, The Secret Machines find themselves highly successful. The album begins with a trio of well-played, highly melodic songs (“Alone, Jealous and Stoned”, “All at Once (It’s Not Important)”, and “Lightning Blue Eyes”) that manage to explore a variety of moods and textures without managing to lose the plot. Full of momentum and expressing a great range of sentiment, “Alone, Jealous and Stoned” especially displays the band’s philosophy. Lest the band expend all energy early on, they save two of their best for last. Closing the album, “I Want to Know” and “1,000 Seconds” are a pair of piano-driven ballads that expand to allow for some intense guitar work by Ben Curtis. The tracks between the opening trio and closing couplet are mediocre in comparison, yielding one example of the self-important meandering mentioned above. “Daddy’s In the Doldrums” is a poor attempt at a Pink Floyd song that never quite materializes throughout its nearly 8 and a half minutes. Spanning over forty-five minutes in only 8 tracks, Ten Silver Drops is an exercise in patience. However over the majority of the record, The Secret Machines reward such patience with their finely-crafted songs. [www.thesecretmachines.com]

San Diego’s The Black Heart Procession achieve a bleak and brooding sound through unconventional means. While they employ distorted guitars, aching vocals and ominous rhythms as similar bands do, the group incorporate violin, piano, organ, lap steel and an assortment of other instruments making their music as diverse as it as melancholy. “Tangled” opens The Spell with an eerie duet between piano and violin, which gives way to gradually expressive guitars and vocalist Pall Jenkins’ tortured rendering of the lyric “I’m tangled in your web.” Organ swells and frenetic drumbeats lead seamlessly from “Tangled” into the album’s title track. Jenkins doubles his melody with a resonant, lower harmony enhancing the hypnotic effect the band seeks and underscoring the words “So please forgive me for this spell I am under.” Though most tracks on The Spell could be classified “alternative” or “rock”, the band shines on several cuts with deep roots in Americana/country music. “Not Just Words”, “Places” and “To Bring You Back” appear modern descendants to the most mysterious, maudlin ballads of early country/western, evoking images of dark shadows and even darker characters. While The Spell is quite varied in instrumentation and arrangement, its only major flaw is its lack of diversity in tempo and tone. No song travels far from the pace or landscape established by the song before it, leading to a murky feeling by album’s close. The album’s tone is almost too consistent for its own good. Despite this, it proves to be an album worth hearing if for no other reason than to witness how The Black Heart Procession far exceed the limited creativity employed by bands seeking to create a similar musical atmosphere. [www.blackheartprocession.com]

It’s been awhile since I could describe an album using the terms “unique” and “original,” but that’s exactly what comes to mind when exploring the organic-electronic wonder that is Holy Fuck. Their sound isn’t anything new or mind-blowing, but their approach is definitely on the verge of something brilliant. Holy Fuck sound like your favorite "experimental electronic" artist, if he was stuck in a room with a couple instrumental rockers who commonly use phrases such as “jam session” and “let’s play some fucking music.” Basically the philosophy behind the band is that it’s instrumental electronic music… made without using ‘artificial’ electronic sound. Unlike so many of the bands you’d find lumped under the electronic musical wing, Holy Fuck does not use computers, synthesizers, or drum machines. With a motto of “find something in the trash… plug it in,” they do exactly that, creating their sounds with toy keyboards, live drums and bass, a 35mm film synchronizer, and various electronic toys and gadgets. The self-titled album is thus recorded live, and has a live sound, but don’t expect to hear (undesired) feedback or low sound quality. Don’t expect massive production either, because the album just captures what I imagine the live show would be like. Which just tempts you really, if the album catches your attention, finding a live show will no doubt be constantly lodged in your brain. Perhaps the addictive bleeps and bloops are just a ploy to up the band’s ticket sales—or perhaps Holy Fuck just makes highly addictive instrumental music that will leave you sleepless at night… crossing off days on the calendar until they’re in your town next. The “holy fuck!” exclaimed while listening to this album isn’t due to being overwhelmed or surprised. Instead it’s a self-seeking question, as if you need a reason why you didn’t have this album a long time ago. Doubting that you ever lived without it. But there is no reason. Just the exclamation, resounding and firm: “holy fuck.” [www.holyfuckmusic.com]

If The Teaches of Peaches and Fatherfucker have taught us only one thing, it is that Peaches wishes to present herself as an embodiment of all things introverted, classy and demure. With her third album, the cleverly-titled Impeach My Bush, Peaches proves with understated grace that she's still our favorite electo-rockin' shy girl. Lyrically, Peaches tackles the same topics that her first two records were built around: Sex, kinky sex, kinkier sex, liberal politics, and sex. The short, loud opener, "Fuck or Kill" combines Peaches' love of the aforementioned topics and also produces the album's title. She proclaims, "I'd rather fuck who I want than kill who I am told to / Let's face it, we all want tush / If I'm wrong, impeach my bush." Peaches then drops the "my" from the last line, and "Impeach Bush" repeats twice before the song ends. "Two Guys" tells of Peaches' romantic vision of two men who want to be with her. Peaches, always the inventive thinker, offers up this idea: Any men who want to get with her must first get with each other. After all, as Peaches does not fail to remind us, "An ass is an ass." "Slippery Dick" is not a tale of a sly man named Richard, as I originally thought it might be. Instead Peaches treats listeners to a healthy dose of subtle innuendo: "Bam bam / you wanna ram the damn / pull back the curtains / and feed the clam." Musically, the tracks on Bush, much like the tracks on Peaches' previous releases, can be roughly divided into two distinct, though sometimes overlapping, subgenres: Electro-thrash rock numbers and bombastic beat stompers with a decidedly more urban feel. Of the former group there are tracks like "You Love It," which features Joan Jett on backing vocals and guitars, "Give 'Er," featuring Josh Homme (of Queens of the Stone Age) on lead guitar and Leslie Feist on backup vocals, and "Boys Wanna Be Her." Falling into the more beat-centered category are songs like "Tent in Your Pants," "Hit It Hard," "Get It," and "Stick It to the Pimp." Where Bush begins to differentiate itself from the rest of Peaches' catalogue is in its relative complexity. This time, Peaches has opted to forgo some of the lyrical repetition that distinguished her earlier works. Several tracks on the record are centered on a verse-chorus structure, with all of the verses having distinct sets of lyrics. In this respect, and in others, Bush sounds more polished and, some will say, mainstream. This may be true, but the raw energy of Peaches beloved music can be found in each and every song here. The not-as-repetitive lyrics make the songs easier to listen to repetitively and allow Peaches to work in more of her fun and fresh metaphors. All in all, I'd say a little bit of studio gloss sounds excellent on Peaches, and Bush sounds like her most well-rounded, though certainly not her most mature, release yet. [www.peachesrocks.com]

The most telling moment in Morningwood’s self-titled debut comes, appropriately enough, in its first song “Nu Rock” when vocalist Chantal Claret screams “You sure got the style but ain’t got no soul!” She’s supposedly addressing “all the little kids that love the rock n’ roll”, but she might as well be addressing her own band. Tagged as rip-roaring, ass-kicking envoys of retro-rock, the hardest thing about all the band’s post-rock posturing is actually sitting through their album. Morningwood attempts to invoke the roiling, gut-churning guitar rock of the mid-seventies, and succeeds in crapping out a bunch of painfully inane anthems and bastardized party songs whose checkered musical lineage is as varied as it is easily identifiable. Given the band’s brazenly ironic demeanor and the fine polish of Gil Norton’s production, even this shameless cribbing might be overlooked if Claret demonstrated the slightest glimmer of imagination or wit. She exudes little other than attitude, however, letting out lyrical titty-twisters like the matchless “You met a naf annihilator/ whose treasure was her trap” on “Jetsetter,” or relying on idiotic chants in “Nth Degree,” “NY Girls,” and “Everybody Rules.” The upside to all this is that anyone seeking some kind of James Bondian or Dick Traceyian correlation between bands and their names can rejoice, since Morningwood is every bit as awkward, annoying, and aesthetically obscene as their namesake. The major difference? This kind of Morningwood you can turn off at will. [www.morningwoodrocks.com]

What better prelude to a new album than a compilation of A and B sides, alternate versions, and unreleased songs? That seems to be the logic behind Lambchop’s The Decline of Country and Western Civilization, Part II: The Woodwind Years. Released a few months in advance of the band’s new album Damaged, it rounds up a ragtag assortment of tunes in the hopes that they might set you salivating for something new by the Kurt Wagner-led country collective. It certainly has its moments. With its abundance of horns and elements of lounge, the collection certainly places the emphasis squarely on the alternative in the band’s "alt-country" label. Album highlight “Burly and Johnson” plays like a tribal jazz jam with Mac McCaughan’s muted trumpet accompanied by rumbling drums, while “Two Kittens Don’t Make a Puppy” retains the trumpet but dumps everything else in favor of digitized drumbeats and falsetto gibberish. Then there’s the small matter of Wagner’s signature songwriting and delivery. He opens his own “Gettysburg Address” with the masterfully tongue-in-cheek “We hold these truths, to be self-evident/ We drink beer in bars, and act irreverent”, and closes out the crass comedy “Smuckers” by consecutively rhyming mamma/pajamas/drama/comma. He manages to wring both humor and emptiness out of a line about shivering testicles in the bleak sentiments and landscapes of “The Old Fat Robin,” and then channels his vulgar turns into a more emotionally tender context in “It’s Impossible” when he sings “You play with it between your knees/With your face at me/Unhurtable.” As good as some of these selections are, songs like “Playboy, the Shit” and “Gloria Leonard,” often sink into a lounge mush, while others, such as “The Scary Caroler” and “The Book I Haven’t Read,” have titles that are more interesting than the actual tunes. Still, as an appetizer for August’s Damaged, an introduction to the band’s brand of quirky country, or as a mere motley assortment of older objets d’art, it works. [www.lambchop.net]

As far as the music press is concerned, Supersystem didn't fare so well when known as El Guapo. After jumping the Dischord ship for Chicago's Touch and Go Records and relinquishing their former name to avoid legal troubles, the quartet issued Always Never Again. The debut under the new moniker and label was promising, but its overall performance was weakened due to monotony, excessively repeated vocal lines, and reliance on previously used formulas. A Million Microphones expands on the former's strengths, and reimburses those who paid good money for a debut that felt half-assed more often than not. Supersystem hasn’t drastically changed directions; in fact, they're still playing the same game than on Always Never Again. The difference this time is that it's more vibrant and compelling, instead of stagnant and recycled. Befitting of the "disco/punk/funk" tag still, but often employing elements of world music, A Million Microphones showcases an extremely valiant rhythm effort, while overall vocal quality has improved and individual songs stand on their own. Never ones to be the quotidian dance-punk group. Supersystem displays a keen knowledge of melody and rhythm, and the chops to enforce it. Rafael Cohen's thin, otherworldly guitar tone and play are unmistakable, while Justin Destroyer and Joshua Blair comprise a rhythm section tighter than even the hippest hipster's t-shirt. Discerning an obvious meaning from the songs is difficult; vivid images of flora, fauna and natural landscaping are rampant yet again. "Eagles Fleeing Eyries" regales listeners with the conscious politicizing of birds, and though allegory is likely, nonsensical imagination is nearly as probable. Guest musician Justin Sparhawk provides additional instrumentation via a harp--yes, a harp--which oddly settles in comfortably with the flurry of winged references and club-friendly verses. "Joy" is the band's ultimate ode to African and Middle Eastern music, snaking a guitar line around polyrhythmic percussion. "The Pinnacle of Experience" details drug-addiction, all snazzy, spaced-out synth and ocean-deep, fuzzy bass. Album closer "Revolution Summer" seems to outline the writer's move to the District and the being enveloped by the transformation of the city's music scene during that time period; the scope of that summer's influence has to be incalculable, or at least history has deemed it so. A Million Microphones isn't quite the landmark album Supersystem is capable of making, but it's more than a few steps in that direction. There are sparks here and there that hint of what's to come, and as the band welcomes more variety in their own personal listening tastes, it seems as though the palette from which they choose their colors grows and grows. [www.tgrec.com]

Notes from the Underground is some damnably overzealous pop, slickly performed by Persephone’s Bees, but lacking the training necessary to balance such ambition. It’s all catchy, but since most of it’s slightly below average, this infection is more a plague than a blessing. Singer/songwriter Angelina Moysov shows plenty of promise—she uses enough of her Russian accent to make it a seductive tool, and her Russian folk-pop song “Muzika Dyla Fil’ma” is easily the best track on the album. Now if only someone could find a vaccine for her distractingly cloying pop…. Considering that producer Eric Valentine had over forty songs to choose from, this is also a pretty limited “best of” collection. There are four good songs, but there’s not much to be done for the other seven. Consider them as dimly realized lyrical and musical segues between better acts, dreck like “Queen’s Night Out” that contents itself in drowning its cultural motifs in experimentation and squanders all its build for the last 30 seconds (of a five-minute-long song). Not that this melting-pot album actually has a motif. I’m all for exuberance and experimentation, but the roots of this album are so tangled in one another that it can’t help being hit-or-miss. “Climbing” starts with a flatulent keyboard and builds through a flower-power falsetto into a banjo coda; is this country, a cheery homage to the '70s, or synth-rock? On the other hand, “City of Love,” samples glitzy carnival music and 8-bit MIDI sound and infuses it with 80s funk: the resulting shallow groove is almost hip enough to rock—if it only weren’t so annoying. This overextended release needs to scale back its efforts a little bit; the amount of modulation on this album is akin to putting strobe lights around the Mona Lisa. Persephone’s Bees either needs to switch genres, or it needs to embrace the fluff of pop. Songs like “Nice Day” and “Way to Your Heart” demonstrate competence, and even the bad songs are catchy, so get the CDC ready for the widespread success of their next infection. Notes from the Underground, though? Get a flu shot instead. [www.persephonesbees.com]

Camera Obscura, every Optics student’s favorite band, mixes breezy subtleness and old-fashioned pop songs on their most recent effort, “Let’s Get Out of This Country.” The track listing is split between upbeat melodies and dreamy, graceful ballads. The slow gentle tunes “Country Mile” and “Dory Previn” are sleepers and are not even satisfactory as background music since they rely on lazy and lethargic drifting between phrases. “The False Contender” tries to cover up the lifelessness with accordion, but these guys are just a second too late. Upbeat songs like “Lloyd, I’m ready to Be Heartbroken” and the title track provide a comforting signal that the band has a pulse, but I wonder if the only reason I like these songs is that they’re just an alternative to the boring ballads. Unfortunately, the rating system doesn’t work on that factor. There’s virtually no repeatability factor in the tracks. While the catchier tunes prove interesting, but not necessarily memorable. The overall sound is just very monotonous. Tracyanne Campbell’s voice is close to Karen Ann’s range, pretty but ephemeral. The other musicians never show a hint of personality. Solos are wasted, and melodies are delivered in a stale, re-wrapped package. Everything blends together, but in a dull and unimaginative manner (except for Lee Thomson changing the pace with the drum beat). Fans of the harmless brand of indie pop are better off looking for Camera’s earlier efforts, or other groups such as one of the best unsigned bands—The Melody Unit, spotlight-worthy Acid House Kings, or their still-breathing ancestors, Belle and Sebastian. With such a distinguished discography under their belt, Camera Obscura rarely deliver here, producing an album about as fun as pulling weeds. [www.camera-obscura.net]

I picked up my new copy of Cracker’s Greenland shortly after it was released, like any good fan would do. When I saw a nearby venue listed for the new tour to support the album, I made plans to attend, also, like any good fan would do. You may now consider yourself formally warned about a potential bias fueling the perspective of this review. It’s been four years since Cracker’s last album of new material, Forever, but the band hasn’t been slouching. During that span frontman Dave Lowery released New Roman Times with his old band, Camper Van Beethoven. Guitarist Johnny Hickman released his first solo album, Palmhenge. Cracker also released Countrysides, a collection of honky-tonk inspired cover songs. Add to that a greatest hits collection and incessant touring with all manner of multi-band formations, and you have a pretty packed schedule. With all the different directions in the air, I was curious how this record would sound, and with the continuous progress of time, I also wondered how the band’s energy would fare. A glimpse from the show I saw: After a rousing performance of “Gimme One More Chance” from the new album, a somewhat impudent Lowery quietly proclaimed “See, we still rock.” And they did. But they also did a lot of other things. Greenland may well be the quintessential Cracker album. A warming mix of rock and folk, and fun and retrospect, it touches on many musical tangents without trying overly hard. Vaguely quaint and mysterious, Lowery’s writing is also very accessible- perhaps more so than usual. When he sings, despite the personal, offbeat nature of the material, somehow he’s singing for you. The mood is well set with the opener “Something You Ain’t Got.” The wistful yet jaunty folk-rocker might have you singing on the first listen. It goes well from there. However, I did notice two shortfalls: 1) Johnny Hickman doesn’t take lead vocals for any of the songs, and 2) The departure of bassist Brandy Wood leaves a noticeable absence of strong female vocals that helped round out the band’s sound. As Cracker fans might attest, most albums have at least one song that hits home deeply- a la “Big Dipper” or “Sweet Magdalena of my Misfortune.” The record surely has its share of those gems tucked away as well. I have a tendency to initially dislike new releases by my favorite bands, but Greenland has won me over in record time. [www.crackersoul.com]

Is Snow Patrol ready to rule the world? Fans and critics alike have wondered since the band released their stellar album, Final Straw, in 2004. Garnering significant airplay and earning the band a slot opening for U2, Final Straw proved a watershed moment in the group’s career and thrust the often unfair spotlight of increased expectations on their latest project, Eyes Open. Some early projections suggested the band had gone the way of the buffalo, moving so far into radio-friendly territory that the subtle edginess of Final Straw had been replaced by the AOR sounds of bands like Goo Goo Dolls and Train. While these reports are gross exaggerations, the band hasn’t made the immense leap to greatness some had predicted either. Eyes Open probably won’t win Snow Patrol a horde of new devotees; it is a simply a quality album by a quality band that continues to exhibit a great deal of promise. Eyes Open commences with two tracks that, on their own, could have proved the naysayers right. “You’re All I Have” and “Hands Open” sound trite and overeager in comparison to the string of melodic gems that follow suit. “Crashing Cars” is the first great track on the album, its equivalent to Final Straw’s “Run”; a gradually swelling ballad with a soaring melody and great deal of heart. Tracks like “Shut Your Eyes”, “Beginning to Get to Me” and “Make This Go on Forever” demonstrate the band’s ability to successfully alter the Brit-rock formula and make a push towards more experimental ground. Additional standouts include “Set the Fire to the Third Bar,” which benefits from an impish Martha Wainwright vocal turn, and ambient album closer “Finish Line.” While Eyes Open may not accomplish world domination, it contains a number of songs that prove worthy additions to the band’s already laudable canon of striking, transparent anthems. They may not be revolutionaries (yet) but the bleak landscape of modern rock is better for the presence of bands like Snow Patrol. [www.snowpatrol.com]

The third album by English electronic duo Zero 7 (Henry Binns and Sam Hardaker), is frustrating to assess. Each of the 12 tracks on The Garden contain exciting musical ideas: splendid vocals (provided by Sia Furler and Jose Gonzalez), soulful horn arrangements and percussive, forward-moving beats. At times, however, these achievements are challenged for primacy by colorless synthesizers and stale production values. Each laudable moment finds a lackluster counterpart, causing the record to ebb and flow inconsistently. The Garden is at its best when focusing on two elements: the outstanding vocals of its prominent guests and Zero 7’s abilities to deftly weave ingredients of electronica with organic instrumentation. Though different in vocal effect, the talent of Furler and Gonzalez shine through in each appearance. Furler adds a smoky presence to tracks like “Pageant of the Bizarre”, “You’re My Flame” and “If I Can’t Have You”, a torch song for the digital age. Gonzalez has a more tranquil charisma, best expressed on “Futures” and “Left Behind.” One of the finest examples of realized potential on the record, “Futures”, features an effortless groove equally propelled by acoustic guitar, Gonzalez’ vocals and a subdued electric shimmer. The dilemma comes not in the quality of the material (save the useless “Seeing Things”) but its treatment. For example, well-arranged horn parts appear throughout the album, but the attempt to record them with a retro feel results in dulling the instruments’ brilliance (one instance is around the 2:30 mark in “Your Place”). In other cases, a well-crafted groove or feeling of forward motion is allowed to meander past the point of acceptable repetition (see “Your Place” or “Today”). Overall, the production seems to lack a certain quality that would enable each song to reach its possible height and depth. Unfortunately, The Garden's successes make its blemishes all the more evident. Binns and Hardaker should be commended for working to incorporate other musical elements into the world of chilled-out electronica; they came very close to creating a seamless garment. The future exploration of these ideas should allow Zero 7 the opportunity to create something really special. [www.zero7.co.uk]

One-two stepping between the slow eccentricity of Modest Mouse and the enthusiastic backbeats of OK Go, The Lovely Feathers make for one hell of a dazzling peacock. Let them preen; let them gloat. Perched atop a throne of nonsense lyrics, carried by an always-warbling pitch, and squawked in an often-breathy daze, their CD, “Hind Hind Legs,” doesn’t have a dull moment. This is a dazzlingly silly band, but their feathers aren’t the only lovely things about them. With Mark Kupfert and Richard Yanofsky doubled on guitars and vocals, they can lay down a solid beat and lyric, like in “Mildly Decorated,” and then embellish it with divergent strumming or choral emphasis. Add in Noah Bernamoff’s steady bass, Ted Suss’s solid drums, and Daniel Suss’s ethereal keyboard and you can go anywhere: often in the same song. “I Really Like You,” splits between a really vanilla love song and wanting to be part of the Rocky Horror soundtrack, and the performances are what hold it together. There’s also a lot of range on this album—the novelty of their act isn’t restricted to their lyrics. Hits like “Frantic” sop together a soupcon of punk with an underscore of pop, while the rest of the band plucks away like a mad banjoist and uses the keyboard like a xylophone. Aside from the sheer variety, The Lovely Feathers has a sick spread of hooks, deliciously ludicrous nuggets of easily repeatable lyrics. The opening track, “Pope John Paul,” doesn’t actually have a chorus, but all the bits and pieces seem so logically entertaining that you’ll want to sing along without even knowing the words. That’s what vibrant pop songs like “In The Valley” do, and surprisingly, that’s what the slower, deeper songs on the album accomplish, too. Not to say that there aren’t flaws: the lead guitar is sometimes annoyingly shrill, the punk sections occasionally overwhelm the balance of the whole act, and some of the instrumental bridges aren’t very fulfilling. These are such small blemishes on a wonderful debut—momentary lapses rather than an illustration of a deeper flaw—that I can’t help being completely enamored with The Lovely Feathers. Flattery may get you nowhere, but playfulness is pretty much the whole game. [ www.thelovelyfeathers.com]

I recently transplanted myself halfway across the United States of America. 1200 miles alone in a car can border on hell, regardless of its self-induced nature, or the fact that much of the time was spent babbling mindlessly on a cellphone. Of course, the mileage and late-night driving called for stimulating play on the stereo, and I found myself reaching for Birdmonster's debut more often than anything else that's been released this year. Having been given the title of "the worst-named band in San Francisco," Birdmonster has risen from DIY obscurity to being toasted by a legion of blogs and are now nesting with SpinART for an official release of No Midnight. Birdmonster's self-titled, three-song EP found an exorbitant amount of enthusiasm from major players in the mp3 blogosphere, drawing comparisons from Modest Mouse to Hot Water Music--two extremes which are valid but only in tiny amounts spread throughout the disc. On its first full-length, Birdmonster tear the pigeonhole a new asshole, plundering rock & roll's stinking corpse like the fat kids in candy shops analogy. No subgenres need apply, Birdmonster is a no-bullshit rock band...at times sounding like an early At the Drive-In with balls, or a melodious, less gritty Small Brown Bike--but then the fowl/beast hyrid swandives into an alternate dimension. Where "Balcony" lumbers around, flashing its slide guitar and flirting with alt-country, "'Cause You Can" is straight-forward with Peter Arcuni's manic, strained vocals roughing up the melody and changing directions without a second's notice. "Alabama," the album's other rampant and unconstrained tip of the hat to punk's relentless energy, finds Arcuni lyrically enigmatic--not that he isn't much of the time--but here his decisiveness seems split between an escape and telling New Orleans "you're gonna rise from the sea," all the while shouting over a throbbing bassline and wiry guitar antics. Twice does the band nod to the romp and stomp of folk punk, a la Against Me!, on "The Bar in the Back of the Basement" and "All the Wholes in the Walls." The title track is acoustic and brooding, pulling the band's twangy tendencies out yet again, but by song's end the direction takes a turn into double-time feel-good pop. Birdmonster's prowess lies in the ability to pull off a slew of styles while consistently just sounding like themselves, and reveling in unpredictability. Musical adventurists (read: elitists) beware, this isn't ultra-hipster avant garde garbage. New territory is rarely traversed, but Birdmonster forge on uninhibited. No Midnight is undoubtedly one of the year's most refreshing debuts, and above all, it's a lot of fun. [www.birdmonster.com]

First things first: I hate concert DVDs. I think they’re a blatant cash-grab and a waste of shelf space (unless it’s by someone like Pink Floyd or the Flaming Lips, in which case it’s awesome). I thought I’d depict the skepticism with which I viewed the disc in question before I explain the high score. If you’re a fan, you’d know that The Hives have no trouble touting their own proverbial horns – The DVD cover, designed like the epic poster for a bad heist movie from 1983, states clearly in gold trimming that they’re “the best live band on the planet.” In the same vain, the DVD jacket displays a centerfold image of their legions of screaming fans (who we can only assume were attending the concert in question). Clearly, they talk the talk, but do they walk the walk? Once you get past the monochromatic getups, the wicked white amps, and the exposed red plumbing covering the venue, the DVD is still just as infectious as the albums. But, here we have an added visual bonus of the rabid-fucking-ostrich-on-speed that is Pelle Almqvist. Throughout the performance, he bounces around the stage like his life depends on it, complete with crowd surfing. It’s a wonder his head didn’t explode. And for a guy in snug slacks, he’s got one high Judo kick. More than anything, it’s his random Swenglish bantering between songs that sell the show; “Some people have a lot of stuff! Some people have less stuff! So, there’s a stuff imbalance!” Modern economics explained in three simple phrases, folks. “Do you like your rock with punk in it?! Well here it is!! No pun intended!!” I still don’t know what that one means. If there’s one other reason to invest in this thing, it’s the 30 minute mockumentary explaining the Hivean origins. D. W. Johnson’s “The Hives, Hinduism, and Me” chronicles the journey of an investigative reporter chronicling the journey of The Hives’ quest for world domination. Never has a random collection of stock footage been more mesmerizing. Or educational. For example, did you know “Veni Vidi Vicious” means “I came, I saw, I conquered?” No kidding. Needless to say, this DVD achieves the practical goal of every concert DVD: Advertise the live show. While I wasn’t tempted to blast the surround sound or jump around in my living room, I can say with confidence that I will partake the next time they swing across the pond. As far as “watching it or feeling imperfect” goes, well, it’s not like they got a 4. [www.hivesmusic.com]

A mere three tracks round out Pretty Flowers' second EP, and over the course of 8 and some odd minutes, the Brooklyn four-piece trudges back and forth between American punk rock circa '76 to the advent of the New York new wave scene. With a mere trio of tracks, there's not a lot to say, but I'll attempt to say something. "Riot" sounds like it was recorded in a dumpster. The guitars are exemplary of NYC garage rock; the vocals sound like David Thompson's bleating crossed with Darby Crash's snarl, while the female half of the band counters it in the background, giving the track a slight Blondie feel, but it's subtle at best. "Knife Fight" sounds nothing like its predecessor, applying punk rock's simplicity to early '80s new wave pop, rounded out with group vocal interplay and handclaps. "I've Got Your Love" is all the anti-bombast of the Ramones with more hooks and is easily the disc's standout track. I'm still confused as to the creation of such a brief EP; five songs would make this much more desirable and plausible for retail. Either way, a Pretty Flowers LP is to be highly anticipated. [www.prettyflowers.org]