Editors Note: I completely disagree with this review and think this is one of the most enjoyable albums of 2005. However, we all know the joke about how everyone has their own opinion and the one below happens to be that of the writer who received the CD. I think you need to fire up iTunes and make your own judgement on this one. You know that guy at the party who thinks he’s funny? And once, you politely feigned laughter at some hack-ass joke of his and wound up only encouraging him? You’ve created a monster. It’s fake smiles for the rest of the night… OK Go is like that guy. Some of you out there mindlessly bought into their self-titled debut in 2002 with its horrible singles “Get Over It” and “Don’t Ask Me,” and now OK Go thinks they’re the freakin’ life of the party. OK Go excels at making fleetingly likable, heartless Indie-Brand pop music amalgamations. This record is the second installment of OK Go's formula that proved so successful on their first L.P. Each song specifically designed for hit-dom: Jokey, Weezer-like songs with pop references galour, vaguely psychedelic soaring backing vocals, chugging guitar/sing-a-long breakdowns. Everything but the kitchen sink. And on first listen it can be...listenable. But everything about this band seems so calculated, that even their rock interjections, like “Whoa!” or “Hey!” seem phony. Everyone in indie-rock has been mining their old '80's records for inspiration, right?. But see, OK Go is different and new because they chose a late '60's paisley motif! So they threw in some Beatles-like effects on their backround vocals, added a "psychedelic" musical reference once in a while and wrapped themselves in paisley shirts and stuff. So ya got the image right? ---- OK Go is that indie band in paisley shirts that sort of references psychedelia. Okay, good. They've grafted that stroke of genius onto hooky little pop songs (which throws in every gimmick used by the likes of Cheap Trick, The J. Geils Band, Weezer, The Cars, Adam and the Ants, and the already mentioned Beatles---without any of those band’s cleverness), with lyrics so easily decipherable, and with choruses so redundant, that even a sorority girl jacked up on vodka and Red Bull can still sing along to it. Sounds like a hit, right? Well, unfortunately, yes. Their first single, “A Million Ways” has made it into the 20’s on Billboard, and their self-made video has reportedly been downloaded several million times. The video actually is pretty amusing----it shows the guys in their backyard doing a parody of a boy band-style choreographed dance. But, like their music, you only have to experience it once before it gets old. Save to Disk? Naaahhh. Cynical, derivative, disposable pop. Make room in the cut-out bin, my smile muscles hurt. [www.okgo.net]

Upon receiving this EP, something deep inside of me stirred, pushing me to cry out against the use of my beloved Television, David Bowie, T-Rex, and the Talking Heads in a press sheet accompanying the disc, when the sticker affixed to the album case recommends it for fans of My Chemical Romance and shows an endorsement by a member of The Used. I'm not trying to pull out any elitist tactics by decrying the band as "poseurs," but suspicion arises when a band references greatness in a seeming attempt to feign credibility, all the while aligning itself with the current trend of pseudo-post-punk glam-wannabe rockers. But, Infinite Jest is a little better than I expected, or even wanted it to be. True, it's rough giving credit to a band who dresses snappy but can't follow up their attire with a musical equivalent, but We Are the Fury manage to be slightly above the rest of the crop of non-British/NYC retro acts, and perhaps being from Ohio, the band never fell into a mire of pretense. Opener "Better Off This Way" is an upbeat, sing-along bit foreshadowing the rest of the disc; "Anesthetic Parade" is more of the same. The Bowie-esque "Parody at the Masquerade" isn't as abrasive as what Neon Blonde is doing as far as revitalizing glam goes, but Bowie and Eno alike would be able to appreciate the track. "Nation, Forgive Us" sees Jeremy Lublin's screechy singing over a really catchy guitar line and keyboards. "Soap Opera" is more of the same filtered through bouncy, pop melodicism, ending the EP on a high note. There's nothing here you can't find done a shit-ton better on a multitude of records from the 70's, but if you're looking for something immediately pleasing and easy to remember, this is probably a good one to go with. Where Neon Blonde is weird and confrontational, We Are the Fury is there on the other end, penning a catchier answer to the former band's output. And yeah, sometimes it's annoying to have the accessible counterparts to the artsy innovators, but in this case, at least not yet, I won't be bitching. [www.wearethefury.net]

Whoever arranged the track order on The Real McKenzies 10,000 Shots must’ve gotten so into the spirit of the title tune that they mistook the song “13” for “The Skeleton and the Tailor” and switched them. Hey, after knocking back 10,000 shots, all tracks probably sound the same, to paraphrase the piece slightly, and the odd error'll have fans of the group double-checking their P’s and Q’s or musing for a moment whether their drink was spiked. That is, if they’re not drunk already. And that just about says it all for the latest offering from the Scottish-Canadian rock outfit. In the niche that the Pogues carved for Celtic rock in pop music, the Real McKenzies stand firmly ensconced in its furthest corner. True, their more accomplished counterparts won’t hesitate to play the beer and bagpipes card either, but they temper their hooliganism with sobering tunes about serious subjects. 10,000 Shots features no such forays into sincerity, unless you want to count the unpolished carpe diem of “Best Day Until Tomorrow.” It’s all rowdiness and no reflection, more in its element with crass traditionals like “Bugger Off” than the more tender sentiments of “Farewell to Nova Scotia,” showing that though the McKenzies still know how to make you raise your glass, they have yet to learn how to make you cry in it. The album’s best song, “Pour Decisions,” confirms this. In it an aging musician second-guesses his career choices to a beat that is both gruff and bouncy, managing snappy references to beer, Scientology, and Monty Python’s “Lumberjack Song” along the way. This same joking reference to their longevity then fails them on “I Hate my Band,” “10,000 Shots,” and “13” - all been-around-the-block rockers celebrating the band’s staying power that sound recycled and rather dull. It's this rote revisitation that plagues the album as a whole. All of it has been done before, and done better. After thirteen years, five albums, and innumerable tours, the Real McKenzies certainly can claim to have been there and done that. If only their music didn’t suggest the same. [www.realmckenzies.com]

On its sixth LP, Britain's Comet Gain attests to the fact that it deplores cohesion in an album, taking unexpected twists and turns throughout the record's fifteen tracks. Led by David Feck (he's the brains behind the project), the players on this particular venture include ex-Huggy Bear guitarist Jon Slade (guitars, piano, etc), Holly Golightly member (and apparently, also a Morrissey collaborator) M.J. Taylor on drums. Kay Ishikawa and Rachel Evans (bass and vocals, respectively) put their time in with Ray-K-Ray. Where much of the record relies on joyous, above-standard fare pop, alternating randomly between male and female vocals, all the while the band is inserting various nuances (all those keyboard thingies--farfisa, rhodes, organ, plus various strings and lapsteel) to pep things up. By the third track, "Daydream Scars," the band is shunning the light-hearted melodies in favor of harder-hitting power pop/punk. And by the time the disc reaches "The Punk Got Fucked," the sound has expanded to some oddball combination of The Modern Lovers and...Pere Ubu, maybe? In between those last two mentioned, though, you get the lilting, keyboard-laden "Seven Sisters to Silverlake" and the sparser "This English Melancholy." Post-intermission (starting with track 9, that is), the album delivers its gem. "Just One More Summer Before I Go" could have been a Chisel tune, setting a yearning chorus to an upbeat body. "Your Robert!" is one going out to The Go-Betweens' Robert Forster; the album closing "The Ballad of a Mix Tape" lets Feck flex his indie intellectual muscle, remembering "the lost bands that never had a chance" and referencing The Go-Betweens again, along with The Supremes and The Dils, showing the breadth of influence this band can pull from. There's no particular style the band follows on the record, but there's not really any holding back, either. Whether it's the group's strongest effort or not is irrelevant; City Fallen Leaves either takes the cake as the best or secures Comet Gain as a considerably great band. Or maybe, both. [www.killrockstars.com]

The “F-Bomb” is probably the most powerful word in the rock lexicon. When used properly, a good, loud f-word can inspire, ignite and uplift metalheads by the thousand. But even though the technique takes only a few minutes to learn, it can take a lifetime to master. It requires timing and showmanship, passion and indifference. It demands an utter disrespect for “the man” that can combust in a single syllable. Papa Roach front man Jacoby Shaddix is clearly well-schooled in the intricacies of the mother of four letter words. His command of the f-bomb demonstrates that he has studied the greats – James Hettfield, Johnny Rotten, Henry Rollins, Zach de la Rocha, to name a few. And in his band’s latest DVD, Live And Murderous In Chicago he puts on a performance worthy of admittance into the profanity hall of fame. If you appreciate a good solid f-bomb, or a few thousand, this is your home video. Filthy language aside, Papa Roach actually outdoes itself on this one. The band delivers a surprisingly musical performance that fans should enjoy. The songs are the focus of the concert, which features a minimalist stage set-up for this type of show. But the band brings it’s A-game for the cameras, especially Shaddix, who gyrates and screams with all the enthusiasm of a tourettes patient on crack. The lack of interesting special features is disappointing – the only bonus content includes a boring photo gallery and a catalog of the band’s music videos – but the concert is enough to make the disc a decent purchase. It might be more enjoyable because the band has set the bar so low for itself, but it’s entertaining nonetheless. If for nothing else, it’s worth checking out just to learn new ways to make your mother want to wash your mouth out with a bar of soap. [www.paparoach.com]

A corm, by definition, is the storage area of certain plants that allow survival through the barren winter or low-moisture summers; Corm was a less than remarkable emo band from the mid-90s who are really only worth mentioning these days due to 1/5 of the band belonging to John Davis, who later came to prominence as the drumming machine and driving force for the recently-deceased Q & Not U. Using the term "emo" as a tag most people attach to bands whose livelihood fell off during the later part of the last decade, it's feasible to deem Corm as a band playing around in the same field as Rites of Spring and Braid but pulling a little from Fugazi (though less abrasive) and from Drive Like Jehu (but not nearly as unrelenting). The half-shout/sing vocals were a staple of the era, and Corm's 1996 sole LP isn't a brightly shining star in a sky full of like-minded artists, but that doesn't disqualify the band from being part of a noteworthy constellation. Audio Flame Kit is far from timeless music, but it does exemplify the scene and sound of its period. The post-hardcore/emo zeitgeist, if you will. Plus, this Polyvinyl re-release is your best bet on finding it, as the original Dischord/Shute release has long gone the way of the scene that spawned it. Is it really relevant in 2006? Not really; most anyone familiar with the aforementioned bands will pinpoint the record as a circa '95 product. But in its heyday, Corm must have fared well with their peers. [www.polyvinylrecords.com]

It’s no secret that musicians resent labels. The natural inclination of critics and scholars to clump performers into neat little groups is one of the great pet peeves of the musical community. But many groups do themselves a disservice by focusing so intently on defying attempts to categorize them. For every Outkast or Pink Floyd that successfully fuses clashing styles and sounds into a coherent musical picture, there are a million other bands that fail to satisfy such ambitions. Whether they like it or not, Coheed and Cambria belongs to this group of tweeners that would do much better for themselves if they concentrated on doing only a few things well. Coheed and Cambria deserves some props for being ballsy on their 2002 album, The Second Stage Turbine Blade, but they also needed to be told that they were spreading themselves too thin. The 10-song album features an aggressive mix of goth, emo, metal and pop that is clumsily admirable. On crunchier tunes like “Devil In Jersey City” and “33,” the band edges on total success. But the record loses its momentum too many times in sleepers like “Neverender” for the band to claim victory. An acoustic bonus track, “Junesong Provision,” does absolutely nothing to help the cause. This is an example of a band that still needs to sort out what it does well, and then do the hell out of it. Trying to do too much only dilutes things for Coheed. They were clearly onto something with the straight-ahead, take no prisoners sound. They’d be wise channel their energy in that direction, but they might have what it takes do more. [www.coheedandcambria.com]

Practice does make perfect. And Rusty Anderson’s been practicing for a long time, in a wide variety of styles, with the best of influences (like Paul McCartney). Of course, that’s not really practice, nor does Undressing Underwater, his first CD, come across as the result of experimentation. It’s more like the result of a long period of percolation, with ideas bottling up until finally exploding in a spasm of long overdue excellence. Anderson covers all the bases from the psychedelic (“Electric Trains”) to the shred-heavy hard rock of “Devil’s Spaceship” (a song as pleasing to listen to as it is inane) all the way to the slow contemporary rock of today (“Damaged Goods”). This isn’t just a well-produced album; it’s a testament to rock. He has a mature sound that goes down like well-aged whisky, but it’s spiked with a brilliant falsetto that lets him get away with the daring brio of experimental youth. In other words: Anderson sounds good doing just about anything, and he plays to that strength. Play, of course, being the operative word, in just about every single one of its meanings. And through it all, Rusty Anderson anchors the whole compilation with solid lyrics and thrilling licks. Hard to believe someone so gentle with his voice and poetic with his words can also get down with his bad self, jamming in the pit, but jam he does. And we’re not talking strawberry. And speaking of jam: It’s quite sticky. These choruses are stickier. So are the riffs. In fact, the whole album is absolutely compelling, which reminds me of another famous saying: Undressing Underwater is well worth the wait. [www.rustyanderson.com]

Writing rock music is all about a delicate balance. You don’t want to be too sad, too happy, too simple, too complex, too heavy, (is that possible?). So I’m going to lay it out: Minus the Bear achieves this balance in a way like no other band I can think of. With song titles like “The Game Needed Me” or “This Ain’t No Surfin’ Movie” or even “Monkey!! Knife!! Fight!!” from their first album, you might expect these guys to be some insane instrumental act that thrives on making their music impossible to hum while you’re sitting bored in traffic. Instead, you get songs that are layered and complex with syncopated rhythms that are still strong on melody and deceptively dancey. The band members clearly feed off each other and know how each of them fit into every song as a whole. This album does more than maintain a listenable complexity. The production is remarkably bright and really adds something to the songs themselves. In other words, this is among my favorite albums I’ve had the chance to review. This is really quite fortunate because I can’t say I would have necessarily picked up this disk otherwise. Coupled with somewhat complex musical structure, we have singer Jake Snider’s pop-perfect vocals and melodies. The album has a nice steady build, so that by the time you hit the almost over-the-top solo of “The Fix”, you’re ready for the emotional pleading of “El Torrente.” All in all, certainly one of my favorite albums (not simply a collection of songs, but an ALBUM) of last year. [www.minusthebear.com]

Making thought provoking political music is a very difficult trick to pull off. There’s a fine fine line dividing self-righteous preaching and clichéd sloganeering. And even when a band manages to successfully walk this line, the music is at risk of being dry rhetoric that can alienate the average music fan. But then again, every thirty years or so, someone gets it right. And the result is a brilliant mix of sharp wit and infectious melody. Radio 4 should really be taking notes. Having been an inspiration to the twenty-six or so dance rock acts currently flourishing on the musical landscape, Gang of Four now return with yet another compilation. Re-recorded live with the original lineup, Return the Gift'listens like a sold out comeback concert. The track-listing borrows entirely from their vastly influential Entertainment! and Solid Gold albums (as if pretending that the second half of their catalogue never happened). The sound is still bass heavy, and the rhythms are still tight as ever. The angular guitarwork is still drenched in feedback, and the vocals are still tinged with an air of sarcasm. Best of all, you can still dance to it. What’s most notable about Gang of Four’s music are King’s lyrics and their relevance to present day (despite having been written back in 1977). It’s not so much 'protest music' as it is 'social commentary,' the kind of thing coupled with The Clash or Pink Floyd. Take the cynical illustration of a young man preparing to ‘be all that he can be’ in “I love a man in a uniform” (“The good life was so elusive, Handouts they got me down, I had to regain my self-respect, So I got into camouflage”). A little more eloquent and cerebral than the “buck fush” brand of politi-punk we’re offered nowadays. But it’s not just about poverty or war: there’s sex, there’s drugs, and there’s alienation. Take for example the lamenting “We live as we dream, alone” (“Man and woman need to work, It helps us define ourselves, We were not born in isolation, But sometimes it seems that way”). Or my personal favorite, “Anthrax” (“Ought to control what I do to my mind, Nothing in there but sunshades for the blind”). It’s not so much about telling you 'what' to think, but just 'to' think (pardon my triteness, but in this case it’s true). I imagine the audience will probably be divided over this record. Veteran fans will likely dismiss a re-recording of GO4’s work from decades ago as kind of a cash-grab. On the other hand, this is a great place to start for new fans, especially those wondering how all these post-punk revivalists are fueling their ‘cultural revolution’ (har har). While the picky critic in me wants to flunk 'em for re-gifting, I can’t deny that it sounds bloody fantastic. They said they were back to burn the imitators, and they really weren’t kidding. [www.gangoffour.us]

You call it post-modern music. I call it laziness. It’s very easy to experiment, but by the time you put together a professional compilation, it had better be good. Mucking around belongs on a B-side because without a structure, the only thing you can hope for is to convince (by which I mean confuse) enough critics that you’ve actually put together music and not just sound. Should we really be impressed that you took the ambient sound of your shower and then faded it out for a synthesized series of bells being overwhelmed by static (“toy bells”)? Sure, that’s impressive...impressively creepy. Lyrics might help, and you’ve got a nice mellow baritone. But as you made clear on your opening track, “in a way” (which I swear sounds exactly like “no way out” the way you sing it), “in a time of wordy music” you’ve decided to just stand back and let sound do the talking. Instead, sound does a lot of jabbering, except for the rare case where you actually pull together a song. And even when you do, like in “you look like an animal” (which features, to good effect, a barnyard banjo plunking in the background), it’s still too easy to say you just picked random words. I could say the same thing of “toy piano”: I’ve improvised in front of a piano before; I even recorded it (in a moment of vanity back when I was eight, trying to start my own radio show), but I never sold it to anyone. I wouldn’t dare. So at least we know, for all this electric play, that you’ve got a massive pair. It’s a shame they can’t play a guitar or something (although the wide repertoire of instruments you jam on is damn near impressive enough). I normally only write reviews in the form of a personal plea to the artist when I think they could honestly be doing better. (Or when I’m lazy, and trying to illustrate a point about the so-called “artist.”) But with your impressive knowledge of music and wide arsenal of sound, it’s disappointing to see you Pollock it (which some will undoubtedly like), when you could be making good music. [www.home-tapes.com]

Tarantula A.D. doesn't particularly want to rock. The band relies on some traditional rock instruments -- particularly a drum kit and electric guitars -- but there are also violins, cellos, pianos and other instruments that wouldn't be out of place in a chamber orchestra. Knowingly dramatic, Book of Sand comes across like an appropriately anachronistic soundtrack for some silent vampire movie. "The Century Trilogy I: Conquest" is about as approachable as The Book of Sand gets. In another life, this could've been the beginning of a metal song (minus the flamenco-inspired interlude in the middle). But here, it's the first of a three-part suite (the other two fall in the middle and at the end of the album). This does a good job of letting listeners know what they've signed up for. "Sealake" is the most straightforward of all the tracks here -- although with wavering, thin strings and hushed androgynous vocals. It's the one that resembles a pop song the most, which isn't to say it resembles a pop song much at all. At this point, it's apparent that Tarantula A.D. exists in its own reality. Any rock sensibilities are promptly abandoned on "Prelude to the Fall" and "The Lost Waltz," which are essentially modern classical. The band's ability to toy with listeners' preconceived notions is refreshing. By the time the final part of the "Century Trilogy" hits, in all its 10-minute, Devendra Banhart-featuring glory, it's going to be an impressive feat to have made it this far. Tarantula A.D. seems to understand its music isn't for everyone, and the band seems proud of it. The Book of Sand is worth it, however, even if just the novelty value is taken into account. It's an album that showcases a band that is unafraid to do what it wants and excels at it. [www.tarantulamusic.com]

Mark Gardener's These Beautiful Ghosts is a study in contrasts. With backing band Goldrush, the album is at once beautiful and tense, soothing and moody. It's an album that gets inside the listener's head and stays there. Starting strong with "Snow in Mexico" and "Getting Out of Your Own Way," Gardener's pop sensibilities are married with complex arrangements, creating a surprising sound that isn't as accessible as it is on first impression. His shoegazing past is apparent, but he moves into a more modern era with gentle electronic accompaniments on songs like "Beautiful Ghosts" and "The Story of the Eye." The even tone of the album does set a mood (mostly, a down, depressing one). This is music made to listen to through headphones in the dark. It's lovely if that's what you're after, but one does have to be in that particular mood to enjoy lines like "Endless driving through unfamiliar air/ empty faces stare/ nobody listens/ caught in conditions/ where nobody cares" from "Rhapsody." It's not self-pitying, but the darkness can get to be a bit much. Still, it's hard to argue with the knowing introspection of "Water and Wine." Gardener shines in singer-songwriter mode. His voice has a friendly, open quality, and Goldrush gives him a good balance. The songs may be less than happy, but thoughtfulness of both the words and music keep it from dragging. Gardener has crafted an album that feels complete and intelligent. You'll want to keep the headphones on all day for this one. [www.markgardener.com]

Unless the members of Get Hustle were trying to record something CIA interrogators could use to torture prisoners in extremely sadistic ways, their latest album, Rollin In The Ruins, should be considered an indisputable failure. Honestly – now that this record is out there, guys like Jack Bauer shouldn’t have resort to prying off peoples’ finger nails to get information out of them. All they’ll need to do is throw this sucker in a boom box and put it on repeat. Rollin In The Ruins is bad according to every imaginable standard of bad. Melody? You won’t find it anywhere here. Creativity? Only if you consider three people playing and singing at different tempos and clashing keys to be creative. Lyrical value? To be fair, it’s actually pretty tough to pass judgment on this one, but only because it’s too hard to understand anything this chick sings -- in her better moments, you can make out some references to zoomer wizards; whatever those are. This band is so cruel, it's not even willing to be brief – even on a 5-song album. The last track of the record clocks in at an eyepopping 14 minutes 36 seconds. A drawn out fart would have made for a better sounding finale. It should bother a lot of aspiring musicians out there that bands like Get Hustle are somehow appealing to people who can help them make records. Maybe there’s an inspirational message buried in this dookie of an album– an “if they can make it, so can we” kind of thing. Or maybe Army Rangers will use it to find Osama bin Ladin. Either way, it's pretty terrible that those are the nicest things that can be said about it. [www.gethustle.com]

The members of The M’s gleefully dip their creative brushes into a palette of the past four decades. The array of shades is vast and bright; the colors are anything but uninviting. Future Women bears the results of said experiment, showcasing a band in the midst of full-bloom, as the Chicagoans pick, choose, rehash, and build upon a legacy that’s long been in place. Polyvinyl Records, as one of the most promising of all the indie labels in business today, continues to fatten and solidify its roster by picking up the band for its sophomore release. Some tracks are playful takes on 60s pop, packing fuzzy guitars, harmonized 'oohs' and 'ahhs' aligning themselves with Elephant 6-style revivalism (“Plan of the Man”), while others forge into Beck-traversed territory (“Shawnee Dupree”). Odessey & Oracle and The Village Green Preservation Society can be linked to the heart of Future Women, but occasionally the band gets sidetracked into shunning the British Invasion and tinkers around—“Light I Love” sounds like Neil Young sitting in on a session with the Velvet Underground circa 1969. The title track pulsates with various strings, bells, and psychedelic guitar stylings. Elsewhere, the band delivers bits and pieces of T. Rex and the more rocking side of Big Star’s debut. Offering much more in the way of variety than the average, throwaway bands attempting to restore a period of music long gone, The M’s are a cause to celebrate. Future Women vibrantly sets out to revitalize the bygone, not to recreate it. [www.wearethems.com]

The Darkness return with an eye on rock’n’roll royalty. Who can blame them? Permission to Land had all the earmarks of 70’s and 80’s rock excess, right down to the cocaine abuse, liberal use of the f-bomb, and masturbatory self-indulgence. Having made all that big hair bravado hip again, and with former Queen producer Roy Thomas Baker at the helm, they seemed perfectly poised to continue that climb into the rarefied air (and octaves) of the glam rock greats. It’s a little disappointing then that, even with the addition of a sitar, pan flute, bagpipes, and a full orchestra, their follow-up album comes off as a little tame. By no means is One Way Ticket To Hell…and Back a bad album; it’s actually pretty good, featuring nifty hooks, flamboyant riffs, and (naturally) ample opportunity for air-guitar and falsetto theatrics. It simply lacks the all-out, balls-to-the-wall swagger that made their debut such a rip. They tread cautiously over territory already well traveled by the likes of T-Rex and Queen instead of jubilantly dancing over it. Its beginning is promising enough, opening with the title track, a cocaine caveat whose instrumental extravagance and bawdy humor have the band pretty much picking up where they left off. The aptly named “Knockers,” “Is It Just Me?” and "Bald" follow suit, and the band puts the orchestra to good use in “It Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time” and “Blind Man,” both touching ballads about lost loves and mortality, though even here, as elsewhere, their harmonizing is remarkably reminiscent of (surprise!) Freddie Mercury and company. But songs like “Dinner Lady Arms,” “Hazel Eyes,” "English Country Garden," and “Girlfriend” fall frustratingly short. The first is pedestrian, pure and simple, its clumsy attempts at wit lost in trundling melody, and "Hazel Eyes," which attempts to infuse a bit of the Highlands into the band's retro-rock by adding bagpipes, aims for quaintly archaic and ends up just awkward. "English Country Garden," another piece that wears its Queen influence on its sleeve, is flowery to a fault, its lyrically overburdened arrangements topped by frontman Justin Hawkins' repeated screams of "Jardin!" at the end of every chorus. And "Girlfriend"... well, "Girlfriend" is straight-up schmaltz. It's so loaded down with cliches there's no room left for anything remotely original. More than anything, these songs betray just what a bitch expectation can be, as if they were written with one eye trained on their critics and the other on their audience. Biblically speaking, overreaching ambition (and the pride that spawns it) is one of the surest tickets to the netherworld out there, and The Darkness are certainly guilty of it on One Way Ticket To Hell. But we’re talking music here, not morality, and for entertainers, there are far more damning vices to be had than a little hubris. As for its artistic counterparts, mediocrity and complacency come most readily to mind, and those, like it or not, are sins you can't hang on them. [www.thedarknessrock.com]

Traditionally, remixes were what listeners patiently sat through—if they sat through them at all—out of respect and possibly, a love of the song that was being reinterpreted. Remixes really seemed of more interest to DJs than to the mere mortal fan—no matter how rabid was the devotion. Guerolito, the track by track retelling of Beck’s Guero, is not necessarily a test of true fandom but more a study in ‘what exactly is the point?’ All thirteen tracks have been given new personalities by an interesting array of artists who each take their own spin, so to speak. In some cases, a little too much personality is imparted, like Adock’s annoying “Shake Shake Tambourine (Black Tambourine).” And, in other cases, not enough magnetism, like Th’ Corn Gangg’s tame, “Emergency Exit.” The finest remixes either enhance the mood of a song like Air’s moving rendition of “Heaven Hammer (Missing)" or actually improve upon the original like 8Bit’s dynamic, “Guettochip Malfunction (Hell Yes).” Many of the remixes are just simply forgettable. Innovator or impostor, think what you will of Beck; his music is always compelling no matter how arch it seems and really can't be touched for the mastery of its execution. What is a little alarming about Guerolito is that it could signal that Beck has given up and left his music in the hands of others to do what they will. Not to worry, mischievous Beck gets the last word in one of the best tracks, “Clap Hands,” to which Odelay and Guero producers the Dust Brothers contribute hand claps. “I’ll save my best for last and after that don’t even ask,” he assures, which should dispel any doubt that he has lost faith in his abilities. [www.beck.com]

Some people make for better addicts than me; they have a limitless capacity for shooting up, often using the same vein, even after its long dried up. They call that commitment; I call it masochism—in any case, The Fully Down have a nice enthused and infused beat, but the way they jam that needle, only the most thick-skinned of rock addicts (the musical kind now) will survive. Even if I wanted to get lost in a movement—and one assumes the kind of people who would listen to riff-heavy up-tempo rock do—I can’t. With Don’t Get Lost in a Movement, The Fully Down only goes in one direction, up. There are shrill and dexterous passages, gnarled and gnarly bridges, and sweet yet ultimately snarky melodies that can’t help but bite the hand that feeds them. It’s quite on point but with a hammering over-punctuation (almost punk-tuation) that isn’t healthy. “Life in Motion” is a brief glimmer of potential, bringing to the foreground what is buried beneath the triad of guitars in other songs: A nice mélange of textured voices, a wide variety of tempos, some wicked guitar tricks (the stronger for their sparse appearance on this track), and an overarching melody that fits the aching, twisting lyrics. For the other tracks, you’ll have to wait for the lengthy interstitial verses, places where the mold is briefly broken before the full-scale retreat back into power chords. If only it were worth buying a CD simply for the backpedaling fury of those lightning notes . . . but it’s not. So don’t. Don’t get lost. [www.thefullydown.com]

Take the duo dynamics of The Raveonettes, strip away the brash guitars in favor of organ and drums spewing forth insanely catchy pop melodies and beats, and you’re getting closer to Mates of State. Mate of state Jason Hummel plays second fiddle to wife Kori Gardner, at least in the vocal department. Her alternately strong then vulnerable voice powers through each song. From the darkness of the background, Hummel’s voice will appear and engage before disappearing again. The result is quite fetching. If these mates are the crew, then vocals are the boat that’s floating them - and what a harmonic vessel it is. The ‘Mates’ create a sound that is joyfully defiant. Their fourth full-length release (first on the Barsuk label), Bring It Back, is a tight production laden with hooks and lyrics that quickly burn into your mind. For the most part, this is quite acceptable, but I will raise a warning flag about a particular track that reminded me of the ‘Hamster Dance’ Website. Oh no, hamsters… and they’re dancing… aaagghh!!! (Forgive me while I try to shake that one). My final prognosis is that Bring It Back is fun, dangerously catchy, and rather motivational. When I play it, I find myself pursing my lips in thought, bobbing my head inadvertently and wanting to come up with the next big thing. Clever, but not overly so, this is an album you’ll find yourself returning to. Just watch out for the damn hamsters… [www.matesofstate.com]

An admitted Sarah McLachlan fan, I was more than a bit intrigued by the promise held in the latest addition to her discography. There has always been an ethereal, angelic quality to McLachlan’s music that would seem to lend itself to the more atmospheric forms of electronic/dance music available. Should these elements be emphasized, I reasoned, the album would have the potential to be more artistically viable than the majority of remix albums in existence. Unfortunately, most of the tracks on this, the second collection of McLachlan remixes, (see Remixed, released in the U.S. in 2003) fail to harness the innate possibilities contained in the wealth of source material provided. The production on most of the album detracts from, rather than enhances, the intention of the originals and demystifies McLachlan’s vocals by placing them against such ordinary backdrops. The worst offenders on Bloom are easy to spot. Black Eyed Peas’ will.i.am creates a terribly strange mix, juxtaposing DMC’s “Just Like Me” with McLachlan singing the refrain from Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s In The Cradle.” Equally awkward, Tom Middleton’s remix of “Vox” sounds like a reject from Madonna’s catalogue of electronica. The biggest flaw of Bloom, however, is the abundance of dance clichés and simply average music that undermines the rarity of a talent like McLachlan’s. Worth mentioning are the album’s few bright spots. “Fallen (Gabriel & Dresden Anti-Gravity Mix)” and “Fumbling Towards Ecstasy (Junior Boys Mix)” end the album nicely by taking two of McLachlan’s stronger cuts and allowing them to flourish in styles that prove advantageous to each song. “Dirty Little Secret (Thievery Corporation Mix)” retains an understated elegance that would not sound out of place on a normal McLachlan record. Attempting to frame quality music in a different, more daring setting is a respectable undertaking for all of the producers involved with this project. However, the level of success in accomplishing this in a way that augments the source material does not justify the amount of risks taken on Bloom. [www.sarahmclachlan.com]