The third time is definitely the charm for British rockers Elbow. Don’t get me wrong; their previous releases were far from disappointing. Asleep at the Back made for an excellent, if downbeat, debut, and the band gave the sophomore jinx a resounding kick in the brains with the superb Cast of Thousands. Their brand of brooding, impressionistic rock always struck me as England as seen from the ground floor; dirty and dreamlike, swathed in fog and grime. While Leaders of the Free World retains that foundation, it branches out in ways that its predecessors never did. It bites as well as it broods and grins as well as it grimaces. Hell, it even capers a little. Opener “Station Approach” itself seems conjured from the English ether, the gradual layering of instruments – tambourine, acoustic guitar, fluttering harp, and so on – slowly bringing it into being as it gains form and energy. A song about the joys of homecoming, it plants its listeners firmly on their feet in Manchester, only to lead them back into the murk of the mischievously furtive “Picky Bugger.” The album generally proceeds along these lines, swerving from rumbustious rompers like “Forget Myself” and “Mexican Standoff” to misty ballads “The Stops” and “The Everthere,” with the title track serving as its cardinal piece. Gritty, gnashing guitars sound like sirens here and queasy organs add to the general sense of unease as vocalist Guy Garvey takes aim at President Bush. The wounds of the world, glossed over or ignored in the opening quad, gape wide. Mired in the past and warped by nostalgia, the album becomes a place of questions, rather than possibilities, where all the “saints have taken bribes” and “All the angels have taken dives.” The initial spurts of energy subside into rainy day serenades and somnolent choruses, and concluding tune “Puncture Repair” ends in uncertainty, feeling more like an abscess slapped on a sore than a true salve. Even as the band pieces things back together, the cracks still show, and the album crumbles back into the foggy obscurity out of which it crept. Garvey stands at the center of all this. His skills as a storyteller have always been exceptional, and here he adds a lyrical virtuosity worthy of Henry Miller; he’s as likely to piss in the champagne as give rein to flights of fancy. He mythologizes mere bouncers, morphing them into genies and Christmas trees, and creates a wedding scene with a prostitute priest and a choir of soccer fans. Lead single “Forget Myself” finds him starting with the alliterative realism of people “pacing Piccadilly in packs again” only to fire off rhapsodic volleys like “The sun’s signing off and the simmering sky/ Has the heathen hue of a woman on fire.” He wields words like weapons and wears them like a bandage, hurling and hiding behind them with equal ease. In other words, he, and his mates along with him, accomplish precisely what he only had imagined on “Station Approach.” They redesign the city, their city, in words and music. It sure makes for a marvelous creation. [www.elbow.co.uk]

It sounds like such a fun little project, putting saccharin-sweet pop hits from the 80s through the punk wringer and seeing what comes out. Sadly, many of the bands tapped to participate in this cross-genre enterprise either stick too closely to the original (Brazil’s cover of “Wrapped Around Your Finger” is downright dull, Motion City Soundtrack’s version of “Pop Song 89” has no sizzle) or desecrate their memory entirely (the Sugarcult’s “I Melt with You” is more lukewarm than the Modern English cut, Gatsbys American Dream drags the once up-tempo “Just Like Heaven” into a decidedly lethargic hell). Other bands elected to take some liberties with their historical charges and came away with some imaginative new compositions. Emery gets the nod for best gender swapping vocals on “Holding Out for a Hero,” scoring major bonus points by dropping the unexpected primal scream therapy session into the bridge. Halifax is the undisputed champion for best new arrangement with their amped-up version of Paula Abdul’s “Straight Up,” infusing the somewhat jazzy tune with just the right amount of angst and aggression to get a mosh pit rolling. The Early November takes the “Power of Love,” in the opposite direction, slowing the pop ballad down with a mellow acoustic treatment that gives the syrupy lyrics a greater opportunity to shine. Not sure if it’s Kelvin Cruz or Jeff Harber on the lead vocals of A Thorn for Every Heart’s re-interpretation of “Dead Man’s Party,” but whoever it is does a spot on impression of Danny Elfman’s trademark falsetto while the rest of ATFEH nails Oingo Boingo’s frenetic style. But be warned: Just a single listen of Hidden View’s updated “I Ran” may unravel the years of de-programming you underwent to purge your mind of the haunting sounds of yesteryear. [www.punkgoes80s.com]

Call me old fashioned, but I always thought make-up sex was supposed to be violent, confrontational and – if you are lucky enough to find the right freaky, freaky – vulgar fun. Guess someone forgot to clue-in the boys at Clear Static, because their debut single “Make Up Sex” shows all the creativity and pizzazz of another ho-hum evening stuck in the missionary position. These Hollywood hopefuls look like Flock of Seagulls, sound like Frankie Goes to Hollywood, but at least put out original, albeit somewhat tired, material. Their music seems to hover in the nether regions between electronica and 80s glam, borrowing freely from the dance-pop school of songwriting. Their sound is punctuated by flirty keyboards, repetitive hooks and an androgynous singing style that will be all too familiar to devotees of club music. This disc contains eight versions of “Make Up Sex,” a collection that more often than not leaves you limp but manages a few curious rises. The LP and extended LP version of the song are easily forgettable – at least they would be if they weren’t so painfully repetitive. DJ Jeff Barringer’s Retro-Sexual remix embraces the cheesiness of it’s 80s ancestry and toss in enough hokey effects to make the music fun again. Likewise, the Claude Le Gache Extended Vocal mix makes the derivative that much dancier by kicking the electronic baseline up a notch and adding in some funkier beats. Eddie’s Trash Mix is the most hypnotic of the cuts, stretching the song to an eight-plus minute homage to all things industrial that doesn’t make your ears bleed. The Mount Sims Breakup Sex Mix is trippier, dropping the vocals back to whisper and transforming the song into a jazzy, funky festival of truly out-there beats. [www.clearstaticmusic.com]

It's merely January, yet it's a possibility that one of the UK's brightest records of 2006 is already climbing up the charts and into the hearts of hipsters here in the US. South London-bred lads The Capes offered us a sampling this past summer with the Taste EP, and the band has proceeded to present us with their stellar debut, Hello. Squealing, soaring keys, unforgettable hooks, and overtly British vocals are the glue holding the record together, as the band proffers an alternative to the art-school snobbishness prevalent among their peers. Not to say The Capes are dilettantes; they're more than deft enough in their trade of concocting irresistable, engaging choruses, with the ability to diversify themselves per track. Whereas "Mexican Broads" wields vocals a la hip hop, others flaunt the group's roots in Blur, XTC, Oasis, The Buzzcocks, and most every other noteworthy band to emerge from Britain in the past three decades. The Capes walk the line between new-wave revivalists, punk-popsters, and Brit-rockers with adroit precision; Hello is the result. Expect the buzz around The Capes to grow to Franz Ferdinand/Bloc Party proportions; they're headed that way. They're just as catchy and more likely to start a party. [www.thecapes.co.uk]

Headwound City is the side project of members from The Locust, The Blood Brothers, and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. For the review's sake, I'll write something, though I find doing such a task to be utterly pointless, other than mentioning who's in the band. Common sense should lead you to conclude that Headwound City will be chaotic and noisy; the vocals will be shrill screeches and indiscernible, and those assumptions are proven true over the nine and some-odd minutes that is this self-titled EP. Blood Brothers co-vocalist Johnny Whitney has his glam-rockin' alter-ego in Neon Blonde; his partner in crime, Jordan Billie, opts for a harsher second self with his position as Headwound City's caterwauling, maniacal frontman. Justin Pearson and Gabe Serbian of The Locust infamy are accustomed to one hundred beats per minute, so the transition from one band to the next is easy as pie. Packing in seven tracks in just over nine minutes doesn't provide much room for variety, but the album is appropriate for fans of the members' other musical forays. Headwound City is a lot heavier and more aggressive than The Blood Brothers, but in terms of brutality and eardrum-shattering, it's got nothing on The Locust. Either way, you'll find that it fits nicely into the repertoires of each distinct appendage. [www.threeoneg.com]

As the vocalist/songwriter for the Richmond-based Inquisition, Thomas Barnett established himself as a better-than-most in the realm of catchy, melodic hardcore, vehemently describing life in the city, crying out against social injustice, and all those other fine things that any self-respecting punkers do. Though Inquistion was relatively short-lived, Barnett thankfully kept with it and now steers the ship for one of the best punk bands in today's scene--Strike Anywhere. Besides Barnett, the band was also a home for other notable musicians to hone their skills, including members of River City High and Ann Beretta, making Inquisition a veritable birthplace for much of Richmond's well-known punk rock world. Despite being a decade old, Revolution...I Think It's Called Inspiration is nothing but outdated, and Barnett had a good deal of input when it came to remastering the record, ensuring that his vision was kept intact. Similarities to Strike Anywhere abound, obviously, though Inquisition is more youthful, raw, and rough in its delivery. Still, consider it an essential for melodic hardcore enthusiasts, especially when considering those who've voiced high critical acclaim of the disc--Avail's Tim Barry, and Jason Black from Hot Water Music, to name only a couple. Since this is a re-release, it means a couple of things: First, the original isn't so easy to find anymore, and second, that the booklet includes expanded liner notes, lyrics, and so on and so forth from Barnett himself. Strike Anywhere fans shouldn't be without it. [www.a-frecords.com]

If you followed my advice last year and picked up a copy of Kings of Convenience's Riot On an Empty Street, you're already vaguely familiar with Canadian singer/songwriter Feist, as she provided backing vocals on two tracks. She's also added vocals for fellow Canucks Apostle of Hustle. Not bad company. This year, (Leslie) Feist celebrated the US release of her own full-length, Let It Die, to the delight of critics and thoughtful souls everywhere. The 11-track album, however, both hits and misses. Opening delicately with "Gatekeeper," an acoustic piece with light strumming and just a touch of keyboard keeping it soft, Let It Die then proceeds to its most upbeat and fun original track, "Mushaboom." I love the bouncy quality to this one. It makes you smile whether you want to or not. Such is not the case with the title track. "Let It Die" is an incredibly thoughtful and honest song lamenting "The saddest part of a broken heart / isn't the beginning so much as the start" and "Now I know what I don't want / I learned that with you." "One Evening," too gets my stamp of approval, but then I get bored. Track after track from that point on blend together, with nothing standing out really except for the slightly whiny quality Feist's vocals start to take on and the occasional mixing up of instruments - add a harp there, some horns here, whatever. It just becomes work to get through the rest of the record for me. "Leisure Suite," a play on words - I get it. It's just not clever. No amount of finger snapping is going to get me behind this bad cocktail attempt. It actually reminds me of that awful 70s song "Midnight At the Oasis." If you don't remember that song, just take my word for it; it's not pleasant. "Lonely Lonely" drones in a medieval chanting manner that just irritates me and vaguely reminds me of Paula Cole - another female singer/songwriter I could do without. However, after all that bitching, I still have to applaud the cover of "Inside and Out," if for no other reason than I loved the original - can anyone touch the Bee Gees? (Ok, don't answer that, but seriously...) She stays faithful but adds a little bit of a naughty ingenue quality while keeping it sweet. Despite my best efforts to get into Feist, and her presence on a few of the SU staffs' Top 10 of 2005 lists, I'm afraid I have to stick with my original thoughts when I heard her on KOC. She just doesn't do it for me. But hey, it's just one reviewer's opinion, right? [www.listentofeist.com]

It was 1980-something, and the world was repleat with talented Penn brothers. Sean was still riding the Spicoli legacy; Chris was getting some notoriety for his work in Footloose; and Michael had a great song out in the form of "No Myth," which no one understood but also which no one could deny was an awesome song. (Even though I personally thought "This & That" was a little better) Fast forward to 2005. Sean Penn has no sense of humor whatsoever; Chris Penn? wha? But man, Michael Penn still keeps pluggin along at his music career with the release of Mr. Hollywood Jr., 1947. Gotta give him all the credit, and I have to admit, he might just be my favorite Penn simply because no matter what happened in the interum, he hasn't changed his attitude - it's still all about the music. An intimate record, admittedly, Mr. Hollywood Jr., 1947 doesn't have the easy, hooky single that March did, but there's no denying the songwriting prowess that Penn displays on these 13 tracks. It's more of an epic effort in which each song needs the context of the whole to make sense really. Penn's guitar playing is skilled and organic, and his vocals are both powerful and understatedly even. The drums are hard when they need to be firm and soft where they need to be poignant. The piano comes in when it's needed and is absent when it would be gratuitous. Penn even brings in the artistry of Aimee Mann on a few tracks to play bass. Every note seems to have been so thought out and crafted, as if he might have spent the whole of the last 15 years coming up with this one. The closest comparison I can make is to the legacy of The Band. I am really surprised by how impressive Mr. Hollywood Jr., 1947 is. It won't turn heads on the radio, but the true music lover and appreciater will be pleased if they come across it in the discount bin, into which I'm certain it will be relegated. Seriously though, seek it out. It's great stuff. [www.michaelpenn.com]

Atmospheric. Dreamy. Halcyon. All words that could be used to describe the music of Engineers. The London-based quartet cite Brian Eno, The Cocteau Twins and Spiritualized among their influences, and it's very close to that sort of tradition that their self-titled debut sticks. The musical landscape painted by Engineers is powerful and psychodelic, and the songs lead into and move about one another with ease and with an almost syrupy flow. And I purposefully use this metaphor because they are 11 incredibly dense, very viscous and delicately exquisite tracks that form a space all their own. Sounds weird, but work with me and think about that. From the sweeping elegance of "Home" to the subtle techno-esque pounding of "Let's Just See," from the poignant building of "Said and Done" to probably the cleanest, ie: most free of fuzz, most rockin track, "Thrasher," Engineers is its own atmosphere. Surprisingly doing most of the production themselves, the band, which has only been together since 2003, have created a beautiful record with which to introduce themselves. Take it in and then let it all out in one long, peaceful breath. [www.engineersweb.net]

If someone had told me at the beginning of 2005 that it would be the year to witness the release of a latin fusion concept album, I would have scoffed. I mean, the odds of that happening are probably the same as a parrot or a pitbull fronting a death metal band, or an American town electing an eighteen year old as its mayor, right? It’s a good thing I’m not a gambling man, because Island Life, Yerba Buena’s follow-up to their Grammy nominated President Alien, is billed as – yep, you guessed it – a latin fusion concept album. Featuring guest stars galore and a profusion of ass-shaking arrangements, it celebrates the confluence of New York’s Latin cultures in an energetic blend of hip-hop, merengue, cumbia, and other Latin styles. The song topics are just as varied. Bookended by broadcasts from fictional radio show host Dr. Aneub Abrey, they tap the vibrance of Latino society with good time jams, slice of life stories, and the now obligatory dig at President Bush (since, let’s face it, no self-respecting album would be complete without a poke at everyone’s favorite target du jour). At the end of it all, you truly feel as if you have been transported to a cultural nexus of New York, a cityscape superimposed with palm trees and sandy beaches and suffused with organic grooves, each sprouting from the other in that typically tropical superabundance. All this makes for a fascinating listen, but whether or not it qualifies as a concept album is unclear. Given the infuriatingly vague nature of the beast, it’s difficult to say if the title truly fits or is just some extra gloss to conceal the album’s dross. Then again, Island Life is so much fun, it doesn’t matter. [www.yerbabuenamusic.com]

Somebody pour Steve Lukather another cup of eggnog. After orchestrating one of the most outrageous holiday albums of all time, this guy deserves a drink – or twelve. Lukather’s Santamental, which was reissued by Steve Vai’s Favored Nations label this fall two years after its original release, is probably the most superfluous exhibition of six string wizardry ever dedicated to the yuletide season. The former Toto axe man pulls out all the stops, even dragging guitar greats like Vai, Eddie Van Halen and Slash into the mix. You won’t find Bing Crosby on this shred fest, but guitar lovers might be surprised that the album does include a dubbed duet with Sammy Davis Jr. This album is at its best during its most classless moments, which is to be expected considering it was recorded in just a day. But there are a few instances of pure genius buried in all the finger tapping and string shredding. Van Halen rips a few classic solos on “Joy to the World,” and Slash, god bless him, throws all concepts of traditional holiday music out the window on “Broken Heart for Christmas.” Lukather’s only regret should be that he allowed his smooth jazz tendencies to creep on to this record. The lesson learned: Anytime you bring Slash onto a Christmas record, you just have to crank up the distortion and pour on as much testosterone as possible. So if you grow sick of Mariah Carey and Kenny Chesney’s Christmas albums by next year because you’re ready to kick some ass, you might want to give this one a shot. It might be a good idea to keep the album cover out of sight if there’s family around – Lukather’s Santa outfit is pretty disturbing. [www.stevelukather.net]

With album art that could easily brand Coheed and Cambria, a prog-rock outfit from upstate New York, as the torch bearers of Molly Hatchet, it appears, however, that the baton has rather been passed on more by the likes of Rush and Styx with some Pink Floyd and Metallica added to provide musical structure. Darkness bodes, but Good Apollo I'm Burning Star IV Vol. 1 immediately envelopes with the almost beautiful “Keeping the Blade” and clever hooks—which are actually even thrilling at times—make the album’s looming seventy-one minutes musically compelling. CoCa actually have you believing that you may have given bands like Styx the short shrift. It is only when one peeks at the lyric sheet that fun comes abruptly to an end. Perhaps in an effort not to be labeled wimps like their musical forbears, CoCa offer a rather chilling stance with regards to women in this alleged mythical journey. The story is rather convoluted—Good Apollo… and previous albums apparently tell the tale of Coheed and Cambria—and many female listeners will no doubt detect an unsettling subtext within this mythology. Singer/Guitarist Claudio Sanchez’s lyrics are generally cryptic but there is no mistaking the meaning of “a Whore in Sheep’s Clothing/ F-ing up All I do,” “Just Come and Look at What Your Brother Did/ To That Girl’s Precious Whore of a Body” and “If I had my way/ I would Smash Your Face in the Door,” which are not only offensive but even a little disturbing at the very least. By definition doesn’t progressive generally tend to imply growth? [www.coheedandcambria.com]

Tragedy Rocks. It does. Slowly, finessing each note and milking each masterful chord, The Crimea rocks inexorably forward. Davey MacManus whispers with a wounded crack and growls in a high baritone tinged with feeling. The Crimea rocks passionately onward. Andrew Stafford doesn’t so much play the keyboard as massage it, squeezing the tension through each note in that light and ephemeral key. The Crimea absolutely rocks. Andy Norton and Joseph Udwin collide off each other on guitar and bass, playing complex and dissonant chords with acrobatic and dexterous ease. The Crimea completely rocks. And finally, beneath an already impressive tour-de-force of sound, Owen Hopkin just lays down an intricate web of beats, subdued yet commanding. The Crimea, once again, totally rocks. Some people luck into the perfect combination of sound: The Crimea does it intentionally, effortlessly, mellifluously. Wisely using the full instrumental range, each song gives both keyboard and guitar the opportunity for a catchy hook, complimenting the other and all the while supporting MacManus. This double-narrative also provides a unique opportunity (fully capitalized on) to play with lighter and more synthesized rock, replete with echoed chords and swooping scales. Though there are only four instruments, and the occasional harmonica, the powerful arrangements often take on the power of a synthesized orchestra, and The Crimea becomes far more than the sum of its parts. They’re also quite successful risk-takers: Fourteen songs, each an experiment, each a success. Dare I say it again, The Crimea rocks. They also cover quite a bit of ground, from heavy rock (“Here Comes the Suffering”) to pop rock (“Lottery Winners on Acid”) to alternative (“Opposite Ends”). The production values never falter, and while the thematic material is mostly depressing, the music's inspiring and energetic (even at its slowest). The ugliest things (double suicides, rape, alcoholic blurs) can’t help sounding beautiful, as if there’s still hope that something good will come from all the shit of the world. It’s this belief, the bold and passionate heart behind every note, word, and howl that makes tragedy more than tragedy, but which makes it truly, in every sense of the word, rock. [www.thecrimea.net]

On their major label debut, New Orleans natives World Leader Pretend deliver a potent mixture of artistic integrity and soulful abandon, giving ample evidence that the group has the talent to sustain a significant presence for years to come. The band’s diverse sound is equal parts Brit-pop, indie rock and 70’s soul, with just as much emphasis on keyboards and strings as guitars and drums. Frontman Keith Ferguson allows the energy of each song to dictate his vocal mannerisms, which are smooth and serene at times, ragged and aggressive at others. Throughout the album, Ferguson’s vocals are reminiscent of what another New Orleans-based singer, Better than Ezra’s Kevin Griffin, might sound like had his band filtered their sound through the lens of more alternative and experimental artists like Radiohead. The majority of Punches’ highlights occur during the record’s first half. “Bang Theory” opens the album with raucous drums that give way to an infectious piano and string-laden groove. The following track, “Dreamdaddy,” employs a sweet, soulful melody and evokes comparisons to REM and Neil Diamond. The album’s title track allows a driving rhythm played on sleigh bells to lead to a driving piano, followed by a wonderfully bluesy and coarse guitar riff. Another standout is the unfortunately-titled but beautiful “Lovey Dovey,” in which Ferguson’s melody is complemented by the gorgeous guest vocals of Blair Gimma. Self-producing the album, World Leader Pretend should be commended for displaying a great propensity for taking risks and creating memorably varied arrangements. However, one can’t help but feel collaborating with a veteran producer might have helped the band avoid some of the album’s more forgettable moments. For example, a veteran producer might have been able to talk the band out of the dreadful bombast that is “B.A.D.A.B.O.O.M” or some of the ill-timed interludes meant to bring cohesion to the album. Despite these few missteps, Punches is one of the most promising albums of the year and displays incredible potential for future success. Should Ferguson and Co. ever learn to completely harness the energy they display, there’s no telling what kind of opportunities the band could have. [www.wlpband.com]

Tenement Halls is the creation of singer/songwriter/multi-instrumentalist Christopher Lopez, formerly of indie stalwarts the Rock*A*Teens. Other than a drum track here or a Wurlitzer there, Lopez wrote, performed and produced all of Knitting Needles and Bicycle Bells. Accordingly, the cohesion and consistency shown throughout the album is not surprising. Lopez is an obviously talented performer, and his charisma comes shining through on tracks like “Charlemagne” and “Up and Over the Turnstiles.” Stylistically, Tenement Halls’ rock music is of the mid-tempo, shuffling, indie variety. While listening to Lopez’s work, one can’t help but imagine how bands like Starflyer 59 and Pedro the Lion would sound should they ever trade in their shoegazing ways. While Lopez’s consistency is commendable, there are very few risks taken here. Much of the album fits within a standard indie-pop formula and does little to deviate from the formula. Eventually, the assent given to Lopez’s songs wears away and fades into a sense of routine. The lone exception, the darker-sounding “Marry Me,” proves an unsuccessful attempt to break from the box and explore other musical colors. Lopez’s songs are likely to resonate with many listeners but fail to provide anything previously unheard. Adhering to the standards presented on Knitting Needles and Bicycle Bells would work well on an EP or shorter album but proves too laborious for a full album’s worth of material. Lopez’s considerable musicianship would be better served in a different context where his lyrical irony and unquestioned passion for songwriting could be complemented by other voices. [www.mergerecords.com]

I picked up this album because I really enjoyed Oranger's take on "Mister Sandman" in the Stubbs the Zombie soundtrack (an album which you should pick up, by the way). After listening to this album for the first time through, I decided that I needed to give it another go - one shouldn't review music based on listening to an album once, right? One must allow the music to sink in. By the third and fourth time, however, I just couldn't take it. The album is boring. It's one thing to have to listen to annoyingly bad music day in and day out. It's another thing entirely to listen to an album that is just devastatingly mediocre, which is what you get with New Comes and Goes. The songs plunk along with very little variation or quirk. Have you ever listened to an album that had a couple of tracks that just had nothing going for them? You skipped those songs because they seemed to be filler songs; songs put in the album to get it past an hour long. Imagine an entire album made up of filler songs, and you'll have listened to Oranger's newest album. The only song that was somewhat rememberable was "Target You by Feel," and even though it was more easily listened to, it still felt like a cookiecutter type of song. Interestingly enough, this track is the only one not written solely by lead singer Mike Drake. Perhaps next time he should give the rest of the band more of a chance to help in the songwriting process. [www.oranger.net]

Sometimes the glamour of a Friday night football game can be a little much. Teenage athletes are often already spoiled by the lights – many of them having learned to make a good show for the cameras after only a few games on the varsity squad. This is why a freshmen or a J.V. game can be a breath of fresh air. The kids aren’t playing to pad their statistics or to get their faces in the papers. They’re doing it because they enjoy it. They may make a lot of mistakes and their bodies might be awkward, but the game’s got soul because it’s pure. Even still, there’s a big reason why the varsity game is more entertaining: The level of play is much, much better. This is where things stand right now with The Junior Varsity, an appropriately titled and steadily budding band from the Chicago pop punk scene. They’ve got all the energy and heart in the world. But they just don’t have the goods or the experience to run with the big boys – yet. The J.V.’s latest EP, Wide Eyed, smacks of enthusiasm and immaturity. They have grown quite adept at busting out sugar-coated melodies, but all the catchy hooks in the world can’t save their sophomoric songwriting. It’s obvious that the album is meant to be flighty, but the shotgun method requires a level of subtlety the J.V. isn’t up to at this point in their career. Moments that are meant to be clever, like the one when bassist Asa Dawson sings “pull up your shirt / show your baby fat to the world,” come off about as well as one of Bud Bundy’s pickup lines – they mean well, but they're too spacey to help out the cause. There are a few spots when the J.V. seems to be on the right rack. “What It Meant To Be Clean” is a train wreck of a tune that beautifully captures the tension of a heated family argument. And Dawson shows off some impressive pipes on “When We Meet Aliens...,” the album’s other rock solid cut. The Junior Varsity just might have what it takes to cut it on the big time circuit. But they need a little more time to grow into the role. [www.thejuniorvarsity.com]

Jack White likes to help out bands he sees potential in. He helped the Von Bondies…well, for a little while anyway. And going in a rather different direction, White’s latest pet project is Ohio’s own The Greenhornes, a retro-centered trio who desperately want to be coming of age in about 1965. Pop in Sewed Soles, something of a compilation of the earlier unsigned releases by The Greenhornes, and you immediately think of The Kinks, early Rolling Stones, The Doors, The Who, The Yardbirds...and so on. This was my discovery on the Friday before New Years, and I immediately thought, "Maybe I can get through the work day after all." But before long, I realized that the whole album is basically a cover album. Not in the sense that they aren't original songs - they are - but in the sense that the band itself operates in a style of pure homage to their heroes. Whether it’s the fat Entwistle-tinged bassline of “Pattern Skies,” the Stones-influenced songs like “Lies” and “Hold Me,” (and really half the album), or The Doors-laced “Shame & Misery, ” The Greenhornes put their influences squarely on their sleeves. It’s like they borrowed a magical musical mixer and put in all of their favorite bands on puree, never settling on one and never really finding their own voice. Basically, they’re not even re-inventing the wheel here; they are redoing it in a fashion that is, admittedly, to be admired and appreciated. But the more i listen, the more I'm convinced that they will be written off if they don’t do something else fast. There’s very little in the way of originality in the feel or arrangements. Every song makes you go, "Hey, that sounds like The Kinks; hey, that sounds like the early Stones; hey, that sounds like The Animals" and so on. They're talented, no argument there, and they'd do well live I think and for a little while commercially, but for the long haul they'd better find a way of making their music their own. Because no matter how good they are at mimicking their idols, they’ll need to find a better way of reinterpreting it altogether if they want staying power. [www.greenhornes.com]

Late Night Conversations, the new CD from The Forecast, proves that it doesn’t matter if you can sing well or not, so long as you can sing loudly with a bunch of people. Rock should be a bit belligerent; The Forecast works only when amidst violent bedlam. Slow croons like “Soft Hands” don’t work—one voice isn’t compelling enough to inspire a following. Nor is their light guitar complex enough to be thrilling or simple enough to be catchy. It’s just there, like that thing in the corner that we don’t talk about. On the other hand (the one that’s not soft, apparently), songs like “These Lights” that pile on an abundance of voices or “Late Night Conversations,” where the sick and furious riff fuels the singers to put their vocal veins into it, have a real zest. Then again, zest is a word I usually reserve for my soap, and every time The Forecast lathers me up, they just as quickly rinse me with the musical equivalent of a cold shower. And yes, there’s shrinkage. (That may or may not be a joke, depending on how into your music you are.) It’s one thing to get bored of a CD, but some of the lengthier songs are too tiresome to even listen through all the way. “Exercise Demons,” sung as a dialogue between Dustin Addis and Shannon Burns is flat after the first verse, and the back-and-forth is so repetitious that it’s like listening to R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet” (sans the opportunity of humor, intentional or inadvertent). The Forecast is way off (like so many weathermen), and the promise of clear skies quickly turns into a mood-dampening drizzle of mediocre bits and pieces. [www.the-forecast.net]

There’s rarely anything new under the sun in rock music. There’s just so many chord progressions and notes to choose from. Adventurous music listeners usually are looking for the next big thing and don’t want to be bothered with stuff that’s already been done, more or less, ad infinitum. But after listening to The Screwdrivers’ Shape of a Bird in Transit, maybe we’ve all been jumping these new trains too quickly and not simply enjoying the beauty of music that’s a bit more tried and true. The Screwdrivers are a four-piece from Hartford, CT and they play basic, slightly jangly, well-crafted pop. You won’t be blown away by any way-out sounds. You won’t call your hipster friends to tell of your new discovery of this album to parade around your cutting-edginess. But the Screwdrivers songs are so good, you’ll find yourself replaying them in your head. Calm, confident vocals, and excellent pop sensibility is what makes this record surprisingly durable. There are some obvious comparisons to be made: They can sound a bit like R.E.M., especially with their fairly high-pitched and soaring backround vocals They can also sound like Big Star and/or Alex Chilton. But it’s tough to figure out what exactly it is about certain songs that trigger these memories. Maybe it’s just that they’re both so damn good. [www.thescrewdrivers.com]