Dengue Fever's Escape from Dragon House is pretty much one joke -- the band plays retro-Asian inspired music while lead singer Chhom Nimol sings in (mostly) Khmer. It's a cute concept, but unfortunately, the band doesn't do much more than that. To her credit, Nimol has a wonderfully expressive voice and is up to the challenge of making this sound come alive. The rest of the band sounds like it's comprised of rejects from typical alternative bands. Consequently, the whole '60s Asian motif comes across as a gimmick rather than something the band really understands. The band seems to believe that Nimol and an organ is all they need to set it apart from all the other indie bands out there. Opening track "We Were Gonna" does start off Escape from Dragon House with a certain amount of style. The song is catchy and fun, with its playful guitar riffs and giddy drums. This song would be the sort that would sound great when played by a DJ at some local dive bar. Sadly, the rest of Escape from Dragon House basically offers more of the same, never building on the momentum that this song begins. "Sleepwalking Through Mekong" tries to change the pace a little, shifting from the basic party mood to something a little more introspective. The song is a bit too slow, though, and while it's followed by the slightly psychedelic "One Thousand Tears of a Tarantula," it's easy to be bored by this point of the album. The songs are better when taken individually than in the context of the entire album. While there's enough to like about Dengue Fever, Escape from the Dragon House just makes good mix CD filler rather than an album anyone would want to listen to too many times after the novelty wears off. [www.denguefevermusic.com]

Terami Hirsch's Entropy 29 sounds too much like a product of her influences. She thanks the obvious ones (Kate Bush, Tori Amos) and the less obvious (Bjork, Dawn McCarthy) and a few in between (Vienna Teng, Charlotte Martin). The softly tortured lyrics sung over fragile, moody melodies are what listeners would expect, but the album doesn't seem to reveal too much of Hirsch herself. Hirsch comes across as a competent musician -- her skills on the piano have emotion and delicacy -- but too often she's reaching too hard for a spooky atmosphere that she doesn't achieve. Chorus of voices, like on "Little Light," and ambient background noises come across as too deliberate and not heartfelt. The substance of her music gets hidden and nearly lost by these affectations. The songs that mostly showcase Hirsch's ability as a singer and a pianist tend to work better than the others. "Nothing Walks Away" has an honest vulnerability that isn't overshadowed by eerie effects. The lovely strength of her voice is apparent when she sings "I don't mind losing myself to something outside, but why can't I move on?" Songs like this give glimpses of the sort of artist Hirsch is capable of being. There are not enough of those songs, though. The rest tend to follow the mold of "Anywhere But Here" with its overdramatic vocals, heavy-handed piano and nonsensical lyrics like "Caught in their mouth/ A rabbit whose luck has run out/ And when you scream/ Nothing comes out." Songs like this make the album get tiresome quickly. Hirsch has talent -- that enough is apparent -- but she seems like an artist still looking for her own voice. Maybe she'll escape the ghosts of the musicians she admires, but for now, they tend to crowd her out of Entropy 29. [www.terami.com]

True believers of the Bouncing Souls have a new reason to raise their rock fists. The Jersey punks have released a live album that celebrates the 17 years they have spent kicking audiences in the teeth with high voltage stage shows. This double disc album is a must-have for hardcore fans, and it serves as a perfect introduction for new listeners who want to know what the Souls are about. It’s impossible to bottle all the energy of a Bouncing Souls show onto two discs, but the explosive set list makes listeners feel as if they are in the front row. From the opening track to the encore, it’s a handful of power chords, a thundering herd of drums and cloud of dust. The Souls charge hard through 29 sing-a-long classics like “Manthem,” “Lamar Vannoy,” "I Like Your Mom" and “Hopeless Romantic.” The crowd participation during “Gone” is particularly infectious, and lead singer Greg Attonito works them into an even bigger frenzy on “East Coast! Fuck You!” -- a song that has quickly become an anthem of the East side. Another highlight is a blistering version of “Punks in Vegas” that is a fitting toast to good times and good friends. Listen with care though – this record is infinitely better when the volume is cranked and the keg is flowing. In the unapologetic spirit of punk rock music, playing this album on full blast is well worth the risk of pissing off your neighbors and scaring the hell out of your best friend’s mother. Maybe not the best punk record of the year but probably in the top five. Oi!!! [www.bouncingsouls.com]

Picture a woman. She’s in her late twenties, dressed in white cashmere. She’s making her evening commute in the back of a packed bus looking out at the falling snow. Her expression is a little sad, a little dreamy. Things aren’t terrible, her problems aren’t that serious, but she’s a little bummed none-the-less. If a record was playing over this scene, it would be the Perisher’s Let There Be Morning. The second record from the Swedish foursome sounds like a distant cousin of Keane and Coldplay because of its heavy piano work, but its less flashy and wears its heart on its sleeve a little more blatantly. “Weekend” is a delicate piano song about the sadness we all experience when we sit down and really think about how much of our life is spent at work and how the only solace we have for our Monday through Friday imprisonment is our two days off. No, there isn’t much mystery there, but sometimes we all need a break from rifling through the verses and piecing together whatever nuggets we can find, scratching our heads wondering what the hell Moses has to do with Gwyneth Paltrow anyway. “Sway” is, quite simply, the bait. It is the song that grabs you by the scruff of the neck with the verse and then, just when you are thinking about bailing, it changes key and grabs at your little heart strings. It’s easy to like right off the bat. “Pills,” arguably the best song on the record, doesn’t resort to sweeping keys to move you, it does so with words. It is a sad song about being broken and lost. “We’re not okay” might be a straightforward sentiment, but it’s a powerful one. More often than not sparse vocals combined with minimal instrumentation and straightforward lyrics lead to uninventive and childlike music. But that is not the case here. All of those elements here work to create a distinct mood that one would be best served over earphones during one of those long, dark winter commutes when everything seems pointless and Friday seems very far away. [www.perishers]

I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but the latest Meat Beat Manifesto album, At the Center is jazz. I know; I know, but seriously, it is. And I don’t really know how to feel about that. See, I’ve loved them since the days of their songs like “Genocide” (1990 Armed Audio Warfare), “Psyche Out” (1990 99%) and “Placebo” (1992 Satyricon). They started out really hard industrial, morphed into sort of psychedelic industrial, and now are just...jazz. When “Wild” opens the album, I was filled with anticipation. It felt like the song had to lead somewhere...somewhere good – somewhere great and strong and thumping and mindblowing. But it doesn't. It's a floutist/drumming orgy of fusion jazz that leads to a little organ and a little trumpet and an annoying woman telling me what time it will be at the tone. Why? Already I'm left feeling hungry for more. This certainly isn't a good sign. “Flute Thing” is a more mellow version of “Pot Sounds” (Satyricon), and while relaxing, is still not what I want from my Meat Beat. The list goes on. There's the bossa Nova “Want Ads One” that can't be made edgy by the bland reading of want ads by one Kenneth Rexroth, who sounds for the world like Dennis Hopper. While I'll admit it's moderately intriguing, it goes on too long and the interest turns into annoyance in quick fashion. There is a moment in “Blind” where I feel like maybe Jack Dangers didn't completely forget his core audience. Yes, it's still fusion, but there is an injection of the heavy trancy beat that I love so much in a lot of his music, and it gives me hope...but it's sadly short-lived. While I can and will acknowledge Meat Beat and Danger's talent, I am left knowing that although this is great retro-esque futuristic cocktail music, I'm not going to want to listen to At the Center very often, and probably not alone for pleasure. Background music, yes; music to live to, no. I wish I could stand behind this record; I really do, but I can't. It's a disappointment to me. But maybe that's because I'm just not willing to let them change. And besides, no one ever said change is always good...certainly not me anyway. [www.meatbeatmanifesto.com]

I'm not going to sit here and tell you that I'm a Church afficianado. I'm not, but I know what I like. And for the most part, I really like The Church, so when I saw a compilation by them come up for review, I was kind of excited. I thought this would be a nice little record to pick up. What I didn't know, and you may not either, is that El Momento Descuidado (The Neglected Moment) is not your normal compilation. It's actually an acoustic re-working of songs the band has already released plus five new songs. And it took me a few listens to warm up to it. Most even casual fans will recognise "Metropolis," "The Unguarded Moment" and the band's biggest US hit "Under the Milkyway" getting the unplugged treatment. The sound is bare-bones, yes, but there is depth that cannot be denied. Occasionally, the guys can't resist adding a few spooky electronic enhancements (as on the eerie and captivating "November"), but it never sounds out of place or detracts from the organic feel. Frankly, without a little dark and spooky, I'd rather they just not bother. On a personal note, I was sad to see that my favorite Church song, "Reptile," was left off. I have to wonder if it would have just been too difficult or too pointless to try and play it mostly acoustic. It would have been interesting to hear their attempt though. Perhaps they just know better than I do... While I can't really recommend this to anyone who isn't already a fan of The Church, I think that people who already appreciate the artistry and vision that these four Aussies have shown over their 20+ years should seek out a copy of El Momento Descuidado. We knew they were talented musicians before, but now we have irrefutible proof that they most certainly transcend their peak years. Beautiful music never loses its appeal. [www.thechurchband.com]

The problem with Go Betty Go’s first album, Nothing Is More, is that it’s too much in love with the “idea” of punk. It boasts a quality production, and the band itself is highly capable, but instead of forging a newer, fresher sound, these four girls from Los Angeles settle for paying lip service to the past. They pump out songs about rebellion, desperation, freedom: All punk platitudes whose banality is exaggerated by the kinetic snarl of the drums and guitar. There are some numbers where the band breaks from type and dumps this simulated sound and fury; unsurprisingly, these pieces are among the more interesting ones on the album. But these tunes, such as “The Pirate Song,” which features ex-Pogue James Fearnley on the accordion and producer Ted Hutt on the banjo, and the Spanish language track “No Hay Perdon,” are few and far between, leaving you with what is essentially a paint by numbers punk album. Stale and manufactured, it’s more artificial than art. [www.gobettygo.com]

“What’s Up,” the huge 1993 hit for 4 Non Blondes was annoying for sure, but Linda Perry’s voice was undeniably memorable, despite the irritating vocal stylings. She of the powerful pipes attempted a solo career and recorded the album, In Flight which was released in 1995 to disappointing results. Perry retreated behind the scenes musically and found considerable success as a producer and songwriter. It seems, however, that In Flight was unfinished business for Perry. Originally put out on Interscope, Perry was able to convince founder Jimmy Iovine to hand over the masters, and she has re-released the album on both Kill Rock Stars and on her very own label, Custard Records. Calling the album timeless is not exactly accurate, it is more that the several of the themes that weave throughout In Flight (i.e. alcoholism, tolerance) are just as a propos as ever, and even the most gimmicky song (Fruitloop Daydream) is performed as an invigorating honky tonk which will always age well, no matter how corny. The music that accompanies Perry’s mammoth vocals is as atmospheric as Pink Floyd ("Knock Me Out," "Too Deep"), Brian Eno ("Life in a Bottle") and David Bowie ("Machine Man"), who have surely served as inspiration. In the last ten years, Perry has penned songs for Pink ("I’m Coming Out") and even won a Grammy for “Beautiful,” which was recorded by Christina Aguilera. Ironically, it is her skill as a songwriter that is most disappointing here, as too many songs have the singer just repeat choruses just to fill out the time. The title track, which ends the album, does show promise for her song crafting skills. The real drawl to In Flight is Perry’s voice, which rivals the might of Grace Slick’s with whom she duets with on “Knock Me Out.” [killrockstars.com]

The soundtrack has enjoyed a new renaissance ever since Creation’s "Making Time” kicked off the opening scenes of Rushmore. Each successive movie by director Wes Anderson – The Royal Tenenbaums, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou — similarly had soundtracks that someone may actually want to own, and not just for one song, but for the entire album itself. This time it is Jim Jarmusch taking his turn as executive album producer for his latest, Broken Flowers, a film that stars Bill Murray as aging lothario, Don Johnston. Broken Flowers centers around a mysterious letter that our “over the hill Don Juan” receives regarding a son that he may or may not have fathered by what could have been quite a large number of women from his past. In the film itself, Don’s Ethiopian neighbor and friend, Winston, who fancies himself an amateur detective creates a mixed tape (yes, mixed tape not mix tape) featuring Ethiopian musician Mulatu Astatke that provides just the right kind of jazzy vibe for intrigue. Neo-sixties rockers Brian Jonestown Massacre and actual sixties musicians the Greenhornes (updated by Holly Golightly’s vocals on the opening track, “There is an End”) supply the proper notes for reflection, which is also a major theme of this film. Other highlights include Marvin Gaye’s heartbreaking but still very groovy, “I Want You” and a great early ska number “Ride Your Donkey” by the Tennors. A soundtrack such as this does not flow so much as an album but rather as a compilation of great musical gems and introduces great musicians that will help add breadth to record collections. [www.universalclassics.com]

On his latest album, veteran artist Richard Thompson allows the craft of songwriting to occupy center stage. Each of the unadorned ballads he presents evoke images of troubadours and minstrels from centuries past whose quality of life depended wholly on the quality of the story they told. I would estimate this record, steeped as it is in traditional English and Celtic folk idioms, is not typical fare for the Silent Uproar crowd. However, Front Parlour Ballads should be sampled by music lovers of all types who are able to appreciate the ability of a performer to strip a song down to its most basic elements without forsaking any of the majesty of the work. Thompson’s arrangements, mostly acoustic and intimate in nature, enable his clever, thoughtful words to resonate loudly. The lonesome shuffle of the Celtic-flavored “Miss Patsy” allows phrases like “Forgive all the choices I made/I’ve been fighting shadows on the wrong crusade/Looking for ghosts in a penny arcade” to become experiential for the listener, rather than simply observational. Other standouts like “Old Thames Side” and “How Does Your Garden Grow” seem the musical equivalent of sonnets, extolling pastoral and romantic virtue through simple imagery. These songs also display Thompson’s dexterity as a guitarist, showcasing understated but technically sound finger-picking. On a few of the album’s darker tunes such as “Should I Betray?” and “When We Were Boys At School,” Thompson’s tone, both musically and lyrically, comes off heavy-handed and slightly abrasive. Fortunately, these missteps are infrequent and the bitter wit of “A Solitary Life” suggests Thompson can execute such a change in manner without resorting to the overdramatic. Front Parlour Ballads is certainly not an album for all times and situations. However, this record is a fitting remedy for the times in life when it becomes necessary to put away the noise and focus on the tale being told. [www.richardthompson-music.com]

Touted on press releases and the band’s website as “a diary of rock’n’roll whimsy,” Radiotherapy is in actuality more akin to a musical prescription for post-relationship depression. Its songs work homeopathically; they cure by commiseration, reminding anyone who’s been laid low by the caprices of Cupid that, hey, you’re not alone. This theme is obviously far from new, and it’s to frontman Matt deGroat’s credit his lyrics manage to avoid both trite wisdom and outright mopery, whether it’s the enervated urgency of lines like “Your laughter it kills me/ Jaded and high/ I need you tonight/ I’m bleeding inside” on the title track, or either extreme of alcoholic escapism on moody rocker “Alcohol” and the gleeful 70’s pop inflected “Get It On.” The remarkably Beatles-y “She’s a Revelation,” is also of interest, though, with the exceptions of the cliched existentialism of “Waiting for the World” and “I Don’t Know,” all the songs of Radiotherapy, taken individually, are pretty spot-on. But there’s the rub. The Oggs flirt with various musical styles throughout (most of them forms of British pop), so that while the majority of the songs play well by themselves, they clash when juxtaposed. This lends the album a patchwork feel, like some kind of musical Frankenstein’s monster, and you’re left with the sense that The Oggs are at the mercy of their influences, rather than in command of them. It’s a shame, really. For a band whose lyrics encourage intimacy, it’s frustrating to be drawn into their world of words while their musical identity remains uncertain - to know quite well where they came from, but have precious little understanding as to who they are. [www.theoggsrock.com]

That’s what I get for deciding to review a band just because their name sounds funny. I laughed. I pondered. At some points I threw my head back and forth really hard. Then I stopped for sake of my impending headache. And in the end, I didn’t quiet know what to make of it all. Maybe I’m trying to turn this album into something it’s not. The first time I listened to the Murfreesboro, TN, five-some’s debut, I ran it through the usual criteria: Band’s sonic chemistry; the quality of lyrics and their delivery; general contour and structure of the songs and album; that sort of pretentious- sounding junk. I now know that said exercise was perfectly futile. This album has nothing to do with structure, melody, or any other such conventions. It’s really just, well, noise. Glorious, blaring, fuel-for-a-ravenous-moshpit noise. And it hits you like a ton of bricks right from the opening millisecond. Layne Meylain and Brad Thomson absolutely molest their guitars, and drummer Mason Crooks thunders right behind them. Often likened to tech metal poster band Dillinger Escape Plan, the band claims to be more “groove oriented.” But there isn’t much grooving to be found, except initially on track “Cliff Burton Surprise” (capped off with a completely pointless, yet sufficiently hilarious G n’ R homage). It’s all very mechanical, with sporadic tempo changes and abrupt movements. Each track takes about fourteen different seemingly random directions before the band stops for a breather. If it weren’t for the three seconds of silence, you could not tell where one song ended and the next began. It’s rumored that singer Jessie Freeland does “warm up exercises” before gigs. Cheesy as that may sound, I don’t blame the guy. Granted the band zips through ten songs in about half an hour, he still belts it out like nobody’s business (not that you can hear him over everyone else). Even lyrically the album is interesting: Cryptic, haiku-esque words like "As rain falls, colors spin around, halos never placed," or "Scars crept up from stairs to ground, no strip club, no handcuffs…" add an unexpectedly introspective dimension to this assault. Oh, and I nominate “Big Pun’s not dead because I just saw him at Krispy Kreme” for Greatest-Song-Title-Ever-in-the-History-of-Song-Titles-that-have-Nothing-to-do-with-the-Lyrics. Speaking of Big Pun, that’s another eccentricity to note. These guys have one weird gangsta rap fetish. There are at least three completely inanely placed samples spread out on the record. I know, this, along with the band name and song titles, is meant to be absurd. But it really just ends up drawing attention away from their skill, becoming a hindrance to their cause. In not so many words, this album is a mess. But a calculated one. I haven’t quite heard it yet, but TDTDE are certainly on to something. They’ve just got to loose the distracting humor. [www.tonydanzatapdanceextravaganza.com]

This album gets a 2, and the points are only awarding the first few tracks, and John Cale's name alone. I wasn’t expecting the return of the Velvet Underground, but I had high hopes when I heard blackAcetate sounded similar to Cale’s brilliant and criminally ignored Fear and Slow Dazzle era. It starts off with a very reminiscent sound, but then the record shifts unlike anything I’ve ever heard before. It’s almost as if the first two tracks are updated outtakes from the 70s’—complete with rustic sounding drums, groovy falsettos, and mellowed distortion. I eagerly anticipated the next few songs to see if Cale could maintain an evolved sound true to his roots, but it's nowhere else on this record. Once blackAcetate sucks you in, it spits you back out with about forty-five minutes of uninspired electronic dubs and dull pop hooks—sadly, Cale’s vocals sound as strong and varied as ever, but a backdrop of sometimes lazy and just plain annoying songwriting unfairly comes with them. It seems like he is just tooling around in the studio with all the newest digital toys trying to remember what rock ‘n’ roll sounds like. Occasionally the electra beats and grooves rounding out the album provide a dreamy sonic space, but more often it all comes off sounding jaded and dated - an embarrasing attempt by another old rocker trying to sound current, or even (shudder) "hip." The half-way point of the album, “Perfect,” wins out as the most grating song of the year. Nothing else I listen to now allows me to forget the “Hokey-Pokey” style singing, “I can’t help it/you’re perfect for me/I’ve been waiting/you’re perfect for me right now.” It’s so obnoxiously poppy that I have to wonder if Cale means it as a parody. Actually, maybe all of blackAcetate is a parody because it's hard to take any of it seriously. [www.john-cale.com]

At a recent show in Seattle, Invert cellist Steve Berson called his band’s music “chambercore.” This moniker, campy as it may be, is an apt description for the many talented bands of string musicians who’ve abandoned orchestra pits in favor of smoky rock clubs. A forerunner of this genre is Rasputina, a trio formed by cellist Melora Creager in 1991. Fourteen years later, the band has a handful of impressive studio albums and collaborations on their resume (the band has worked with Nirvana, Marilyn Manson, Belle and Sebastian, Bob Mould, and many others). Creager, backed by drummer Jonathon S. TeBeest and the band’s current 2nd chair cellist Zoe Keating, has created the heaviest band of Victorian minstrels ever to grace a concert hall. Rasputina’s new live album, A Radical Recital, was recorded at Mr. Smalls’ Funhouse in Pittsburgh on “October 29th, 1804.” The 19-song set features fan favorites “Hunter’s Kiss,” “Wicked Dickie,” and “A Quitter,” along with suprisingly tight covers of Heart’s “Barracuda” and Led Zeppelin’s “Rock and Roll.” The pauses between songs are spliced with Creager’s eccentric humor; she speaks conversationally about governmental identification implants, Hitler’s missing testicle, and her mother’s “fat ass and foul drug habits.” The recording is sharp, well-mixed, and honest. All the raw energy and weirdness of Rasputina show is captured as one remembers it; there is no detectable artifice save that which comes from the performers themselves. This brings us to the album’s unavoidable flaw: Listeners need to see Rasputina live to fully appreciate the band’s live album. If someone with no prior knowledge of Rasputina hears “Rats,” or another hard-rocking track from this show, he or she will probably visualize cranked Marshall Stacks, the unbathed players pummeling out power chords on Big Muff sodden Les Paul’s, while a background cellist toddles along with the mojo. The real impact of Rasputina comes from witnessing two cellists produce this enormous sound, and thus the enjoyment A Radical Recital might be restricted to ardent fans. Hope remains for new listeners with a vivid imagination, for they are the people most likely to appreciate this imaginative band. [www.rasputina.com]

Erin McKeown is inarguably gifted. Aside from playing the majority of the parts on her four studio albums, she pens melodies that seize the listener with a quirkiness that feels surprisingly cozy. Her warm vocals carry the tone of a robust lullaby; they are deeply feminine without being girlish, and they’re indispensable to her artistic allure. While her instrumentation is also crucial to listener enjoyment, it’s less vital. It’s for this reason that her new album, while not nearly as exciting as her previous releases, is still a pleasurable listen. We Will Become Like Birds was recorded in New Orleans with producer Tucker Martine (Jim White, Modest Mouse), and features duets with Argentine electronic artist Juana Molina and American singer-songwriter Peter Mulvey. At first listen, the changes in McKeown’s sound are glaring. Jazzy eclecticism has been sidelined, and nearly every track on the new LP is lacquered with 4/4 rock sensibilities. A focused approach gives the album a sense of singularity, but the jury is still out on whether or not this singularity is on par with her original genre-hopping sound. It’s not unlike the change undergone by genre-hopping kooks They Might Be Giants, a band that’s shedding their scattershot approach in lieu of a more straightforward one. While no one should be criticized for attempting a less-is-more approach to creativity, few would argue that The Spine is a more engaging album than Lincoln. Unlike They Might Be Giants, McKeown’s pipes should keep her artistic dilemmas from becoming too dire. On an instrumental level, a track like “Air” offers very little invention. It begins with four floating bars that, while pleasant, do not catch the listener off-guard. Then McKeown’s alto comes in with “Air!/ In my bones where the marrow should be./ But what I lack for guts and blood/ I make up for it in dreams./ Love!/ And you're wondering how it works./ The heart in the natural world./ It's a wonder that science can hurt.” Like any good hypnotic device, her oscillating vocal chords temporarily erase all skepticism. The hypnosis lasts until one gives Distillation another listen and realizes that its confident amalgams are sorely missing from We Will Become Like Birds. While some fans will enjoy the new album’s lucidity, others will cross their fingers that McKeown flexes her creative muscles a bit more on her next studio effort. And, of course, all fans will still enjoy her soulful live show, where the instrument-shuffling performer shines brightest. [www.erinmckeown.com]

What does a blindingly sparkling blue sky sound like? I think it might sound something like Merge recording artist The Clientele’s third record, Strange Geometry. Seriously, go to England; lie down in an impossibly green field on a crystal clear spring day, then tell me that’s not what this sounds like. The London-based trio’s music will delight fans of bands like Luna, and Alasdair Maclean’s vocals are breathlessly expressed in a voice akin to what I think Marc Bolan would have sounded like if he had whispered his way through a tender ballad or two. It’s an intriguing combination, but it works. Opening with the soaring sound of “Since K Got Over Me,” the album moves next to the plaintiff call of “(I Can’t Seem To) Make You Mine.” The almost Church-like “My Own Face Inside the Trees” leads you further into the record. You might slip up a little at the somewhat awkward tempo of “Impossible,” and unless you reeeeally like a British accent, you might find the slice-of-life piece “Losing Haringey” rather dull despite the lilting music in the background of the spoken word track. Personally, I find it charming. And I particularly appreciate the nostalgia of “Losing Haringey,” the phrase “the 1982-ness” used to describe remembering that time. (I remember 1982 and the 1982-ness of it. Do you?) To be honest, it took me a few listens to hear and appreciate the layers and care that go into The Clientele’s sound, but I ended up happy that I took that one extra chance before making up my mind. I will admit that it is hard to get through the whole disc at one sitting if that’s all you’re doing. It’s great background music, and it fits the mood if you’re sitting in a dimly-lit room sipping wine or just relaxing, but if you’re looking for something that’s interesting from start to finish without starting to blend one song into the next, I wouldn’t say Strange Geometry is your best bet. At any rate, in pieces, or under the right circumstances, it’s hard to beat Strange Geometry for mood music. The album is at once pristine, evocative, ethereal and melancholy. And it might just be one of the year’s least lauded gems. [www.theclientele.co.uk]

With Descended Like Vultures, Zach Rogue has fully established himself as a mid-class songwriter. That’s to say that in 15 years' time, we’ll look back on Rogue Wave fondly, recalling their consistency instead of their discussing which records are essential and which ones contributed to the band’s demise (and hopefully premature thoughts of their break-up won’t be a jinx—if so, sorry!). Being in this position isn’t necessarily unfortunate, as it’s far more respectable to put out a slew of solid records than it is to put everything on the table for a couple releases and then run out of steam. The group emerged out of nowhere a couple years ago, and for most of us, the introduction was done via last year’s Out of the Shadow. Rogue Wave released the splendid 10:1 EP in August as a precursor to this record, and I’m sad to say that “Wait for It” didn’t make the cut for the sophomore effort. Descended Like Vultures finds Rogue and Co. traveling the usual path, effortlessly penning Built to Spill-like lo-fi indie rock. “Bird on a Wire” puts Rogue in balladeer attire, “Publish My Love” and “Salesman at the Day of the Parade” are akin to Elliott Smith without the drug references and introspection. “10:1” is an all-out fuzz rocker, and nearly all the songs feature instrumentation beyond the usual—cellos, trumpets, xylophone, vibraphone, and a Wurlitzer all make tasteful appearances. You might not remember it a year from now, but Descended Like Vultures will be the second superb installment in a career that’s sure to be long, enjoyable, but probably underrated. [www.roguewavemusic.com]

Opening the album Bright Ideas with the song “Bright Ideas” was a bright idea by Portastatic in itself. Alright, stay with me here. I was so taken with the lush opener that the inertia carried me through the rest of the album. It wasn’t really that difficult; most of the material was pretty top-notch. As a latecomer to the sounds of Mac McCaughan, Superchunk and Portastatic, I found myself pleasantly surprised at how likable and genuine the songwriting was. The songs “Bright Ideas” and “Truckstop Cassettes” are easily my favorite tracks. They punctuate the album nicely, members of that rare club of songs that gently carry you away to the more reflective regions of the mind, rhythmic and mysterious. Altogether, the first six tracks are the strongest, filled with interesting lyrics, personal storytelling and catchy riffs. The last four tracks are pretty good too, but the album is definitely a little heavy at the top. Well-written lyrics are the fuel that keeps the music driving over the sometimes generic, fuzzy pop-rock - especially later on. My vote goes back to “Bright Ideas.” It’s definitely the star of this robust collection. “I’ll put my bright ideas right back in my ass,” McCaughan sings in the title track. Luckily he didn’t, at least for the most part. [www.portastatic.com]

Sponge has shed most of the pop and punk that colored their previous releases and moved to more straightforward rock on The Man. Halfway through the second song on my first listen, I was starting to believe that maybe this wasn’t such a bad thing. Sure, it wasn’t earthshakingly great; but it was catchy and familiar. (Here I will warn you that I am a Sponge fan, for better or worse). The first eyebrow-raising moment came when I heard “make it” rhymed with “fake it.” I think I let an audible sigh into the room. The rest of the album didn’t stand above most of the mainstream generic rock fray. The singing was classic Sponge, but the writing felt somewhat uninspired, along with the music. Shed along with the pop and punk is the better part of the original band. Last man standing is lead vocalist Vin Dombroski, trying his best to hold together what used to be Sponge. Unfortunately, the new crew doesn’t seem to be as inspired as the old. Tacked at the end of the album is the song “For All the Drugs in the World,” a throwback to the previous album of the same name. I found myself growing a little sentimental - it was much better album, despite being generally overlooked. Times haven’t been great for Sponge as band for a while, but I’ve always been proud of their rock till you drop mentality and overall showmanship. Here’s to Vin rocking out to the end, whether it be bitter or not. [www.spongetheband.com]

Don’t let the cover fool you. With pretty much a phrase for a band name, and an album title alluding to the plethora of dance-rock acts being birthed out of New York/Glasgow/whatever, you might expect some sort of Blink 182-ish satire (I use the term loosely). But like I said, don’t be fooled, because this North Carolina six-piece offers instead a debut full of aches, breaks, and carnal screaming. Immediately striking is the fantastic production. For an album recorded in just over four days, these guys got serious bang for their buck. But due credit to the musicians themselves: Having been blessed with not one, not two, but three guitarists on top of their shit, the resultant sound is rich, melodic, and unusually clean. Clearly their greatest asset, and what carries all eleven tracks, it just goes to prove you can never have too many sonic layers, even for a screamo outfit. Drummer Travis Moss is equally impressive, standing out above the band on "To the Barricades" in particularly thunderous fashion. If there’s one thing that keeps me from giving this record a better grade, it's lead singer Brien Worsham’s writing. Ranging from dime-a-dozen-angst to Henry Miller-esque controversy, it’s not so much that I hate the lyrics as much as they’ve forced me to the fence. Take for example "It only took a whisper." With the lyrics "So can I ravage you where I stand?," I could get offended and have my knickers in a knot, but I’d rather take it as cathartic honesty...a sort of desperate confession of sexual urgency and perversion we’re all victim to at our lowest. And I’ll keep on being a good sport for art’s sake. But then there’s the appropriately titled "If it weren’t for pick pockets, I’d have no sexlife at all." With lyrics like "Can I take you home? Can I eat you up? Can I spit you out?," recurring moans, and Worsham screaming "Her sex is like death on two legs," I’m a little less sympathetic. We’ve suddenly gone from crying over ex-girlfriends to beating up hookers. There is one other annoyance, namely the little song vignettes peppered in between. A staple with most concept albums, here these are really just pointless distractions, seeing as how they have nothing to do with the rest of the record. Overall, this is certainly not a bad first effort. Not mind-blowing, but definitely not bad. A bit of dabbling in varying song structure, and firing whoever came up with those stupid song titles, should do them wonders. [www.astromagnetics.com]