Hooray for talented up-and-coming bands. Harris fits the definition, and my knowledge of their existence can be traced to my love/hate relationship with that damned Myspace. A sickening site in many ways, yet it does allow me to expand my musical horizons. Harris is much more than a throwback to a decade past. Though their influences--Braid, At the Drive-In, Chisel, the Dismemberment Plan--are all apparent, these young Massachusetts natives pull their own sound out of this culmination of inspiration. There's more of a pop element present here, and it works. "Carousel" is one of the catchiest songs I've heard this year, subsequently becoming one of my favorites. A little Hot Rod Circuit pops up now and again in their music, but Harris is comprised of better musicians, and they avoid painting themselves one-dimensional. "Solid Ground" would make Bob Nanna proud; the keyboards in the same song are goofy enough to suit Piebald. The Kinsella brothers have impacted The Light is Seeping Through the Cracks in many ways, as you'll notice from a listen. But let's not leave this review at comparisons, though they do garner many. This is a self-released record. As a promising band, Harris has yet to succumb to a style that would compromise their integrity and have modernized one that I definitely don't mind having back. "Emo" or not, The Light is Seeping Through the Cracks is a hell of an album and don't be surprised when Jade Tree comes knockin'. [www.harriscore.com]

I feel bad for Athlete. If they have a problem, it’s not in themselves but the context in which they exist. Repeatedly, this band is written off as yet another British “Indie-rock-to-cuddle-to” outfit, under the flagship of a certain other Parlophone band who shall remain nameless. And that’s really not fair. Their debut Vehicles and Animals, while nothing groundbreaking, offered some solid pop tunes (namely “Shake those windows”) and their sophomore Tourist boasts notable growth. So, let’s try to steer clear of cheap shots, shall we? Athlete’s debut, displaying some very clear influences, left the band with two sonic options for their follow up: They could either pursue the beaten path of melancholic indie pop or indulge in their Flaming Lips fetish and go all out with unabashed eccentricity. Right from the opening bars of “Chances,” it’s obvious which route they chose. And then almost immediately the hushed piano opens up wide with strings and ringing guitars. The quirks and playful keyboards so apparent on Vehicles are virtually non-existent now (although make a brief cameo on “I love”). Even lyrically, there’s a shift in atmosphere. Whereas Vehicles was much more cheeky and anecdotal, Tourist opts for dark and deeply personal themes, as in the lead single “Wires” (There’s dry blood on your wrist/Your dry blood on my fingertips) or the title track “Tourist” (We cannot save ourselves alone/Or rely on a mobile phone). Nevertheless, I suppose there’s always that one thing every young band needs to change but never gets around to. In this case, there’re two things. First, Joel Pott’s vocals don’t seem to have grown past the half spoken/half sung phase. Granted, he’s not the only singer guilty of that, but I wouldn’t pick on him if it weren’t for “Trading air;" clearly the best song on the album, here the vocals employ less ‘talking’ and more Bono-esque crooning, showing just what Pott could achieve if he just pushed a little harder. Second, Athlete are plagued by structure: Every track on this (and the last) album uses the ‘quiet vocal’s leading into a grand THX chorus and back’ formula. About six songs in, this becomes very tiresome until the rest of the album seems to blend together and lose your attention entirely. Regardless, Tourist is still a decent step up. The arrangements are much more polished, and their sound has grown richer for it. Athlete certainly have the tools to rise above their cuddle-rock brethren, but it’s going to take more of a leap than this. [www.athlete.mu]

Browsing through my music collection the other day, I saw the first two Koufax records, and there was this moment of “Man, that was a fun band… Whatever happened to them?” A week later I have a new record in my hands waiting to be reviewed. They were one of those Vagrant bands that sort of just defined my late high school, early college sensibilities. Back when MySpace was all scene kids tired of the shoddy connections of Friendster. And here was this piano-heavy, a Joe Jackson/”I love LA” Randy Newman vibe, telling the audience at every show “Keep it in the Fingertips and Hips.” They were the perfect band to round out any compilation, but unfortunately never really inspiring enough to most to go run out and buy the record. There is nothing wrong with a great classic power pop sound. And Koufax has always nailed that. Bouncing keyboards and beats, the slight swagger in Robert Suchan’s voice - the cover art could be the lost art work for an album by The Cars. But there is just something that is so safe about it. It’s almost this expected American sound, which might explain why the majority of Koufax’s tour dates seem to be in Germany. While there is nothing really bad about it, the music just doesn’t seem to inspire jaded American snobs; it is too comfortable and familiar. In the same way that typical European bands can storm U.S. shores with a hint of the exotic, Koufax seems to be able to do the same in the opposite direction. So what happened to this band from my early independence? They’re telling me for the last time that they’re not fucking around. And I believe them, but it’s just not enough for me anymore. [www.koufaxmusic.com]

It's hard to know what to expect from a video game soundtrack consisting of original music. The standard game soundtrack usually features a compilation of existing music from marquee names. Whereas, original scores are hit or miss; the score either works as a unique vision, reinforcing of the subject matter and visuals, or just serves as meaningless but aurally pleasing background sounds. Chaos Theory, the soundtrack to the latest version of Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell series, features ten original compositions explicitly for the game. Tobin's layered soundscapes naturally evoke cinematic visuals. Despite the usual downfalls that usually mar original scores, Tobin's music has been waiting for such a use. Throughout Chaos Theory, Tobin weaves jazzy breaks and orchestral layering to achieve a dark, nightmarish backdrop for the various segments of Splinter Cell: Chaos Theory. From the opener, "The Lighthouse," to the "The Clean Up," Tobin showcases trademark arrangements of organic elements, from flute to mellotron and everything in between. As with any Tobin composition, the beats are frantic, ebbing and flowing through waves of cut-up sampling and sonic washes of noise. Without experiencing Chaos Theory cranked through a Dolby 5.1 surround sound system while playing the game of the same name, it is hard to imagine the full effect of the soundtrack. Nevertheless, Amon Tobin not only composed a video game score, he also created a set of songs that can stand alone as an album. [www.amontobin.com]

Rising from their place as one of the lesser known bands on punk rock's foremost label to major label near-stardom in just three years isn't a usual occurrence, and as far as I can recall, no other band on Fat Wreck Chords has taken such a route. Whether or not you can call Rise Against’s move successful is another story, as 2004’s Siren Song of the Counter Culture (Geffen) was a letdown after the indie label finale of Revolutions Per Minute. Having formed out of the ashes of late-90’s Chicagoan acts such as 88 Fingers Louie and Baxter, Rise Against already had a foot in the door and in 2001 released The Unraveling. The aggression of the disc was lost in the two later releases, partially due to the loss of guitarist Dan Precision, and in fact, the group has had a change in that position for each of their three records. Anyway, this debut album was much rougher and darker than any subsequent effort, with Tim McIlrath’s throaty, melodic screams as the definitive aspect. Anthems such as “Six Ways ‘til Sunday” are expected at Rise Against shows, but much of the album has been lost in the live performances in favor of the group’s more pop-oriented side. While I don’t see the point in a re-release after such a short time period, especially since the remastering wasn’t needed; the rougher production suited the band. Besides the two bonus tracks, “Gethesemane,” and “Join the Ranks,” there’s nothing of importance that wasn’t covered four years ago, and though I persist that The Unraveling is by far one of the better melodic hardcore albums of the past few years and is without question Rise Against’s essential album, I would only recommend this to those of you who’ve familiarized yourselves with the more accessible music this band has churned out as of late, for a better appreciation of where they’ve come from. [www.riseagainst.com]

Obviously, this is an odd pair: DJ Spooky, a turntablist veteran who has remixed a score of artists, as well as produced solo material blending jazz and hip-hop, and Dave Lombardo, the drummer for notorious metal band Slayer. This seems to be an exercise in conjoining opposites, finding the junction between a black turntablist and a white metal drummer with the help of some well-known friends, namely Chuck D. However, just how well it works is questionable. The tracks that comprise Drums of Death are divided into two camps: one being beat-heavy instrumentals and the other being near-rap-rock tracks. Of course, the musicians behind this album elevate it above the Limp Bizkit types, but Drums of Death definitely consciously features a guitar-heavy arsenal, most notably on the three Public Enemy remakes in which Chuck D lends his vocals to. Those tracks are unquestionable highlights, but another gem is “Assisted Suicide” that has Dalek’s raw, rabid voice layered atop the pounding hip-hop drums and buzzing guitar notes. Still, despite the album’s highpoints, Drums of Death simply fails as an entity as the remaining tracks are messy, tepid takes on hip-hop. The mix of Lombardo’s fast-paced beat-keeping and Spooky’s sliced beats is definitely interesting, but this album is too uneven to reveal its true potential. [www.thirstyear.com]

Experimental guitarist Oren Ambarchi is one of the avant-garde’s most ambitious musical chameleons. His discography includes gorgeous ambient drones, abrasive electronic soundscapes, and improv clicks and pops, among many other styles of fringe music. However, through the wide array of output, Ambarchi always utilizes the familiar six stringed instrument as his source. Triste is no exception, as he concocts a patient album of minimalism. Triste, itself, is an excerpt of 40 minutes from a live set that Ambarchi performed in 2001. Separated into two tracks, the first is a very slow moving accumulation of gentle bass swells that emphasize the attack and decay of each sound into silence. For how spare it is, the track is incredibly moving and the stronger of the two, whereas the other features background hiss and audible scrapes and clicks that amount at the track’s end. Triste is rounded out by two shorter remixes by Tom Recchion that feature an alternatively beautiful take on Ambarchi’s minimal palette. Although not quite as beautifully packaged as the 220 gram vinyl version first issued in 2003, Triste as a compact disc offers sparkling clear production of Ambarchi’s manipulated guitar notes. This disc not only adds yet another dimension to Ambarchi’s extensive discography but holds a tremendously amount of gorgeous music and silence in its four tracks. [www.southernlord.com]

The Sharp Things are not your typical New York City indie rockers. First of all, the band is a fluid collective featuring anywhere from ten to twelve members at a time. Secondly, their music suggests they would feel just as comfortable in the concert hall as they would on college radio. The group has been referred to as “orchestral” or “chamber” pop. Call them what you like, the band’s musical philosophy is evident in the opening track, “There Will Be Violins,” wherein vocalist Perry Serpa sings, “Put down the guitars, you have nothing to say through them anymore/Nothing that hasn’t been said ten thousand times before.” As the band’s bio states, they combine “a traditional rock rhythm section with strings, horns and other instruments.” The depth of the group’s musical ability propels each song and forges a unique musical identity that separates The Sharp Things from their legion of indie contemporaries. Evoking such luminaries as Burt Bacharach, Leonard Cohen and the recent work of Elvis Costello, Foxes and Hounds is the band’s laudable attempt at recalling an era when there was something grand and substantial about pop music. The Sharp Things assimilate elements of Celtic, folk, soul and straight-ahead rock into their rich instrumental texture. The world weariness of Serpa’s voice adds gravitas to melancholy tunes centered on the complex dynamics of human relationships. Standout tracks include “The Suicide Bombers,” “95 St. Mark’s Place,” and “Silver Anniversary,” which evolves over the course of six minutes from a sentimental waltz into a drunken reverie. My criticisms of this record are few and far between. On occasion, the band’s ambition gets the better of them, and a song that would have been served more simply falls under the weight of an overly intricate arrangement. There were also a few times where the vibrancy of certain brass and string instruments seemed dulled within the mix. At the end of the day, however, Foxes and Hounds serves as a breath of fresh air in a music scene overcrowded with cookie cutter artistry. [www.thesharpthings.com]

James Levy didn’t start out wanting to have a band. He was actually already well known as a solo artist in The Village when he and guitarist Matt Siskin decided to give the group thing a go. From there, Levy – the band – took off. They gained notoriety around town and started opening up for notable bands like Athlete, Razorlight and the Zutons, which is fitting because James Levy’s vocals sound more British than American most of the time anyway. Even though they’ve been repeatedly compared to Coldplay, I think that’s a bit overblown. Vocally, they remind me more of a blend of Interpol and the aforementioned Athlete. There’s also something in James Levy’s voice that reminds me of Courtney Taylor-Taylor, frontman for the Dandy Warhols. Lyrically, they’re telling little stories, vignettes of life, love, the usual in The City - “She said, ‘I will take you home if you want to’ / But I got scared and couldn’t say yes / She went home with another boy instead” (“Matthew”). Sometimes that leads to some lyrics that seem too big for Levy’s – the singer’s – mouth. It can be a little awkward at times trying to fit so many words into a particular line. In terms of singles, Levy will surely hook you with the college radio-friendly title track “Rotten Love,” but they’ll keep you with quirky little numbers like “Sunday School.” I will definitely give the band credit for trying to do something musically interesting by not staying with safe tempos and chords. Although it doesn’t always work (“On the Dancefloor,” “Wednesday”), there are occasions where it is refreshingly noteworthy (“Rector Street”). I can hear some Replacements influence on “See Saw,” which is always appreciated. This is one of the edgier songs, and it works nicely until the abrupt end after a mere 1:49. C’mon guys…you know that’s not right. To me, Levy is very New York. They sound urban, a little gritty, a little tired of the rat race but still willing to run it cause that’s life. This album is a little snapshot of a funky little downtown neighborhood on a Saturday night, late, and trying to pull after last call. [www.LEVYtheband.com]

There is certainly a lot of hype surrounding these Swedish kids. I almost feel a bit foolish by only reviewing this album now, considering we interviewed the band months ago. But despite perhaps our own tardiness, we like to do all things in our own time around here. And by now, I hope you have bought the hype and picked up the album, and you can read this review nodding your head thinking “Yes, this is a good album, worth of the attention it has received.” If you haven’t, then here is a friendly reminder to go purchase the album, and on first listen, nod your head thinking “Oh, so that’s what he meant by that.”. There has been a lot of great music this year, and it would be a shame for you to let these Swedes get lost in the shuffle. The album opener, “The Comeback,” has to be among the catchiest tracks floating in my head. (There is also a great remix by Brooklyn processed-rockers Ratatat that I would highly, highly recommend). The keyboard riff lifted straight from the Nintendo classic Excitebike triggers this near Pavlovian response in my brain telling me “It’s time to move.” The slightly country twinge and Adam’s near desperate shaky voice give this band a sound that wouldn’t be too out of place on say, Saddle Creek (and I mean that in a good way). The duet vocals and sloppy tambourine give “A Track and a Train” this innocence of a demo recording – where the song is still in this seemingly raw state, giving you a peak into the writer’s initial thoughts and feelings before playing it over and over again every night. The weakest point of the album might be the closer “Seagull,” which becomes bit repetitive with only 2 lines, a repeating flute melody, and clocking in at 8 ½ minutes. But maybe its just a nice let down to what is a quite nice album. [www.shoutoutlouds.com]

I like smart dance music, something more than just a pounding beat and a catchy hook. A lot of the indie-hipster-dance-whatever coming out now if fun on a Saturday night but doesn’t do much for me on a Tuesday afternoon. It doesn’t really know the history. The Juan Maclean does. This “band” is comprised of, you guessed it, Mr. Juan Maclean as really the only full time member – although he does get help from the DFA’s Tim Goldsworthy and James Murphy. It was James Murphy (perhaps known to you as quite similar LCD Soundsystem) who encouraged Juan to stop teaching English in New Hampshire and start making music again. James had been the touring engineer for Juan’s former band, Six Finger Satellite. So, given the storied history between The Juan Maclean and the DFA, it seems only reasonable that the two might influence each other, and like your grandparents who have been married since the war, maybe even start to look a little alike. Which might be why I had assumed that lead single, “Tito’s Way,” was actually by some DFA variation - James Murphy does love to use timbales. But I guess the real issue is that maybe this album has become a little too smart for my dance floor endeavors. It’s such a fine line between admiration and imitation. I can listen to every track and know that this guy loves some early European techno. And the use of live drums instead cheap drum machines gives the songs a warmth and humanity lacking from much of electronic music. But again, the DFA has already been doing that for years now. Even Coldplay is ripping off Kraftwork. I suppose if you are going to attempt to revive older music, you need to do it first, or you need to do it better than anyone else. While the Juan Maclean is good, he is certainly isn’t the best or the first. [www.thejuanmaclean.com]

Sometimes I just want a change. I’ll just pick a new genre of music that I’m going to get into, no matter what. Past selections include electroclash, psych, and as soon as fourth wave ska comes around, you better believe I’m going to force myself to listen to it. One summer in college my plan was to really get into J-Pop. It’s just so fun, and crazy – like being beaten to death by teddy bears and sunshine and rainbows. Unfortunately, my J-pop phase never happened. And in a way, I think I’m less of a person because of it. So along comes the chance to review an album by Puffy AmiYumi, and all I can think is “This is it!” I thought it would be funny and make me want to watch anime. I was wrong… very wrong. Instead of the Happy Goodtime Fun Explosion Rocket I was hoping for, I got something more like a dumbed down Avril Lavigne/Kidz Bop. For those of you unfamiliar with Puffy AmiYumi, they are an admitted record company creation, bursting with all sorts of promotional potential. In Japan, they are actually known as simply Puffy, but one Mr. Diddy had issue with them using such a name here in the US of A. But they now have a weekly animated series on the Cartoon Network. I couldn’t make it through an entire episode, but think the Powerpuff Girls without super powers. So why did I subject myself to repeated listens of this album? Is it because I am a committed critic? A Masochist? To lazy to grab another CD for my car? No, it’s because I’m an idiot… this is that last time I try and like music because I think it might be funny. [www.puffyamiyumi.com]

Before I begin to offer my opinion in too many words, I’ll admit something right from the beginning: I’m stumped. Anticipating the release of this album, I made a conscious effort to avoid all related press and would quickly flee from the record store if it ever came on the PA. I wanted my first listen to be a surprise. So, I guess I asked for it. Gone is the towering fuzzy feedback and angst-ridden grit of their debut BRMC. Gone even is the juvenile sloganeering of Take them on, on your own. With the new RCA label (and new name for Robert ‘Turner,’ now ‘Levon Been’), the band has traded in their peddles for harmonicas. To veteran Black Rebel fans, Howl will feel foreign right from track one. Opening with the proclamation that “Time won’t save our souls,” "Shuffle your feet" gets right down to the deep-south soul with the 2/4 claps and rhythm guitars. Exemplary to this drastic change in sound is single "Ain’t no easy way," with its guitar slides, harmonica solo, and what could be fiddles. My personal favorite is "Fault line," the most stripped down song on the whole album (and probably the entire BRMC catalogue), using nothing but Hayes’ vocals, a guitar, and yet another harmonica. But even with this sudden folksy-outburst, Howl still hints towards the BRMC we’re more familiar with. Opening with an organ’s pulse, the title track actually ends up echoing Oasis circa Be here now. Album closer "The Line" seems to have been back- logged from their debut, while the Beatles-y "Promise" doesn’t seem to fit the lineup at all. However, tracks like "Weight of the world" and "Sympathetic Noose" are closer to where the band’s natural progression would lead them: The same emotive atmosphere that has suited them so well so far but with cleaner melodies and more concise song-writing. So why am I stumped? Because I can’t decide what this album means for BRMC. Is this a band that’s finally come out of its shell, and, as they claim, found their "voice?" Or, is it one that’s desperately trying to find its footing, running frantically from its Jesus and Mary Chain comparisons? The scattered influences present here would suggest the latter. As Howl is being deemed a breakthrough for the trio, I disagree: Black Rebel are certainly trying to evolve, but with this effort they’ve jumped the gun way too quickly. Unfortunately, after living with the album for a while, I’m left feeling more alienated than refreshed. Kind of like Take them on, Howl feels more like another posture than a new beginning. But that’s just me. [www.blackrebelmotorcycleclub.com]

I felt lost in space after my first trip through the new Eels album, thinking that surely the blinking lights referenced those of satellites, floating lonesomely in the dark abyss. The mildly depressed and sardonic wit of Mark “E” Everett had taken melancholy to a much more pronounced level than his previous offerings. That, combined with the scope of the project (two discs comprised of 33 tracks), made Blinking Lights and Other Revelations difficult to get into. Blinking Lights plays like a Charles Dickens’ novel turned into a musical. Songs depict rougher-than-life characters, mournful places, and time-taught lessons as they wearily start and end like so many chapters in a book. The smiling, red-nosed drunk of a father passed out inside the front door from the song “Son of a Bitch” may be the pinnacle of these creations. It would be easy to pass over this meandering collection of songs if one was in the wrong mood. The wrong mood being a good mood; I was in said good mood my first listen, and nothing struck me. I put aside the double album feeling bored and little disappointed. Several days later, awash in freshly minted depression, I gave Blinking Lights another try. Clearly, it was brilliant. Not only did I connect with the album, but throughout the next couple days it beautifully ushered me through my bout of random depression and gently led me to a cathartic conclusion in which a handful of woefully upbeat and seemingly misplaced songs suddenly stood out as being perfectly placed and, well, just right. This is not an album for all occasions; hopefully no one will feel compelled to listen to it everyday (how depressing). Instead, it is a perfect album to pull out when you’re feeling down and want to get out, but not too fast. [www.eelstheband.com]

Everything about The Redwalls screams classic rock and roll. From album photos depicting the band’s use of vintage instruments to drummer Ben Greeno’s well-executed backbeats, the Chicago quartet serve to remind listeners of a time when rock music was the most rebellious aspect of youth culture. Unlike other retro revivalists who have come about recently, The Redwalls aren’t content simply to nod to the past but instead have immersed themselves in days gone by to mostly satisfying results. The band’s second album is a rock explosion that pays tribute to R&B influenced bands like The Kinks and The Rolling Stones. Frontman Logan Baren exhibits the vocal swagger necessary to call such bands to mind and the group is most successful when they seek to recapture the defiance of the late 1960’s. De Nova’s best track is “Falling Down,” a delightfully obscene argument for free speech. The group also shines on such raucous anti-establishment anthems as “It’s Alright” and “Rock & Roll,” which give credence to such fundamental behaviors of rock and roll as skipping school and dancing. The Redwalls have no trouble incorporating other elements from their period of influence into the songs on De Nova. Like some of the aforementioned bands, The Redwalls imbue several of their songs with blues and jazz timbres, most notably featuring the saxophone on the opener “Robinson Crusoe” and utilizing a soulful piano riff on “Build a Bridge.” The vocal harmonies and guitar tones of “Hung up on the Way I’m Feeling” recall some of the more psychedelic aspects of classic British rock. Unfortunately, one vintage element of rock the band has yet to master is that of brevity. The second half of De Nova seems to drag a bit as it fails to offer anything different from earlier tracks. Songs like “Front Page” and “Glory of War” attempt to evoke the social consciousness of classic rock but seem to have an over-inflated sense of purpose. If a few of these tracks had been pruned, the album would have been more powerful and well-rounded. Ultimately, De Nova is a promising look at a band that certainly knows where they came from and can hopefully focus the direction in which they’re going. [www.theredwalls.com]

With Haughty Melodic, former Soul Coughing frontman Mike Doughty aptly seizes the opportunity to shine brightly on his first full-fledged, full band solo effort since his band’s demise in 1998. Aided by the production skills of Semisonic vocalist Dan Wilson, Doughty turns in one of the most clever releases of 2005 both in name (Haughty Melodic is an anagram of Michael Doughty) and in musical content. Blending folky guitars and funky percussion, Doughty provides an important alternative for those who are musically attracted to the white boy soul of artists like Jack Johnson and Jason Mraz but find themselves turned off by the significant levels of cheese those artists produce. On playful tunes like “Busting Up a Starbucks” and “Sunken Eyed Girl,” Doughty not only acknowledges the line between being ironic and being ridiculous but treads the line masterfully. While musically there is nothing revolutionary happening here, Doughty creates a personable and vibrant feeling listeners will find appealing. His energy and creativity radiate on tracks like the delightful “I Hear the Bells” (the only song I know of that discusses both Christmas and sex) and “Madeline and Nine,” in which Doughty addresses a potential lover: “All my life I’ve been slow and senseless/Not struck dumb, I’m just dumb that’s all/But I can give you the constellations, lay down here and we’ll count them all.” Though most of Doughty’s tunes retain a certain effervescence, he also proves himself capable of tackling topics like commercialism and alienation with just as much credibility as when he’s discussing less weighty matters. While some tracks eclipse others, this is one of those rare records that doesn’t suffer from any momentary lapses or letdowns. From start to finish, Haughty Melodic delivers a gratifying listening experience. This album should serve to cement Doughty’s reputation among longtime fans and further said reputation among those without previous exposure to his skills as a songwriter. [www.mikedoughty.com]

The band previously known as Smackin’ Isaiah has been amassing a much broader fanbase over about the past year, and I’m unable to pinpoint the reason. Whether this surge in popularity can be attributed to the success of their last record, or if it’s merely because Ruiner often comes across as an album based off the sound and success of groups like Taking Back Sunday—though A Wilhelm Scream bundles it with a good deal more aggression, metal riffs, dual guitar harmonies, and balls. I’m personally nauseated by the endless stream of bands using the transition between singing and screaming in their songs, only to dive into a half-sung/half-whined chorus, but A Wilhelm Scream is a step above the rest. With the gravelly vocals recalling Gainesville punk a la Hot Water Music, the overall mood of the album is total Jersey-core, i.e., Lifetime. Though fourteen tracks should allow for a variety, Ruiner doesn’t divert from the beaten path that much, but most of the bands on the trail should be following A Wilhelm Scream, who manage to keep a certain rough quality to their sound without losing any elements of accessibility. Lyrically, well, the lyrics are hardly discernible—they’re either delivered at a rapid-fire pace or are lost in the gruffness, though from what you can here, the group doesn’t veer from typical subjects of relationship matters. And while it’s obvious the band has a sense of humor (song titles include “Me Versus Morrissey in the Pretentiousness Contest,” “The Kids Can Eat a Bag of Dicks,” and “Less Bright Eyes, More Deicide”), I can’t tell if it’s lighthearted fun-poking or immaturity at its worst. I prefer to think it’s the former, and for what it’s worth, Ruiner is a decent record. [www.awilhelmscream.com]

Led by Shai Hulud alum/founder Matt Fox, Zombie Apocalypse has a reputation to uphold, and they’ve done nothing but that since their inception in late 2003. Where Shai Hulud melded their hardcore with a more melodic, epic sense of metal, Zombie Apocalypse prefers to just tear shit up. Fox’s fingers burn up the fretboard more than ever, a la Dillinger Escape Plan, while the vocals are entirely guttural, throat-shredding displays of despair and futility. And to top it off, I’ve never heard a band of the metal-core bloodline ballsy enough to drop a hint of ragtime piano into a piece of battering aural assault as heard on “Tale Told By a Dead Man.” The other half of Tales Told by Dead Men belongs to the UK’s Send More Paramedics, who at first sound like a crossbreed of British crust/thrash punk, Terror, and Pantera. In other words, it’s pretty fast and plenty angry. The band deftly displays excellent, precise musicianship with rancor-filled songwriting and spastic vocals that Serj Tankian might admire. The mutilated corpse on the album cover says it all—this disc is twisted and disturbing, but both bands prove to be a bit more cerebral than you’d think. [www.hellbentrecords.com]

Put on your best flannel, huff some gasoline and shove Black Label Society into your pick-up’s tape deck before you peel out of your parent’s driveway. It’s gonna be a good night. Alright, so this album is a little backwards, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have fun with it. Just don’t damage your brain in the process. Mafia sounds like what one might expect coming from a guy (Zakk Wylde) who played guitar for Ozzy Osbourne for years and years. Mr. Wylde even sings like Ozzy, eerily enough. Translation: Don’t expect any surprises here. The lyrical content is as consistent as the driving sound. Offered below are choice lyrics from each song to give you a better idea of the album’s focus: 1. “Hellfire, doom / Watch the hatred spin” 2. “Satan’s coming on his way” 3. “Crawl through the flames that eat your flesh” 4. “The floodgates of the damned / Shall crash and burn again” 5. “All shall fade to black again and again” 6. “No salvation and the grave is coming fast” 7. “Pray for war, pray for death, pray for hate” 8. Instrumental 9. “Hell is rolling, ‘round the bend” 10. “Insane and lost confusion” 11. “Electric hellfire / Higher, higher” 12. “Never return hell before heaven” 13. “The pain, the hate, the misery” 14. “Hell is so close and heavens so far” If any of the above topics pique your interest, Black Label Society’s Mafia may be an album for you. Even I found myself banging my head along, when caught in a certain hell-bent mindset. [www.blacklabelsociety.net]

I first became aware of Butch Walker when I bought the second Marevelous 3 album. “Freak of the Week” was an infectious hit I couldn’t get enough of, and when I saw the album on sale, I picked it up. I listened to that album for a couple months but then got a little tired of it. Like eating too many donuts, I knew I had had enough sugar, and I couldn’t take anymore. I still dust those Marvelous 3 albums off for a listen every now and then, but their lack of substance keeps them from heavy rotation. Now it’s a few years later, and Butch comes out with his second solo album, and for better or worse, not much has changed. Letters is a stellar disc from start to finish, showcasing Butch’s ability to right one hell of a catchy melody. “Maybe It’s Just Me,” “Mixtape,” and “#1 Summer Jam” start off the disc with a murder’s row of sugary pop, but it’s also an odd feeling listening to a grown man sing about mixtapes and summer love. That is pretty much the album as a whole; reading the lyrics alone isn’t a study in Shakespeare, but listening to the songs themselves, you really don’t seem to care. Continuing with the pop rock, the disc pounds out the head nodding tracks like “Uncomfortably Numb,” “Lights Out,” and “Race Cars And Goth Rock.” The second half of the disc, on the other hand, showcases a few unexpected gems. “Don’t Move,” “Best Thing You Never Had,” and “Promise” come out of the gates with a bit more mature and focused sound of what Butch is capable of. Lyrically, the albums high point comes with the solemn “Joan,” a track about abuse and dealing with pain with extreme measures. Finishing up with “Thank You Note,” Butch again focuses on a serious subject with tact and heartfelt emotion. It’s hard to get away from what you do best, and there is no shame in that. Butch Walker has a talent for writing pop rock melodies that rattle around in your head for days, and that is the immediate attraction of this disc. What keeps you coming back for more, however, is the softer, more mature side of the discs slower tracks. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t Shakespeare, but it’s a damn fun listen, and at the end of a hot summer, that’s all I’m looking for. On the surface Butch is all sugar and no substance, but like the hidden track (one of the albums strongest tracks), there is more than meets the eye, and more worth sticking around for. [www.butchwalker.com]