It seems I rarely write reviews these days, but when an album really impresses me I tend to keep it to myself and not share it with the rest of the crew here. Why give away good music? Well, I have had the debut album from Omaha’s Race For Titles for over two months now, and figured it was high time it got a glorious review from yours truly. It is no secret that the Omaha scene is really hot right now with the likes of Neva Denova, Cursive, Bright Eyes, and the whole Saddle-Creek family cranking out the good music. The scene has received a lot of attention, and in effect, given bands like Race for Titles a chance to be heard. So now that we hear it, what does it sound like? The music itself is melodic rock in the vein of Cursive or Neva Denova, with a wide range of tempos and moods incorporated. James Massey’s vocals are the perfect accompaniment to the swirling guitars and subtle bass lines that fill the album. Fortunately, the band also replaced the Rolan R8, they were previously using as a drummer, with the always-on-point Matt Bowen to fill out their sound. The result is something I picture listening to on a cool late-night road trip or when staying up late working. It’s dreamy, melodic choruses and soothing vocals lull you into complacency and pull you in until the last track, “Goodbye (Good Night),” gives you permission to stop listening. Only then do you cut it off and realize 45 minutes have just gone by. My only complaint about the record is that the band could have laid off on the reverb just a little. It isn’t enough to really sway my opinion, but it's seemingly constant presence somewhat limits the range of their sound when it is present in nearly every song. However, all together I feel this self-titled debut from Race For Titles is an amazing first effort for the band and I look forward to seeing them grow with their future releases. [www.racefortitles.com]

Few record labels have the history or name-recognition as Seattles' legendary Sub Pop. Like an indie Good Housekeeping Seal Of Approval, the 'Pop's iconic logo has served as a mark of quality for almost two decades. What's interesting is the fact that the label has always been ahead of the curve as far as musical trends are concerned; they were first with grunge, and more recently, predicted the rash of emo and garage-influenced bands with early releases from The Getup Kids and The White Stripes. With the precedent of prediction set, one could be forgiven in thinking that lo-fi roots rock is poised to be the "next big thing;" Sub Pop's last few big albums have been from bands like Iron and Wine, Ugly Cassanova, and The Shins, all groups with a decidedly intimate analog bent. Add Florida's Holopaw to that list. Featuring members of the aforementioned Ugly Cassanova, their self-titled debut is filled with quiet, often-acoustic Sunday morning music. The occasional odd electronic flourish comes in to accentuate the sparse beauty, but the majority of the disc is filled with languid strums and plucked traditional instruments (mandolin, cello, etc), and a very low-key, DIY vibe permeates the album. However, this approach is perfect for lead singer/songwriter John Orth's subtly beautiful songs like "Took It For A Twinkle" and "Short Wave Hum." Only time will tell if Holopaw's back-to-basics quiet life blows up as a musical movement, but their mellow disc certainly enjoys a spot in your collection - be the first on your block, kids. [www.holopaw.net]

Something about sports cars- There are really great ones that are worth all the money that they say they are (Corvettes, BMW M5, Opel, Audi TT, etc) then there are the ones that are really just sub-par (Miatas, Toyota, Honda's Del Sol, etc). What differentiates these apparently subversive categories? That the good cars are notorious for their quality, their ability to handle, and their ability to always be a good all-round product. The lessers? There's always a glitch, there's always a timing-belt issue, there's always something inherntly rattle-y about the car. The lesson learned? Quality is best, and you get what you pay for. But what about a whole quantity of quality, you ask, and how does that relate whatsoever to Aphex Twin? Well, it's like this: 26 Mixes for Cash is precisely what James' is doing- He's putting out something that has foolproof quality that he knows you'll buy, because his shit just doesn't really smell, know what I mean? Sure, Druqks was interesting, innovative and bizzare, but this record, or rather this double-disc set, is actually more innovative and bizzare because Aphex Twin has the innate ability to, unlike, say, Puff Daddy, make something good into something great. It's like tweaking headlights- Not much change, but enough to make you stop and stare. The only bad part about 26 Mixes is that it lags in spots- The rat-a-tat-tat-boom that makes Aphex Twin's albums really exciting to listen to is somewhat absent, especially in the dyseptic nap that is the "David Bowie and Philip Glass - Heroes Symphony (Aphex Twin Remix)." What a bugger- It would have been better to use, like, the Wallflowers version, eh?. Oh, and there's a NIN track on Disc One that is nothing beyond noise, but maybe I just haven't "gotten" it yet. Basically, the two discs are thus: Disc one is quiet, Disc Two is loud. The better bits of Disc One include "Seefeel - Time To Find Me (AFX Fast Mix)", and I've always loved the AFX stuff, and the "Saint Etienne - Your Head My Voice (Voix Revirement)." Both are tres bon tracks that showcase the inherent genius talent of the Twin. Disc Two is tight, flaunting a great interpretation of one of the Selected Ambient Works II songs, as well as some creepy children and a ill Nine Inch Nails remix ("Nine Inch Nails - At the Heart of It All (Created by Aphex Twin)." Basically, this is a record for those fans who comb the record store, ebay, and MP3 trades to get as much Aphex as they can- those few, those proud- and this is their reward. A neat compiliation of Aphex Twin tracks spanning the mind of one of the most creative artists making music right now, and yes, he only cares because you do. [www.warprecords.com]

Calla move slowly. Their latest album, Televise, clocks in at a mere 46 minutes, but it feels a whole lot longer than that, which is good. These songs progress slowly, they build slowly, they make you want to listen closely, following them through slow crescendos and hanging on to vocalist Aurelio Valle's slow, slurred vocals. Don't get me wrong, my overuse of the word "slow" here isn't meant to imply that the album's pace is glacial or boring, just kind of dark. Yes, this stuff is depressing, but it's also sexy. There is a very alluring quality to Valle's drawl and jangling guitars and it's complemented superbly by smooth basslines and atmospheric sounds. The drums and other percussion are often more subtle than anything else, but they're pronounced when they need to be. Indeed, Calla are a finely honed machine and it's hard to believe that there are only 3 members behind the controls. "Customized" and "As Quick As It Comes/Carrera" rival Mogwai's thunderous climaxes in their building finales. But let's get back to the slow stuff, because that's where this album really shines. I'm not sure I can decipher more than a dozen words in either "Monument" or "Don't Hold Your Breath", but both of them draw me in -- the instinct to turn up the volume, close my eyes and nod my head to the beat is irresistable. As the album progresses, the dark vibe continues with superb tracks like "Monument" and "Astral" before it comes to a head in the previously mentioned "Quick As It Comes/Carrera". The soundscape interlude "Alacran" follows and then, surprisingly, the upbeat "Televised". It's an oddly positive moment and provides a nice break from the somber mood of the album. Until, of course, "Surface Scratch", the album's finale, which throws you back into the album's depths. It's the gloomiest song on the album, but it's also comforting in a way. "Don't ever look back, don't ever turn back," it pleads, but "don't forget to come back." I can't help coming back to this album. [www.callamusic.com]

Most commonly known in their native New Zealand as Shihad, the group changed their name to Pacifier early last year in order to avoid disparaging criticism in the US. Since then, Pacifier has released the Bullitproof EP and their self-titled US debut to slow-but-steady results. Don't get me wrong, they are being added to rock radio playlists all across the country, and MTV2 is airing their first video. It's just that in the mainstream game, it seems that breaking big, bad MTV and the like is the barometer for "making it." The Pacifier sound was born and bred in New Zealand, but, of course, after our producers got a hold of these guys, their sound became increasingly American - processed and polished. Luckily, the songwriting in the band is still strong enough to somewhat maintain what made Pacifier enjoyable before they decided to cross the pond. The lead single, "Bullitproof," crashes in with a huge riff-rock blast and relaxes down into a melodic verse to allow lead vocalist Jon Toogood to contemplate the band's longevity thus far: "I never thought we'd come this far / Sit still and wonder who you are today." Skip ahead to "Comfort Me" and you'll find a rocker reminiscent of Stone Temple Pilots - no coincidence that Scott Weiland appears on the closer, "Coming Down." Continuing on with the not-to-be-missed "Nothing" and "My Mind's Sedate," it's evident that Pacifier knows how to rock with best, but can they write ballads? The aforementioned "Coming Down" as well as the soppy "Walls," will suffice, but it's safe to say Pacifier's strength lies in rockin' out. With some original riffs - sure to induce fits of air guitar - mixed with not-great-but-not-awful lyrics, Pacifier have managed to change their name, move themselves to the States, and somehow fit in with what's going on here. While that's exactly what their label hoped would happen, I'd venture to say that if the band hangs around long enough to pay their dues, and we get a taste of what Pacifier channeled in 1999's The General Electric, only then will it be evident why so many kids in New Zealand go bonkers for this band. [www.pacifierband.com]

In musical criticism, it's become standard to partake in name-dropping, purporting that "X" band sounds like, is evocative of, or draws influence from "Y" band. It has become almost impossible to resist the urge to tell a reader that a band sounds like another band, saving the writer from having to spend valuable time and energy describing someone else's "sound" with their own words. It's just efficient and easy. So, instead of participating in said "name-dropping," here goes a try at describing Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me Is Gone without any blatant comparisions. From day one, both The Walkmen and their music have been fashioned in the group's Harlem-based recording studio, Marcata Recording, a converted industrial space. Having their own large studio as a veritable, musical playground noticeably affected their distinctive sound, comprised of primarily of upright piano, organ, guitar, bass and drums. Add Hamilton Leithauser's lethargic and conversational vocals into the mix and the troupe's wistful whirlwind will draw you further into the world they work so thoroughly to create. The Walkmen come off like a group of mad scientists, tinkering with instruments until the wee hours of the morning and experimenting to no end. From the dreamy precision of songs like "The Blizzard Of '96" and "Stop Talking," it's evident they are in love the sound that instruments make, and, better yet, the process by which the sound was developed. The vaulted ceilings of the studio at Marcata have evidently instilled a principle of unrestrained experimentation within the group. Yet, amongst all the free-flowing ideas and roving, reverberating tones, there exists a pop mentality. Catchy hooks, sweeping melodies and the occasional bouncy rhythm can be found in track such as "Wake Up" and "That's The Punch Line." It's not often that a group can boldly step out into the US music scene and release something this confident as a debut. And better yet, they've reached this plateau on their own time, throwing the proverbial bar that so many bands fail to live up to out the window. They've got nowhere to go but up. [www.thewalkmen.com]

Count to 5, then we all get to chant "Erun is a sucker! Erun is a sucker!" loud and proud. Why? Because gritty rock with wailing, serpentine guitars gets me everytime. Skinny dudes singing about going around in circles and marijuana as a metaphor for relationship- It's my Achille's heel. (See obsession with Alice in Chains, Mudhoney, Nirvana b-sides, Sublime, et. al). So you should know that Silvertide's 3-song EP got me in the gut and I'm biased, right? It's only fair, right? Wrong. You should be swayed by my opinion. Very very good, these three songs. I now know where Chris Robinson's talent went after the Black Crowes went on an "indefinite hiatus"- It went to Silvertide. And they took it out back to the BBQ pit and rolled it around on some wood hewn from an old Jimmy Page guitar and thus became... American Excess. Make it so, it is born. And it is good. All three songs are good, and they get knocked out of the perfect 5.0 range because, hey- It's only three songs and they sound pretty similar after a bit... But great vocals, great bass, great guitars, great package, great swagger, great sound, great presentation. (Using the same word like this is called "emphasis" btw.) There's something wild and rootsy and purely great about this band, and the fact that they're on J Records (remember Clive Davis?) will aide them in a quest, should they be up for it, to make some mega-somethings for/of themselves (make 'em a bio page, Clive). But genuine southern-fried hippie rock without any particular message, just some honesty, some vitriol, and some awesome guitar solos. Go get the album and brag to everyone that you were the first to know. [www.silvertidemusic.com]

One of the lyrics from Nakatomi Plaza's songs ("Hurray For One Good Eye") off their album Private Property is, and thus quoted: "So show me something that I couldn't predict tonight." Should we go further? There's a daunting aspect about this CD- It sounds quite honest and desparate, but yet not enough of either somehow. You get your emocore screamy-screamy, then your chime-guitar whiney-whiney (I'm not saying Nakatomi Plaza is whining, that's just the general...er, generalization.), then some dissollusionment, some depression, some confession, some exploding woodchuck guitar, etc, etc. Private Property is respectable and it's got some neat moments to be sure. The beginning of "Next Bus to New Orleans" where the chanted "It's times like these when just simply breathing" spoken lyric effects an eerieness, then catapults you into some nice tunage, with breaks and melody and some very impressive innovation that's sing-a-long, meaningful. There's the interesting "Our Hero Exits Stage Left..." that's almost "Say It Ain't So" Weezer-y, but not quite. Our hero doesn't actually ever go anywhere, much less exit a stage. I suppose my biggest beef with Nakatomi Plaza is the diary-entry aspects- It's vented, it's put out, but it's not solved or put to rest. The lyrics and vocabulary are commendable, but the production is really "young"-sounding. It'd be interested to see what this band grows into, because they're honest and crafty, which will make for some great music in the future. [www.bd-records.com]

Do you like waiting for the...ball...to...drop...? Then Airs Above Your Station is the album for you. It's atmospheric and transdescent and...calm. This album is the epitome of the situation of trepidation: You gotta wait for your guitar, you gotta wait for your vocals... It's almost eleven minutes before you actually hear someone speak, and then you've got to wait for an infentesimal amount of time before you hear words again. The cover art of Kinski is the most tell-tale foreshadowing of what you're getting into- Stripey, segmented pictures. Intelligence is this band's forte- Not baton courtesy. Airs Above Your Station is Kinski at its beautiful, soaring, skittery, hot-air balloon peak. They are light yet heavy, stable yet chaotic. The album oozes of foreboding, and "Rhode Island Freakout" boasts this feeling by gloamming out on a soft-spoken murmur with lava-lamp bass. "Semaphore" is strobe-light music beautiful, counter-balancing the of mood of "Steve's Basement". It's like Selected Ambient Works II with some punk throtted in. The verdict? Worth...the...wait. [www.subpop.com]

Pack as much attitude as you can into four Brits, give them instruments as well as enough musical talent to sound somewhat proficient, and there you'll find Ikara Colt. It's also probably worth mentioning that the band met in art school - but of course! However, despite all that, the real question is, "are they good?" Well, yes. Their ragged and raging sound is much of their charm, but doesn't limit them to the garage aesthetic they are noticeably influenced by. The young foursome grinds out some of the most raw and urgent rock to come out England in the past few years. It's not so much that their music is that unique, it's the posture in which they deliver it. There is a palpable ego felt anytime Paul Resende utters anything through the microphone - a feeling that is multiplied with backing vocals from guitarist Claire Ingram (see "Belgravia" for examples). Compounding the well-established bravado are the fuzzed guitars, jangly bass lines and drum barrage, which are all then furthered by the minimal production. Clearly, this album was constructed as a work of art, not just a sonic attack on all that is wrong with music in England. No, this isn't the be-all-end-all of British rock. I'd even speculate that Chat and Business won't be the pinnacle of the Ikara Colt legacy. However, if there's one thing I've taken away from this album, it's the hope that they'll continue to defy the complacent and prosaic bands that materialize in England (not to mention on Earth in general) every 0.51 seconds. [www.epitaph.com]

After emo "poster boy" Chris Carrabba left Further Seems Forever, their future seemed bleak. Finding someone to replace the magic that the five had seemed to be impossible, especially after their first release with new frontman Jason Gleason, on Punk Goes Pop, seemed less than spectacular. After hearing the first 30 seconds of How To Start A Fire, I was shocked at how much his vocal skills had seemed to improve. However, it simply sounds like they are attempting to emulate the chemistry they had during The Moon Is Down. Needless to say, even with a new singer, any musical progression within the group is non-existent - solid song writing, catchy songs, infectious melodies, but nothing new. The subject matter also caught me off-guard, as every song is either about God or a girl. While there is really nothing wrong with this, it's the tried-and-true subject matter for this genre. And let's face it, there is more to life than God and girls (although some people might beg to differ). Nevertheless, this album gets strong marks for being very listenable; this is the type of album you can leave in your CD player for months. If you liked Further Seems Forever with Chris, you'll like them with Jason. [www.furtherseemsforever.com]

What can I say? Sometimes change is a bad thing. It seems that the bigger a band gets the more watered-down, over-produced and just plain awful the music gets. I had been waiting in anticipation for this album, only to be crushed when it was finally released (after being pushed back for months upon months). With this being their major label debut, produced by Talking Head’s Jerry Harrison (Live, No Doubt), the band obviously opted for a new sound. However, most of the songs are either too monotonous or sound like Our Lady Peace b-sides (that’s what touring with Canada’s biggest band gets you, I guess). Moreover, the pace of the album is off. As soon as it starts to pick up with tracks like “DTM,” it drops back down, idling on slower, mellower tracks. The only obvious single on this album is “Into The Dark,” and that was originally featured on their last album, Emotion is Dead! Bottom line: they are trying too hard to fit into a fickle, mainstream, pop market. This is an extremely poor effort from a group who produced two very strong independent releases. If you’re into bands that compromise their talent for radio airplay, then this is right up your alley. [www.thejulianatheory.com]

Anxiety of influence (check your philosophic literary criticism) is a powerful agent that often times works more against new bands and their music than it does against books or movies. Many bands try quite hard to build a new house on their predecessors' foundations, only to fail in the eyes of critics, which can sometimes lead to dismissal with otherwise unbiased listeners. No need to dismiss Scissorfight's Potential New Agent for Unconvential Warfare, as it's pretty rocking, as far as 5-song EPs go. Who are Scissorfight? According to their press release, "...classic rock for the modern Age of Aquarius. Like hanging out with Dennis Hopper on six hits of Orange Sunshine, you're either in all the way or not at all." Huh. Like Bush's "You're either with us (against terrorism) or against us (for terrorism)," eh? I don't like ultimatums, but I understand the urgency of this statement- In concern with politics, not music. Also, according to press release, everything Scissorfight do has "deeper meaning" and the listener is "demanded to figure it out." Um, okay... So thus far I've figured that Mudhoney is the foundation you're building your house on and that, while rocking yet not rollicking, talented but not brimming with gusto, you have the same "grr" appeal as Monster Magnet- Did I get it right? I kind of hope so, because Scissorfight are very easy to listen to and actually quite good- They are indeed a potential new agent for rock. Elaborate I shall: "Maritime Disasters," the third and by far the best song on the EP, has Bull God-ish intensity backed by squirrely guitar. "I am a lighthouse/ Oil lanterns swinging/ You're never gaining/ I'm raidiating" is the confident chorus that spirals out with the guitars. Quelle cock, if I may say so myself. While pushing against convention in terms of lyrics, the music is what really matters in this band. Ironlung (vocals) uses metaphors that parallel Geezum H. Crow's wall-scaling guitar, which intersects Jarvis' bass thwacking, which therefore throttles Kevin J. Strongbow's drum assault. The band works, it gels, but it's missing that certain something that only becomes apparent by multiple listens. The fifth song on the EP, "Harvester", announces "It works for me/ That I can't deny", and that's the summation of the parts of the album. Loud and guitar-y, Scissorfight is solid and tight, but there's a chink in the wall somewhere... Maybe that's what I have yet to have been "demand[ed] to figure out." [www.scissorfight.com]

"I consider myself a perpetual English major, but I also get into bar fights." - Ted Leo That seems like a pretty apt quote to start things off with. In fact, a majority of the songs on Hearts Of Oak embody that statement. Intelligent, fun, smart, indie rock songs backed by a powerful force of sincerity and.. well.. catchiness. Fortunately it's a catchiness that's not contrived and packaged for TV or radio, it's a catchiness that comes from the songs being well crafted. When writing this I found myself at a loss at how to properly describe just how this album sounds (and that's my job!). It's got a lo-fi feel to it. It's catchy. It sometimes features whistling, cowbell (or wood block), or cello. Songs like "Where Have All The Rude Boys Gone?" and "Bridges, Squares" feel like you've heard them a million times after hearing it halfway through (not cause it's contrived, but because it's just that catchy). "The Ballad Of Sin Eater" is the most thrashed out punk-tinged track on the album, which is good for the most part but does have a mildly annoying repetitive chorus. "2nd Ave, 11am" forces you to nod your head, and once you know the words, forces you to sing with it. But even that doesn't do it total justice. Nor does it even fully describe it. Hearts Of Oak will make it into CD players across America for the summer. It embodies the feel good times that most people associate with summer, without being contrived or even attempting to be anything - it's just a damn fine upbeat album. [www.lookoutrecords.com]

Usually I try to open a review with an interesting quip or a lure to draw the reader into my tangled literary web of musical criticism. But not this time. Maybe it’s because I have no critique to give -- only overly emphatic praise -- or maybe it’s because my love for this band, this album and this music transcends mere words, text and sentences. Whatever is, cope with me while my ears drool over this audio masterpiece and I spit up words to try and make sense of the most prolific, beautiful and vital statement of rock since the Stooges’ Raw Power. Like some missing link between At the Drive-In, societal dystopia, William Burroughs, Converge, and absolute fucking perfection, Burn Piano Island, Burn is an album that is so brutal, so raw, and so vicious that it is nothing short of sheer beauty. The Blood Brothers literally defy all musical stereotypes and lazy pigeonholing: they play hardcore completely vacant of the previously vital supplement of testosterone [in fact, I’d go so far as to say their sound is practically feminine -- and I love them for it], they play heavy music with no pretentious meanderings of jazz fusion or elitist tendencies [just pure fucking punk rock], and they spit the sassiest, catchiest pop hooks among ear-shattering screams [and every syllable is so alive it has a heart of its own], and they play music they love regardless of categorization, trends or popularity [and its more addictive than heroin]. Whew. Yet, they’re so much more than all of that. To put it bluntly, the Blood Brothers are the voice of a revolution, a statement to music and the visionaries of a new generation -- my generation. A generation sick and fucking tired of choking on testosterone-riddled rock, having their eyes polluted by a silver screen, and having sex, media and art being bought out by the largest dollar sign. Their brilliant, surrealist lyrics conjure to ghost of William Burrough’s classic novels while painting an avant-garde canvas riddled with words of societal dystopia, sexual exploitation, skin-deep cover girls and decayed values. But what’s so vital to the Blood Brothers illusory vision is how they resurrect it and make it come alive to sound literally like nothing else music has ever heard. The vocals here -- be it the blood splattering screams, the cavity-inducing hooks or anything in between -- are absolutely on fire. Nothing compares. Nobody in the history of music sounds better than Jordan Blilie and Johnny Whitney -- the two headed monster that makes up the Blood Brothers’ fire-breathing voice -- when they hit the mark of perfection on such tracks as “Burn Piano Island, Burn” and “Cecilia and the Silhouette Saloon.” And Burn Piano Island, Burn doesn’t stop there. The Blood Brothers’ music is nothing short of incendiary: it burns hardcore stereotypes, torches punk’s commercial façade and reveals a corpse of extremes where guitars stab, drums stomp and pianos, synthesizers, glockenspiels and acoustics create an aural world to get lost in forever. It’s fucking perfect. The Blood Brothers are my saviors. Burn Piano Island, Burn should be the contemporary holy book of rock. And I’m telling you right now: you need this release. Everyone needs to know music like this exists; music that leaps so far past boundaries that it’s in another fucking universe; music that is so vacant of trends, stereotypes and sickeningly typical rock norms that there is no precedent; music that is so far above the learning curve that it makes everything else sound stale, decayed, aged, boring and monotonous. And I fucking love it. [www.thebloodbrothers.com]

I usually don't go for the alt.country thing, just because it makes me think of the Ass Ponies, who are good in their own special way but not for daily consumption... And I find a lot of folky, acoustic guitar and effected lyrics that way- trying. Kathleen Edwards' Failer, however, was a pleasant suprise. Her gravelly voice and wry wit lines her honest and vulnerable songs with the same likeability as her rocky, rambling acoustic guitar. She's special, man. Why? Just an all-round good record. Some abstract lyrics ("The Lone Wolf") and some downright black-comedy ("Westby") thrown together with some down-and-dirty grit. Edwards' album is, by lyrical standards, far from easy listening, as you find yourself humming the songs but would prefer not to sing the lyrics aloud, as they aren't the most simple fluff others may prefer. You can hear shades of Neil Young in "Six O'Clock News", which is undeniably catchy but the subject (the narrator's lover is barracaded in a room and being covered by the news) is far from the droll, boring wails that populate lots of the music world's climate. Everyone who I played this album for found it instably likeable, and it took me awhile to take it out of the cd player. This is one of those albums that give you hope in the music industry, because this witty, mirth-ridden and sheepishly honest album is saturated with good stuff. But the magical bit is, I have a feeling this young woman is hardly trying to win you (the pointed "One More Song the Radio Won't Like" gives it away) over, nor is trying to be anything but... wow, herself. Haven't seen that kind of music in awhile, eh? The slowly-rising hype around this album is warranted, believe me. It's addictive and great, Failer, and I expect good music from Ms. Edwards in the future. [www.kathleenedwards.com]

I didn't start listening to Failure until after I heard the first On album, never was really too intrigued by National Skyline, and caught on to the almighty Shiner sometime last year. But, I plan to live and die by the motto "better late than never." That said, I would venture to guess that a fan of anyone of those bands has a lot to rejoice about - the space-rock is back, and, this time, it's got a few tricks up its sleeve! At the core of Year of the Rabbit you have Ken Andrews, a pioneering force with the ability to write a song that kicks you in the chest and kiss you on the face at the same time. Then rounding out the sound are guitarist Jeff Garber of National Skyline, bassist Solomon Snyder and a god on the drums, Tim Dow of the late, great Shiner. Believe me, if none of that makes you as giddy as a schoolgirl, it should. So, there are the players, let's look at the music. The 4-song EP rings in with the brooding, mid-tempo "Hunted," that slinks along only to crash down with its grand chorus and huge guitars. The set continues on with "Rabbit Hole," a head-bobber with a bouncy, sing-a-long hook and enough charm to put a smile on your face. "Burn," the third in line and the first non-LP track, has some nice rock-n-roll swagger and provides a nice look at what might have followed Failure's Fantastic Planet. Lastly, the Stone Roses cover, "I Wanna Be Adored," is pretty faithful to the original except that it's in Ken Andrews' trademark style. All in all, the Hunted EP succeeds in hinting at what is expected from Year of the Rabbit later this year. However, some critics might simply chalk up Year of the Rabbit as another "super group" of sorts, doing nothing more dumbing down their skills to create their own brand of sleek, expansive rock music. But, hot damn, they're great at it! And besides, there's still much more that has yet to be seen. [www.yearoftherabbit.net]

Aah, emo. While a select few hardcore originators and worthwhile newbies continue to rock well, there are far too many whiny beeyotches in ill-fitting thriftwear sullying the genre with useless songs about girls, girls, and...um...crying (about girls). Like a condiment or garnish, the difference between this "good" and "bad" emo all comes down to a matter of degree. A little bit of flavor can take an already-tasty meal to the next level, but we all know that ODing on mustard will straight fuck your hotdog UP. Fortunately, Pretty Girls Make Graves are like a perfectly-formed dollop of ketchup atop a mouth-watering, freshly-grilled burger (ok, VEGGIE burger). While the knotty riffs and anguished lyrics about broken hearts, spoiled friendships, and not wanting to "live life in regret" are par for the emo course, the band is able to take these tired ingredients and cook up an engagingly passionate listen. Most of this can be attributed to frontwoman Andrea Zollo's powerful vocals - it is SOOOOO cool to hear a girl scream on the mic in such a bad-ass fashion. Not to take anything away from the rest of the Pretty Girls, however - the melodically inventive guitar interplay, reminiscent of Fugazi at times, raises tracks like "3 Away" and "Head South" (the latter's hardcore breakdowns are particularly cool) to new heights. The only drawback to PGMG's latest is that it's only 4 songs deep - just long enough to whet our rock appetites and leave us starving for more. However, such restraint is key to the band's success - how rare it is to find an emo band with the foresight to hold the pickles. [www.prettygirlsmakegraves.com]

The Verve's Urban Hymns was a Britpop milestone because it mixed stone-solid songcraft with the breakbeat pulse of Generation E. Frontman Richard Ashcroft and Co.'s "Bittersweet Symphony" created a melancholy danceability that has yet to be matched... ...even by Ashcroft himself. On his second solo disc, listeners are presented with none of the soul that made Verve tracks so unique - just lots of soul searching. To be fair, Richard and his guitar have a way with malaise; dimly-lit and whiskey-soaked, his dusky, weathered tenor makes lines like "'Lord I've been trying to keep myself from crying" actually WORK...for 5 songs or so. Over the course of an entire album, the despondent vibe gets to be a little much. While "Buy It In Bottles" or "Science of Silence" may be memorable tracks (and "don't drink me, I'm like turpentine" one of the best lines I've heard in some time), they don't make up for the overwhelming same-ness of the majority of this album. Human Conditions isn't bad - and will certainly satisfy any Anglophile - but it doesn't come close to matching the high-water mark of Urban Hymns. While his current efforts are more than passable, Ashcroft needs to remember that grooves are for dancing, not for getting stuck in. [www.richardashcroft.com]

Let's start with a little background information. The Rocket Summer is Bryce Avary. He wrote all the songs, he played all the instruments, and he's been working on it since he was 14 (he's 20 now). Not something I would have guessed at first listen. This album is overflowing with sugary pop, destined for a cheesy teen movie where the kids have just realized that everything is okay and a spontaneous dance party breaks out followed by the standard high school roadtrip with the windows down and the sun beating down. But is that a bad thing? Not at all. Unless of course you hate upbeat pop tunes. The majority of tracks all fall into that previously mentioned upbeat pop category, but there's the occasional exception like "She's My Baby" that is more of the pop ballad of the album. "What We Hate, We Make" is the fake-out pop ballad that slowly changes into the triumphant pop song (complete with accompanying childrens choir chorus). Overall it seems that Bryce Avary has got some excellent pop sensibilities when it comes to songwriting, and he's putting out a full-length at a good time: it's the cusp of summer, the slightly nasal but yet quite sincere singers is definetly on the rise, and feel-good music in general seems to be overtaking the hard rock alternative to boy band pop. [www.therocketsummer.com]