Spine Hits is like a 45-minute moment where you think the drugs’ll kick in any second now.  There’s nothing explicitly trippy in sight, but there are these shadows zipping around the corners of your eyes, making make you wonder, is that it?  You swear the sun’s been hovering at the horizon for way too long- why won’t it set already?

It’s the middle of an early-90s Lollapallooza show I was too young to attend.  I don’t need to nap, I just need to lie on the grass in the shade for a spell.  It’s just, being out in the sun all day, the brightness, the heat, the humidity, all that, plus I’ve never taken this much before.  Pieces of Jane’s Addiction’s chilled-out space bubbles keep bouncing off the jagged jangle of Pavement, with lengthy flashes of Manchester ecstasy.  The raspy yet tender singer sounds like he’s growing up much faster than he’d like.  Shiny major-key hooks tango with gray minor-key angst.

I’d never heard of Sleepy Sun before I heard Spine Hits.  I simply saw the phrase “stoner rock” nearby, and some mannequin arms reaching out of a trash can, and I figured sure, why not? And at this point I don’t know when I’m going to check out more Sleepy Sun records.  I probably will, but there’s no rush.  I like Spine Hits enough to’ve given it 10 listens’ worth of my time over the past 6 weeks, and next week, when I’m drinking lots of beer on the beach, I’ll play it a few more times, whenever I’m not spinning the new Japandroids or Guided By Voices.

We are the children of a generation who were not required to go to war; a generation with little meaning and few heroes. We are a DIY-driven mass of knowledge-gluttons who rarely converse without thinking we are right. We are the 30-somethings we knew we would be and we can’t wait to be the elder statesmen we are destined to be. We consider each of our favorite albums to be, at least somewhat, our anthem. There can’t be hundreds of anthems, though. There can’t be just one, either. Japandroids’ grasp of youth and folly certainly ranks them as spokespeople, and their music is certainly energetic and with causation. Their pinnacles speak highly of our indecision and vaguely of angst. They understand the mute-worthiness of speaking, even when there’s little to be said.

Of course, there’s your dividing line. Depending upon who you ask, pop music’s grasp on reality is fleeting already, and our generation’s understanding of life’s foibles is limited enough without art mirroring us. When “The Days of Nights and Roses” muses on meandering: “Don’t we have anything to live for?/ Well, of course we do/ but until they come true/ we’re still drinking/ and still smoking,” Japandroids are presupposing the line of questioning from older generations. I’m not giving them The Who status quite yet, but what, if any, question would you expect the older folks to ask us? Each question you get, each news story of wayward youth and each glaring eye you wander past is asking you, “What are you doing with your life?” Well, “Roses,” and all of Celebration Rock attempts to answer it. “We all want to know what nobody knows:/ what the nights of wine and roses hold… we don’t cry for those nights to arrive/ we yell like hell to the heavens.”

Sure, the answers lack the gravitas of a Springsteen story or a Dylan rant. No, Japandroids don’t describe the myopic sense of oneness we all feel when we see each other’s listlessness while waiting in line for food or at being bored online at work. What Celebration Rock captures is the non-unifying sensibility we’ve all been ironically jesting at in our speech, the countless hours of memes created out of far-reaching hopes to be recognized. Japandroids are the anti-voice we’ve been waiting for. Consider the repeated line in Fire’s Highway: “A Northern soul in Southern lands/ will find his way to Southern hands./ So, kiss away your gypsy fears/ and turn some restless nights to restless years.” The world-wearied traveller has a home in this record. The differentiations of our past generations are sullied. North-south, it doesn’t matter. Home is home now. The years we spent finding ourselves are summated, if not for ignoring why we left home in the first place.

Amidst all of the idealistic methodology of Celebration Rock, a forceful rock record still exists. In “Evil’s Sway,” the duo mixes “Oh yeah” and “alriiiiight” with a tactile riff– one that touches without touching though. There’s nothing entirely special about the rough bounce of “Evil’s Sway” other than the fact that it’s sonically astounding. It moves though heavy distortion and pop-punk splendor with manual dexterity; you can hear Japandroids trying to impress you while they do it. This is not effortless or seamless, just well done. A further example, “For the Love of Ivy’s” heavy blues riff is given vocal effects and repetition to a fault, except there’s no way to imagine it as a standout without so much effort behind it. As the song’s anti-hero threatens the lives of all that stand in his way, the listener is beaten to the ground.

And what generational gift would be complete without a song of layman’s poetry? The idea of drunk artists riding their steeds through stories we’d never understand are as old as Cervantes, but they never really age. “Adrenaline Nightshift” is a shimmering story from the heights and depths of late-night inspiration. In few cases can a muse be written into a song, but Japandroids are obviously wearing theirs on their sleeves: “…Still waiting for a generation’s bonfire to begin./ We’d muscle up some money/ or rattle loose a saber in the streets/ ’cause death’s got no respect for love and you’ve no respect for me./ There’s no high like this/ adrenaline nightshift.” The world’s worries are not always so preoccupied with the causes and concerns of the worldly. Japandroids’ mock-poetic cinders burn brighter than most full-on fires. These are the swan-songs of the new Sun Also Rises. The alcohol-swilling near-elites have stormed the castle of songwriting again, and I’m for it.

“Younger Us” pursues a more direct approach. Endearing memories endure the test of time in a full-on assault. If every generational anthem needs the imagery of age-failure juxtaposing the aforementioned youth and folly, Japandroids have provided both en masse. “Remember when we had them all on the run?/ And seeing the midnight sun?/ Remember saying things like we’ll sleep when we’re dead?/ And thinking this feeling was never gonna end?” These lyrics could just as easily be a Bob Seger jam, but the delivery is sharp. The music coalesces so well with the backwards-parallels that the listener would just as soon consider this their own past. And they should since the lyrics are purposefully transparent: “Give me younger us” the chorus repeats.

By  the time “The House that Heaven Built” blisters in, we’ve been assuming that the past and future are well set in stone. To explain, we drink until the future arrives, we drank awaiting something magical and we remember/will remember both times fondly. But this generation is affixed with more than memories and grand delusions. We also fell in love with the idea that the cities are there to save us. Where the generations before saw the cities as opportunities for upward mobility and monetary support, this generation sees those same cities as escapes from those former generation’s dreams. When “The House…” begins with, “When the soul of the city/ was laid to rest/ and the nights forgotten/ and left for dead,” it’s a shock to the system of belief. How could another anthem begin with the death of escape? If this generation is filler without finality, Japandroids must know something we don’t. The song describes a house where “everything evil/ disappears and dies.” Is this the new cull of the suburban life?

It’s not that simple, of course. There’s the eponymous “they.” There’s the restlessness of settling down, but still heating up. “When they love you and they will,/ tell them all to love in my shadow/ and if they try to slow you down/ tell them all to go to hell.” The in-between logic, the refusal of love’s grand authority, it’s all very post-punk without all the messy Fugazi riffs or intent to pacify. “It’s a lifeless life with no fixed address to give/ but you are not mine to die for anymore so I must live.” If any one line sums up a generational idea of love and detachment, then this one will challenge it. Has the old motto of ‘God, Country, Family’ fallen ill? The positional default, or the idea that settling down and understanding life from one spot with one grasp, is on notice.

As “Continuous Thunder” hits each bramble of description, Japandroids have made their points. Celebration Rock ends the way it begins: the pop of fireworks and the clack of drums is over, and the only real choice is to process the ideas: “Oh and if I had all of the answers and you had the body you wanted/ would we love with a legendary fire?” The album is just as open-ended as the question. As we doubt ourselves, we realize the only constants are doubt and self-doubt. Do we have anything to live for? Well, of course we do. This generation lives to question the ideals of the generations before it. And because of those questions we are wary of our roles, be they gender, parental, youthful, intelligent, or ignorant. It’s not technology that is spurning a revolution, it’s just good, old-fashioned thought. If this generation needs an anthem for dissension through indecision, it has found an album willing to try and define that. Celebration Rock is an instant classic: just abstract, antithetical, and absurd to be ignored and just as simple, driving, and brilliant to be lauded for years to come. Let’s hope people can focus on the latter rather than dismiss the record. That said, if “they” dismiss, we can just call them haters and tell them all to live in our shadow. We can tell them all to go to hell. We’re still drinking.

There are times when the chasm of Reks’ lyrics open up and a song like “Chasin” occurs. And other times he switches up his flow to play around with another MC and a song like “Riggs and Murtagh” happens. Then there are times when he becomes a braggart amongst braggarts and a song like “Such a Showoff” happens. No matter what happens, though, REKS submits to style in a way that not many MCs can pull off. Thinking about the precision it takes for an MC to effortlessly fall into several styles in one album, I can’t help but ignore the weaknesses of Straight, No Chaser.

I mean, the weaknesses are there: Statik Selektah has a style and it can get old in a whole album. REKS does have a tendency to fall apart when he gets too conceptual (”Sins” comes to mind). The guest stars don’t really add much, for the most part, since they are very similar to REKS (show off, show off); the exception being Action Bronson’s back-and-forth in “Riggs and Murtagh.” But that’s all background to how REKS handles his voice, his make-up. If R.E.K.S. was the introduction to his mindset, Straight, No Chaser is his announcement of how he’ll be handling future business. We’ve been warned and business is good.

We’re introduced to Straight with “Autographs,” a flow-heavy, soul jam that brings his penchant for brag-rap to the forefront. The Street People sample mixed with a Beastie Boys hook rules and REKS kills it. Sure, the “rap game is hard” lyrics can be a little boring sometimes, but he’s got a knack for taking the mundane and making gold. Statik has a knack for making hooks from other rappers’ best work, and “Sit/Think/Drink” uses Common in the hook. REKS just may not be a hook-spitter. That said, this is a slow, piano-scratch jam that works well. “Power Lines” speeds up again as REKS goes hard over an Eon/Snap! beat with Ea$y Money providing the hook and guest spot.

From there, the palate never really changes. I mentioned “Riggs and Murtagh,” and it being good. It’s a crooked cop type of song, fun as hell and has way more one-upsmanship than any other song on the record. Neither does the beat a disservice, nor the album. “Show Off” and “Cancel That” are fun songs with a few too many verses from average rappers that aren’t on REKS’ level of familiarity with making a Statik beat work. JFK, Wais P and other rappers don’t really detract, but they add nothing special. Wais P, actually, sounds like a more vulgar REKS on “Cancel That.” “Parenthood” is a downer about unplanned pregnancies, but necessary to remind us that REKS is as good on a downer as he is an energetic beat. He conveys a sad tale well without having to interject his own problems unless they are relatable. I appreciate that.

I mentioned “Chasin” already, but it is a standout. REKS’ flow is at its best here, the drum loop carries the beat, making the whole track seem like a hungry one. “Sins” is an unfortunate misstep, killed by the overall lack of brilliance in every case: the flow is staccato, the concept of seven sins is overplayed and outmoded. The real saving grace is the sped-up vocal loop in the background and the fact that it is a short song. “Straight, No Chaser” is a good return to the beginning themes or how good REKS is a rapper and how he likes to let us know that. Slaine’s flow is out-of-place but not terrible enough to destroy the song outright. It’s a good bridge to the slowdown at the end of the album, and another reminder that REKS can sound commercially viable, despite his usual lack of commercial appeal.

“Lost in Translation” and “Regrets” are personal journeys that provide some cool social commentary– sort of the comeback from being so up-front and salacious earlier in the album. It’s his way of apologizing but not really apologizing at the same time. In “Regrets,” he says, “I don’t care to apologize for being racist or misogynist/ we’re all sinners.” He knows the traps of rap ensnare him like anyone else who writes a bragging rhyme or threatens the lyrical life another MC. He makes no excuses other than to say he’s good in all situations. Album-closer “730″ does exactly that– there’s no hook, no repeated lines, no guest stars or even Statik tag. There’s no time, REKS is too busy destroying the beat. He’s not into writing the club-banger or the drug anthem, but he’s definitely a skilled MC. He’s not gonna get the attention he craves or the stardom he desires, but he’ll continue to impress. If Straight, No Chaser is business as usual for REKS, I’m looking forward to more of the same.

For as long as he’s been a rock star, Jack White’s been a curious web of contradiction.  He slathered The White Stripes in gimmicks to get people to focus more on their music.  (But hey, it worked like gangbusters.)  He claimed 2003’s Elephant lamented the “death of the sweetheart” in American culture, then a few months after that album dropped, he pled guilty to pounding Jason Stollsteimer’s face.  Now, as he’s releasing Blunderbuss, his first solo album, he says this to NPR:

“When you put something out there into the world, there’s all these words you don’t want to hear, that you hope people don’t say…anything that starts with ‘re’ — like retro, reinvent, recreate — I hate that. It’s always like living in the past — copying, emulating.“

Which is funny, because while Jack makes vibrant, fresh-sounding music, he’s always had one foot firmly entangled in the extremely retro roots of American blues, folk, country, rock, punk, and R&B.  And on Blunderbuss, he’s arguably more old-timey than ever.  His 21st Century guitar fuzz barges in only sporadically.  It’s all over the very White Stripes-like garage stomper “Sixteen Saltines,” as well as the very Dead Weather-like mad science of “Freedom At 21.”  But elsewhere, aside from a riff here or a solo there, that’s about it.  No, despite the fact that its title refers to a kind of rifle, Blunderbuss is not generally loud or explosive.  It rocks hardest in “Sixteen Saltines,” which is track 2, then it spends most of its time jazzing, waltzing, and boogeying.

Sure,  it’s a little disappointing to hear Jack spend most of his time not rocking the hell out, but Blunderbuss is no disappointment.  It just takes a while to pick up steam.  It opens with “Missing Pieces,” which doesn’t exactly grab you the way opening tracks like “Dead Leaves And The Dirty Ground” or “Seven Nation Army” or “Icky Thump” do, but at the very least, it’s a fine tone-setter. Musically, it tells us Jack’s in a mellower, jazzier mood, and thematically, its love-as-leprosy lyrics tell us his usual bitterness now comes with an extra dash of danse macabre.  Alas, the song also foreshadows how middling much of the album’s first half is (except for “Sixteen Saltines” and “Love Interruption,” two pretty good tracks that also happen to be the album’s first two singles).

Then with “Weep Themselves To Sleep,” Blunderbuss finally starts living up to the lofty expectations.  The melody’s mostly monotonous, but Jack pumps it with gallons of swagger.  The drums would make Meg White proud, the way they sucker-punch the groove.  Jack’s solo slaughters, especially on headphones, since actually it’s two solos played simultaneously in separate channels, which sound like a couple of Tesla coils deciding whether they should fuck.  The real hero here though is Brooke Waggoner’s piano lines, which thrust the track from the stratosphere all the way up to the thermosphere.  In fact, I’d say Brooke’s the undisputed breakout star of Blunderbuss.  I mean, we already knew Jack was pretty good.  Sweet-and-salty back-up singer Ruby Amanfu’s also pretty good, and I wouldn’t mind hearing her solo stuff.  But Brooke is something else throughout this album, knitting together classical, goth, honky-tonk, Dixieland, Nina Simone thunder, and Vince Guaraldi Peanuts jazz.

The second-side hot streak continues with “I’m Shakin’,” which aims to be  “All Shook Up” for 2012, and it’s thrice as fun as that sounds.  I’m gonna play this jam at my wedding and watch all the boomers twist with the millennials.  The slinky-piano-blues of “Trash Tongue Talker” is just as familiar and almost as fun.  “Hip (Eponymous) Poor Boy” must be a gentle jab at Meg- a song to a girl who just wants to sit around while he continues to take over the world, singin’ the blues (”I’ll be using your name…let the stripes unfurl“).  But the track’s bouncy Kinks-via-New Orleans vibe suggests it comes from a playful, good-natured place one could only share with your ex-drummer/ex-wife/psuedo-big-sister.

Blunderbuss begins easing to a close with the good ol’ simplicity of “I Guess I Should Go To Sleep” and the breeze-blown confusion of “On And On And On.”  Then just when you think the last track “Take Me With You When You Go” is about to shuffle out the door like “Take Five,” out of nowhere Jack brings the rock back for one last encore.  And at the end of the day, behind all the bile and swagger and funky Zeppelin, there’s still a scared little boy in there.  He bitches about not wanting to be labelled “retro,” even though he so obviously is retro, so maybe he’s masking some deeper fear.  Like the fact that he hates being alone, and now he’s got to make it out there just as “Jack White.”

But whatever yo, I’m no psychologist.  Just a dude who’s been following Jack White for over a decade now.  All I know for sure is that I really like Blunderbuss, and this kid oughtta do just fine by himself.

Maps & Atlases took a giant leap toward the mainstream with Perch Patchwork, their excellent full-length debut.  The band’s early EPs were thick with sinewy, mathematical grooves that were also excellent, just harder to listen to for more than an EP’s worth of time.  But such grooves were thinned out significantly to make room for bigger hooks, deeper emotions, and poppier structures on Patchwork.  For their second LP, Beware And Be Grateful, Maps & Atlases take a small step closer to the mainstream with one foot as the other foot steps back toward their dense, intricate roots. It’s pleasing to hear the band widen their stance, and only in one spot does the delicate balance start to wobble.

As always, Dave Davison leads with his strangled, soulful voice; guitarist Erin Elders fires off riffs that show off his fleet fingers as well as his sharp hook-sense; and bassist Shiraz Dada & drummer Chris Hainey remain one of the best rhythm sections in America.  The textures on Beware are cleaner and sleeker than usual, but the structures are looser and jammier again.  The meat of the album, as with Patchwork, sounds like lean-muscled, Cat Stevens-fronted Tropicália (”Winter,” “Silver Self,” “Be Three Years Old,” “Bugs,” “Old Ash”).  The vibe may be familiar, though there’s plenty of dazzling novelty scattered in there, like the deliciously squiggly riffs of “Winter,” the hyper-doodle solo sprawling across the second half of “Silver Self,” and Davison’s throat-scratching passion in “Old Ash.”

Most of my favorite tracks happen to be the ones where the band steps further out of their comfort zone.  Opener “Old & Gray” is a real bewitcher.  Davison gazes wistfully at a relationship that came oh so close to beating the odds (“The writing on the wall is under three coats of paint/ in an apartment we don’t live in anymore“) as the tune drifts idly in a gently throbbing stream of multi-multi-tracked Kid A machine-ghosts.  Despite the apparent meandering, there’s no shortage of hooks pulling us toward the highly cathartic climax where Davison exorcises his pain through gratuitous melisma.  “Old & Gray” then slides sexily into “Fever,” a slab of arena-friendly pop that hang-glides on hope and chillwaves (”When the fever passes/ and we’re all back in our nests/ we’ll be extravagant hosts instead of imposing guests“).

Interestingly enough, Beware And Be Grateful’s best song is “Vampires,” perhaps the simplest song the band’s ever recorded.  Armed with a joyriding one-TWO!-three-FOUR! beat, the album’s best hooks, and a spirit of joyful defiance (”I don’t know if the vampires in this town/ just expect us to lay down and roll over…no, we won’t roll over!“), “Vampires” is a lock to make my Best Of 2012 mixtape.   The only flop on Beware is “Remote And Dark Years,” which, for my taste, is too fluffy with Bon Iver’s soft-rock twinkle-haze- albeit with more righteous drum fills.

Something about Beware And Be Grateful makes me think someone may have suffered a near-death experience before the album’s production.  Maybe it’s all those mortality-flavored song titles.  Or maybe it’s the cover, black and yellow like a warning sign, a tombstone etched with warm yet ominous advice.  And just like someone who’s come back from the edge of death, Maps & Atlases sound wiser, more rejuvenated, and eager to greet life’s next chapter.

Wayne Campbell: Hey, Tiny, who’s playing today?
Tiny: Jolly Green Giants and the Shitty Beatles.
Wayne Campbell: Shitty Beatles? Are they any good?
Tiny: They suck.
Wayne Campbell: Then it’s not just a clever name.

Sharkpact does not suck. And they are not just a clever name. Although this scene from Wayne’s World is the first thing I thought of when I downloaded their name-your-price album Ditches for zero dollars, upon retrospect, I should probably throw them some coin considering the space Sharkpact has taken in my heavy rotation.

For the uninitiated, Sharkpact is a punk rock duo from the Pacific Northwest consisting of drums and keyboards. Pause. Now throw away any comparisons to Mates of State or whatever crappy keyboard/drummer bands you are thinking of in order to write off Sharkpact. Ditches is an innovative approach to popular punk, a lively kick to a genre many think dead.

Opener “Ocean” is a lively anthem emblematic of what Sharkpact does best: 80s-style synths, quick tempos, whoa-oh-ohs and an endearing one-take/best-take punk rock urgency. “Service” follows up, a 4-chord monster that, for all its predictability, transcends stereotyping, shifting between Camille’s throaty wail and the signature dual vocal chorus that first captured my interest.

“Wilderness” pulls Sharkpact in a somewhat different direction, eschewing some of the peppiness for a moody fuzzed-out synth behind a blistering blastbeat. While these departures help make the album sonically diverse, as a listener, I’m ready for the hook to kick back in, for the electro-pop-punk chorus to take over.

Ditches is a sincere and commendable achievement. In fact, it reminds me of better days–days when bands were less concerned about what was being written about them on the internet, and more concerned with what they were doing in their home scenes. Sharkpact remind me of the latter. And when I hear mid-album cut “Spring,” off of Ditches, I’m grateful that I don’t think about facebook pages, twitter accounts or even music blogs like this one, but of house shows, cd-r demos and good friends. I’m a nostalgic bastard, but Sharkpact manages to bring out the best aspects of that nostalgia.

But for all the praise, Ditches falls short in places. Tracks like “Cement” lack the same vocal inspiration as others, and lyrically, Sharkpact, like many pop-punk bands, fails to impress. We tread familiar themes, primarily nostalgia (although the marine/aquatic thread throughout the album is praiseworthy). The album is also plagued by a false closer, a 4-track recording of random voices and psychedelic effects.

Sharkpact clearly isn’t breaking new ground, but that’s not their intention. They are about having a good time, about wailing vocals, sing-a-long choruses, and most importantly, reminding you that punk rock still thrives in certain communities. And for the pay-what-you-want model for Ditches, it is certainly worth a listen.

Interested? Get their album for free here.

Amongst the rubble of my past life, there’s few bands I tried to hold onto despite them being out of the public eye. Most of them were during my time in NYC and are either completely different from when I heard them then or have stopped making music altogether. Some I’ve stayed in contact with, others have slipped through the cracks. Somewhere in the rubble, I got a hold of a record I really liked, this little minimal EP from Electricians. I can still sing a couple of the songs, even. I was awaiting a bigger, longer, more produced LP; something that brought their sound more definition and weight. I’m here to admit I was mistaken. You don’t need the production help, Electricians. A full LP of what you have is just fine.

Running begins and ends at the peak of their talent level. At no time are they overshooting or adding filler to give their songs added beef. In fact, the first sounds you hear on the album’s opener, “Actuator” are filler before they break into straightforward rock-and-roll riff as if to beckon the idea of largeness and shun it. The song is under two minutes, a perfect introduction to Running. The more staid and lyrically-driven “Sorry About the Snow” follows suit. A three-minute jam that vacillates between low-boil and full-out yelling (”Wooooooooah, the winter’s not that cold.”), it sets up for the meat of the album.

“Common Era” is a straight-ahead rock anthem. It feels short (longest song yet) because of the verse-chorus-verse structure and the direct action Electricians plug into the song. The most single-worthy jam on Running, “Common Era” showcases the catchy, driven side of the band. The polar opposite, “Tall Trees” is my favorite song they’ve written yet. Youthful expression from an adult viewpoint is often tough, but Electricians focus on a specific image: “As a young boy/ I had a penchant/ for sleeping under, sleeping under/ tall trees.” It’s this kind of image that brings the listener to a different place than the normal song from a kids’ perspective. Further, they soften the blow on a cheesy chorus openner like “Now, you’re older and time flies by./ Hold on to what you can.” That kind of ‘outrospection,’ as I call it when whimsy takes the place of actuality, is forgivable and touching when it accompanies a solid song structure and a cool image, even if repeated. The ending, acting as a bridge to nowhere, is a deft touch to a pretty terrific overall song.

“Seasons” marks the continuation of the album’s best songs. A new vocalist takes over and adds some punch to another slow jam. “Seasons” is less evocative than the songs before it, but it adds to the theme of time passing– a general theme on Running that isn’t a concept but a continually explored idea. I’m not sure that time’s passing is purposeful since so many of Electricians’ songs are purposefully opaque and the theme is well-explored in the rock world. If the album falls short on that theme, I’d take it as a compliment to the listener and the band that we are spared a long explanation on why humans and time correlate. Instead, we get “So Long,” a nice ditty about waiting on a lost communication. We also get the end of the album’s first act, “Big Cliche,” a title that makes fun of their penchant for borrowing classic rock’s riffs, lyrics, and, in this case, vocals.

“Simking” and “Underwater” bleed into one another and earmark the beginning of a new direction on the album. A flaw of Running is the sheer number of songs, but I’m not bored at this point. “Underwater” is a strange jam: “We’ll build a colony under the water/ where we can be at home. Building castles for our sons and our daughters/ with laws of our own./ Such great ideas for us all to follow/ at the end of the world.” A post-apolocalyptic song that doubles as an invitation to live impossibly on the floor of the ocean is a bit jarring and so is the delivery. The whispered-melodic vocals are at times given studio-wetness before a shout-chorus of “Everyone is coming./ We want you to be there.” And the song ends abruptly. The more I hear “Underwater,” the more I question it, but it’s a conversation piece. I wonder why it was included, but the oddity is cleansing and I’m glad the song is there.

Electricians don’t cede their past efforts. “Elephant” is a song from an earlier EP under the psuedonym Hello Later. The song is charged with a little cowbell and distortion, but it doesn’t lose it’s charming chorus or metaphorical vagueness that allows me to love it. Previously, I’d challenged Hello Later to write something longer and more substantial. Seeing Elephant on here harkened me back to that challenge. I tip my cap. “Forgot About You” sounds like a castaway from their first release and that is not a detriment. The simplistic drums, the whistling, the faraway sound, it’s all a confluence of seeming effortlessness that I remarked on the first time I heard them. They’ve not lost that. Ending the album with “Dreaming” and a hidden punk jam about Democracy shows how intriguing their style can be. In the true “indie” way, the influences are often worn on sleeves and that’s no different here. “Dreaming” is a 60s echo-voiced throwback and the hidden jam (probably called “Surfin’ the USSR) reminds me exactly to the parody track on Built To Spill’s There’s Nothing Wrong With Love. As “Dreaming” ends with a repeated call of “Where did the time go,” we’re subtly reminded of the beginning of the album again– when Electricians were at their best. I’m not berating the later songs, I was happiest early in the album.

Perhaps an explanation is in order: Running is a celebration of Electricians, albeit a bit scattered in the later songs. The album is really good, but not perfect. I probably won’t put it in a best-of list or anything. There are moments of specific clarity here. I mentioned all of them, but I haven’t mentioned one last thing: I’d rather listen to this than the polished, beloved versions of these songs. There are bigger bands with money, polish and the time to consistently write and release songs like this and they can’t touch what Running provides. I haven’t heard a rock band release a song like “Tall Trees” or “Underwater.” The chances Electricians take are unrealistic goals made to sound like indie rock gems. Some are better than others, but the experiment is worth more than a few hypotheses. With experiments come realization and Running has a lot of realization and some jams to add to an already weighty collection of favorites.

Ed. note: Upon originally posting, I forgot to include a link to the album on bandcamp. I regret that. Name your own price for a damned fine album here.

I’ve never reviewed a Life and Times record, yet I’ve been an outspoken fan of every record and EP they’ve ever touched. Of course, now that I operate a music blog with no restrictions, they’ve decided to put out their strangest record to date: an explorative vision of love, violence, and overwrought devotion. Each song is a representative demand: some songs are declarations of lovely and desirous commands to gain a lover’s attention, others are penetrating decisions that border on madness. In either case, recording a concept as simple and engrossing as this one demands a different approach: each song is a day in the life, or more correctly a day in the thoughts, of a person attempting to ensnare his mate. No One Loves You Like I Do is a penetrating look inside love’s consuming force. Therefore, I decided to place the songs in order to possibly expose the core of the album. Experimentation begets experimentation.

“Day One” is a confessional. Beyond the normal “boy sees girl, boy likes girl” or vice-versa, the first lyric is “If you love me/ I will love you/ and if you don’t/ I’ll still love you.” It’s assumptive to think that’s creepy or abnormal, but the song continues that vibe. Later: “If you sleep,/ I will watch you./ In your dreams/ you might love me/ and set my  fingers/ through your fingers/ just like lovers.” The breathy delivery builds to a boiling point of riff-led theatrics in the middle of the song. This record isn’t lacking for instrumental breaks with manic drum fills or repeated phrses. Point of fact, these are often the closest thing we get to choruses. The wall of acerbic guitar is not conditional either. Even during downtempo times, background filler is an important and distinctive voice in the record. As the song progresses, the noises grow louder as the speaker of the song proclaims his intents to love fiercely and forever.

By “Day Two,” it’s apparent that our protagonist has an antecedent or two to proclaim. What has driven this man to such heights of confession? “Nothing moves me./ Nothing moves me now.” The dreaminess is exactly that from “Day One”: vapor. The singular focus of the record is in “Day Two.” If he was confessing his love before and the band was following him musically, now he has focus and clarity. So, too, does the band. A bass and drum-led verse come full-throttle in the chorus. A pair of reverberated keyboard notes lapse in the background. “No one sees me./ No one can see me now.” Is the protagonist now fully enveloped in the dream world– the one where lovers’ hands have intertwined? If so, the music develops a less passive tone that we would imagine. The last 2:30 of the song explores a side of the record we won’t see again. “Day Two” is breakdown-laden and nearly porous. It slips into holes of harsh basslines and breakbeats, but never overpowers the listener. The keys, the wailing of the singer (”nothing sees me”) all point to a waking dream.

“Day Three” follows further down the seething rabbit-hole. The songs lyrics are the most realistic and relationship-like on No One. The opening drone fades the song into a beginning crescendo: “When the fight began/ dogs just barked and children ran/ and as our hopes went dry/ we lit our cigarettes from off the fire.” Then the “chorus”: “That’s the way it’s always been.” There’s double meaning here. Both the current relationship and the idea of a relationship are called to task here. Personally, I love the image of a fight driving dogs and babies to emotion and causing a metaphorical fire. The second verse: “We vanished without a trace,/ Can’t explain how we got to that place./ They said that mistakes were made,/ the very same mistakes we’ve made/ and history will eat itself.” There’s extra measures to repeat “They say mistakes were made.” The comparatives between the current relationship and society’s view of the relationship continues. The vague “they” judge from the outside of love, as “they” are wont to do, but the protagonist’s cry of “History will eat itself” maintains the album’s theme: even in a tough time, No One Loves You Like I Do. Truly, this is delusion beyond grandeur, a modern Heloise and Abelard story. Once the speaker claims his love will outlast the collision of stars and the destruction of earth, the rest is noise, quite literally.

Day Four: none

“Day Five” is a return to the dream songs. Allen Epley’s vocals/the bassline are hyper-distorted and used in short bursts over long-spiraling vibraphone keys. Declarative and promissory, the lyrics state simply the plans to make the protagonist’s life complete. The chorus-like repetition of “No one loves you like I do” re-introduces the unhealthy obsessiveness prevalent through most of the album. “All your friends?/ Forget them./ I’ll be the one who keeps your hopes and secrets/ locked away so they can’t steal them.” He’s protective to a fault here, protecting the only important item ever discussed on the album.

“Day Six,” musically, is the most like the past incarnations of The Life and Times. Big, heavy bass strokes lead the drums in a cymbal-less drive through the first 1:20 of the song before noisy feedback and delayed vocals take the song over. That first 1:20 continues the protective vibe of “Day Five’s” lyrics, only with a commanding voice unheard of until now. He warns the wandering mind of his lover not to get tangled or lost since, “I’m the one/ be good to me/ I’ll lock the door/ and eat the key.” We’ve moved from love-letters and musing to masculine fieriness. If love is not perfect, enclose it. Heloise, meet Rapunzel. Meanwhile, “Day Six” is an achievement in other ways: the drums drop in and out when the moments merit them. The fluidity of the guitars fills the song out entirely and Epley’s sharp vocal structures fill a void rather than accentuating and already crowded musical house. His most triumphant lyrical moment sets the stage for the rest of the record: “Find someone. / Fall in Love./ Give Your Soul./ Lose your soul./ Lose their love./ Find someone else./ Take their love.” This is the closest the listener gets to the mentality of the speaker. The lack of faith in the conundrum of love, the pattern of love, the overall unpleasing nature of continuance is finally a form-fitting way to describe our protagonist. He’s not just a stalker, he’s a man as tired of emotion as many of us. And he’s directing his pain.

Day Seven: none

Day Eight: “All of a sudden/ everything changes/ no hiss or warnings/ no signs pointing the way / friends are floating farther away.” An acoustic-guitar driven jam about how lost people get in each other for extended periods of time? Yeah, I’m with that. But then, the shift: “There’s no place for comfort./ There’s no one to keep you from harm/ but I’ll be waiting.” This is the end of the dream, the final idea of the record (in real time, anyway). As the protagonist is floating toward a harsh reality, he’s realizing how far away from love he might actually be, if love is shared. He’s alone. When the song hits its huge, noisy crescendo, the “floating in space” feeling finally takes the full undertaking the album has suggested all along. A headbanging drumline is under a wonderfully dreamy, if seldom-hit, riff. The whole concept feel like it dies in this song, this set of noises, this falling away from the dream of love.

Then, back to the grind of direct-speak and intimidation in “Day Nine.” “Baby, lift the weight off your shoulders./ Take the fucking weight off your shoulders and throw it./ Forget everything that they told you./ They could never take away what I have shown you.” Now that “they” are back in the picture, the music is more menacing and back to building collisions and the lyrics reflect it: “Put away your makeup now baby./ Baby, show your those bruises,/ there’s no shame there./ Put away your makeup now baby,/ show them what they’ve done to your eyes.” We’re nine days in, and the plot has turned entirely. From the descriptive dreamscapes and subtly dreamy narrative comes reality’s treason. The protagonist’s love is too powerful, all-consuming. And like most positions of power, the system of love is corrupt. Heloise, Rapunzel? There’s a big, bad wolf awaiting you. “Dance through the room,/ stitch in your head,/ pulling it through/ with needle in thread.” Dangerous obsessions still find beauty. Though it’s a story we see so often, it’s never less powerful when done well. If the love seemed unrequited before, the love now seems all-too-realistic and fatal here. The final choral minute-plus is a definitive view of how well this band captures a moment. It’s uncomfortably bass-heavy and disproportionately overwhelming compared to the rest of the album– and rightfully so.

If “Day Nine” is the violent focal point of the record, “Day Ten” is the actuality of thought. The protagonist is through proclaiming through words or violence. He’s rested his laurels with a simple decision: “You’ll discover/ I’m the only one who cares./ No one dares./ So I decided/ to write a letter from my heart…” This action of apology, no matter how misguided, is the definition of failed perception. The protagonist, now the antagonist, cannot apologize enough, but still shows the capability of humility: “I’m the servant and the master all in one/ thy will be done.” Can a more beautiful line be quoted from the mouth of a lost soul? We’re seeing Paradise Lost here or a house divided by action, mended by words. It truly doesn’t matter what “they” (or even we/I) think. There is only his love, accepted or no. “So, keep on walking,/ pass the others in the halls./ They’ll never call./ And when you wake up,/ I’m the only one who’ll see. Just you and me.” Love is a lonely bastard, eh? “Day Ten” is the modern scope of intangible, unthinkable love.

“Day Eleven” is a stop-start, herky-jerky, even reactionary track. The protagonist is questioning the power of his subject’s love. Like a series of tests: would you kill for me? Would you save me? Would you take care of me? Would you transcend love to be perfect with me? “There is nothing I won’t do/ to prove to all my love for you” is layered through the end of the song in a delicate, beautiful tracking/studio trick to add a layer we’ve not seen on the record thus far. While questions remain for our speaker, there is no questioning how good this record is any longer. Cheesy lines to win the lover’s heart included, this song defines the record’s hazy, limitless musicianship. Impressively layered, masterfully culling the feeling from tired lyrics, “Day Eleven” would be my favorite song on this record if it were a lesser record.

It isn’t a lesser record. Culling voices of the past (Failure comes immediately to mind), The Life and Times create a sonic distance throughout this record only to make a single, brilliant track that recalls the spacey rock tracks that made this band one of my favorites. An overconfident speaker proclaims that he will slip back into his ex-lover’s skin. At no time did we really know if the two were apart until now, but the speaker refers to his love as an example of brilliance. The chorus (yes, the verse-chorus-verse system exists on this album at least once) has a beautiful harmony that drives even harder than the rhythm section’s impeccable timing. “My love is alive/ My love is sublime/ like the light from a thousand suns.” He ends the song, and effectively the entire thought process/ concept: “Splashed up to the ocean floor/ I can’t get you out of my head.” There is nothing, even his own failure, that can keep his love at bay.  Not the ocean, nor the sun. Sure, we’ve heard that line before. It doesn’t stop the idea from existing. Nor does it stop No One Loves You Like I Do from delivering the opus.

So, I reviewed a Life and Times record finally. While I’m scratching that off the ole bucket list, I should speak to the overall brilliance of the record, but I’m wiped out, man. This was like two weeks of thinking only about this one record for the most part. Trying to understand it, to stop being so in love with it and failing, making it my favorite record of the year, being disgusted with how much drivel the lyrics present, knowing that drivel creates the everyman character speaking to us, loving “Day Nine” so much… it all became a hassle. Then I started actually writing. This record is meant to be analyzed, pulled apart, disassembled, reassembled, denied/forgotten/remembered/rescued. No One loves this record like I do, probably. It is an oft-spacey dreamscape and and oft-realistic depiction of love’s ever-consuming bounty. The Life and Times wrote a record for the ages to be lost on most and never heard by more than most. No One Loves You Like I Do represents so much about why I write about music, and so little about music itself. You can probably see why I am so obsessed with it and you’ll excuse me if I don’t care what “they” say about it. Or don’t say. They’ve probably said enough. I can’t get them out of my head. Don’t want to.

Side note, Here’s the actual order of the album:

Day Six, Day Nine, Day One, Day Five, Day Three, Day Eleven, Day Ten, Day Two, Day Twelve, Day Eight. You can cut-and-paste to that order if you want. Experimentation begets experimentation.

It’s possible that these were just the days spent in the studio recording the songs, but if you present a theme as strong as different phases of love? The listener has to assume something thematic in the titles is a corollary. At least, if you are a listener so obsessive that you listen to albums 10 times before you write about them, you see that corollary. If each day is representative of a different emotional connection (as I think they are), the worst I’ve done is talk about the songs out of order.

The Magnetic Fields’ Stephin Merritt is always eager to prove there are infinite realms of love waiting to be revealed by pop music; that, if written well enough, love songs will never lose their power to touch us and tickle us and break our hearts in totally new ways.

As the title of Love At The Bottom Of The Sea implies, Merritt has set out this time to explore some of love’s murkier, slimier habitats.  In past songs, he’s stabbed lovers and fantasized about pushing them off cliffs, but now he’s a bit more twisted than that.  The narrator of “Your Girlfriend’s Face,” for example, hires a hitman to shoot her cheating man’s girlfriend in the face, and then that woman scorned is gonna bury the guy alive while he’s tweaking on crystal meth.  Another cuckquean in “My Husband’s Pied-a-Tierre” also wishes deadly revenge on her unfaithful man, only this time she’s singing from a loony bin after discovering her spouse’s “bachelor pad.”  As is often the case in Magnetic Fields songs, the results are much more charming on record than on paper: the delivery is always delightfully deadpan, and the melodies are a fine mix of familiar and novel.

Then there’s the synths.  The synths are a big deal here.  This is partly because synths were such a big deal for The Magnetic Fields early in their career, up through their utterly-essential masterpiece 69 Love Songs.  But 69 Love Songs was over 12 years ago, and the 3 very good albums the band released between then and now (i, Distortion, Realism) deliberately offered zero synths.  Now Love At The Bottom Of The Sea is all about synths, and playing with lots of cool new synth toys that have become available in the past 12+ years.  The “bottom of the sea” isn’t just a metaphor for the depths of love we’re navigating; it also describes all the whooshes and waves and blurps we’re scuba-diving within.

The fun that Merritt & company have jumping back in the synth pool is palpable and contagious.  It makes “Your Girlfriend’s Face” a death threat you can wiggle your butt to.  It makes religious-mandated abstinence sound as sexy as actual sex in “God Wants Us To Wait.”  All that synthesizing is such a diversion it can even distract from how much substance there is.  During the first listen or two, Love At The Bottom Of The Sea might seem more superficial than the typical Magnetic Fields album, without any songs as beautiful as past gems like, say, “The Book Of Love” or “It’s Only Time.”  However, more than a few songs reveal some serious poignancy after repeated listens.

“Andrew In Drag” initially comes off like an amusing farce, with its ladies’ man narrator falling madly for a cross-dresser.  But it becomes awfully heart-breaking the more you hear it and think about it.  This guy isn’t just falling for Andrew in drag, he’s practically ruined by Andrew in drag.  He’s unable to fall for any man or woman anymore.  And not only that- Andrew’s not even into drag. It was a one-time thing: “I’ll never see that girl again/ he did it as a gag.”  There’s no hope of our humble narrator ever fulfilling his burning desire.  This is some fucking Shakespearean tragedy right here.

In “The Only Boy In Town,” a woman could totally fall for the boy she’s singing to, if only it weren’t for every other boy alive striking her fancy.  In “Machine In Your Hand,” a guy wishes he could be the iPhone-like gizmo for a tech-obsessed crush (”I don’t know why I love you/ you’re not really a person/ more a gadget with meat stuck to it“).  The fact that both of these songs feel genuinely romantic is borderline miraculous, and a testament to Merritt’s genius.

Yet there a few tracks where Merritt’s genius takes a smoke break, and not even a boatload of cool synths can rescue them.  A particularly disappointing stretch follows the excellent opening sequence of “God Wants Us To Wait,” “Andrew In Drag,” and “Your Girlfriend’s Face.”  The sluggish “Born To Love” isn’t helped any by the generic hopeless romantic behind the microphone.  “I’d Go Anywhere With Hugh” doesn’t go anywhere beyond it’s blandly punny unrequited love triangle (”I love Hugh/ and Hugh loves you/ you love me/ and he does not/ I don’t love you/ you don’t love Hugh…“).  “Infatuation (With Your Gyration)” is barely more inventive than The Black Eyed Peas’ “My Humps.”  Fortunately, there aren’t any more stinkers until the last track, “All She Cares About Is Mariachi,” which seems to exist merely to rhyme “mariachi” with words like “hibachi” and “Liberace.”  (Though I must admit I giggled at the lyric “So go ahead and hire Saatchi & Saatchi/ to advertise the sausage in your pants.”)  Any of these tracks could have been redeemed by a great Stephin Merritt melody, but alas, their tunes are as half-assed as their premises.

One of the best things about Love At The Bottom Of The Sea, though, is its brevity- of 15 songs, only 3 go past 2 and a half minutes.  So the few weak tracks zip by relatively painlessly.  As for the many good-to-great tracks, they pack worlds of luster into their tiny spheres- just like little pearls.

If you ask me, a worthwhile trip should have plenty of kaleidoscopic whimsy, but also a sense of menace lurking in the shadows.  A trip that’s all rainbow butterflies and pinwheel treetops is nice and all, but where’s the challenge in that?  If, on the other hand, you can skip through cotton candy meadows and marvel at the cosmic beauty in a single dandelion spore for hours on end, while at the same time courageously swatting every mischievous imp that periodically tries to pounce on you from the abyss of your subconsciousness, well then you’ve exercised a tremendously valuable real-life skill, haven’t you?

Django Django’s frequently great, extremely promising self-titled album knows how to balance the light and the dark in the realm of psychedelia.  The boomba-boom drums sound like dancefloors quaking beneath the feet of 1,000 candy-flippers at the rave of the century, yet they also sound like ancient hunters chasing you through a midnight forest.  The melodies are jaunty as London fops, yet squirmy as easily-agitated eels.  The guitars bubble and groove when they’re not plotting your demise.  The synths propel neon trails across the sky, right before they charm pits of venomous cobras.  The lyrics blend the idyllic (”Look at the hills/ they look so green/ the horizon is the place that you always dream“) with perilous interstellar overdrive (”Stars shine in the night sky/ you light up like a solar flare/ watch us burn up on contact/ as we enter the atmosphere”).

Django Django is generally more potent when swallowed whole as a 48-minute odyssey, though it does have its fair share of single-worthy tracks.  The best of those is “Default,” a bitter, block-busting dance-rock jam with an irresistible glitch-throb hook.  “Firewater” shimmies and snaps along to a friendly acoustic guitar lick over a drinker’s lament (”My liver’s up and left me/ the devil thinks I’m great“).   And there’s a particularly strong string in the middle of the album’s second half, starting with “Wor,” which gallops astride a rockabilly-surf riff that recalls PJ Harvey’s “50 Foot Queenie.”  “Storm” features some of the album’s most enticing melodies, as well as a groove that’s simultaneously sleek and herky-jerky, right before “Life’s A Beach” keeps the shindig rolling with Beach Boys harmonies and sinister breakdowns.

Only a couple tracks border on uninspired.  “Skies Over Cairo” takes on a hookah-smoking Middle Eastern vibe we’ve heard many times before, only it doesn’t add much aside from some video game sound effects.  And centerpiece “Zumm Zumm” defies practically everything that works on Django Django: where all the other tracks are tight and lean, “Zumm Zumm” pads itself out to nearly 5 and a half minutes; instead of inducing any kind of trance, the repetitive hooks turn annoying real quick; and it’s pure silliness, with none of the darkness we talked about earlier to balance things out.

But Django Django’s missteps are minor and totally forgivable compared to its triumphs.  Wherever Syd Barrett is, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s looking down on this band, smiling his childlike smile, and wondering where they’ll journey next.