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.

The nasal, wise-ass tones of Adam “Ad-Rock” Horovitz and Michael “Mike D” Diamond dominated the Beastie Boys’ high-chemistry Globetrotter flows, but the raspy growl of Adam “MCA” Yauch grounded everything, and added a half-ton of menace.  Ad-Rock and Mike D were a couple of hip-hop Joe Pescis, and MCA was their DeNiro.  No wonder that when the band picked up instruments, it was MCA who laid down those thick, groovy basslines.  (So many great ones to choose from, but my favorite’s gotta be the breakdown of “Sabotage:” Right after you think the song’s just napalmed itself into ash and rubble, MCA slides in and lays the foundation for one more round of punk-rap fury.)

When I was 6 years old, I bought my first cassette: Once I heard “Paul Revere,” I had to own Licensed To Ill. “Paul Revere” may be a violent tale of thuggery, but for at least 2/3 of its running time, it’s obviously goofy posturing.  Ad-Rock and Mike D, as slick and funny as they may be, sound more crazy and deluded than tough.  The track only sounds remotely dangerous when MCA grabs the mic (”My name is MCA, I got a license to kill/ I think you know what time it is, it’s time to get ill“).

The band’s early objectification of women never felt genuine to me- even at my more tender ages, “Girls” sounded way more like parody than philosophy.  Still, the Beasties were kind enough to atone for their youthful frat-boy antics, and managed to evolve into more enlightened musicians without sacrificing their edge or irreverence.  In 1994, when grotesque misogyny was really starting to plague mainstream hip-hop, MCA devoted a couple lines during the first track of the hotly-anticipated Ill Communication to call out the chauvinists:

I want to say a little something that’s long overdue
the disrespect to women has got to be through
to all the mothers and sisters and the wives and friends
I want to offer my love and respect to the end

Yet MCA remained just as much the jester as his bandmates, directing many of the band’s super-fun, silly-loving videos. Fittingly, his last directorial effort is arguably his cinematic masterpiece: 2011’s hilarious, star-studded short film “Fight For Your Right Revisited.”

Along with Run-D.M.C., the Beastie Boys were largely responsible for blasting rap music into American suburbs.  With Paul’s Boutique, the Beasties (with plenty of help from the Dust Brothers) drastically expanded hip-hop’s horizons.  For over 25 years, they’ve been one of the most respected and reliably amusing bands in pop music.  All three Beasties deserve props for what they’ve accomplished.  But Adam Yauch was the group’s heart and their rock-solid center.

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.

I waited until two days after Port of Morrow was released to buy it. For those that know my level of Shins adoration, the wait was unusual. Maybe it was an affront to my fandom, but I wasn’t all that impressed with the Shins pre-album performances. SNL, Letterman, youtube clips, it was all a mass of garbled wonder and it left me bewildered. How can I hold any disdain for a band that put out three outstanding albums? Was it too much to ask that a too-long absence produce a fourth masterwork? Hold on, I’ll explain why it was and turned out not to be.

So often, bands spiral downward. I think Jawbreaker’s Dear You (the fourth studio album from my favorite band) is a standout example. Critically destroyed, childishly flamboyant, over-recorded, Dear You is a trainwreck at times, but that’s why I love it. I’m not entirely sure why it was panned so vehemently– perhaps the saturation of emotional rock music led folks astray on the purpose of the album. Perhaps their popularity amongst adoring fans made dismissal an obvious choice. Jawbreaker was the exact crossroads: too small to fail and too popular to quit. Dear You turned into a labor of love, but wasn’t worth the problems it caused. Often, a band’s shelf-life is shorter than the albums they continue to create. That’s all I could think about as the release date neared: The Shins’ popularity and relative obscurity were demonizing what should have been an exciting day.

I was too young to really know why Jawbreaker fell apart or why people didn’t like Dear You. I was old enough to hear people complain about Wincing the Night Away not being as good as the Shins’ previous efforts. It was as if the album were an affront to those that worshipped Chutes Too Narrow and an excuse to dismiss The Shins for those who didn’t love them anyway. I figured it was their last release. Once James Mercer started writing with Danger Mouse, his path diverged from mine and I was content with the three albums he gave the Shins’ moniker. Hell, I even loved Wincing, unlike most folks I knew. There was nothing missing. The Shins were infallible and they’d chosen to stay that way. Then, I saw pitchfork articles touting terribly recorded live material. Then iTunes released “Simple Song.” Then the release date. Then my trepidation and waiting.

Had The Shins ruined my attraction to them? After 7 years, the idea of a new Shins record was more appealing than actually knowing one was coming. I held off on listening to bad recordings, opting instead for the “Simple Song,” a Cars-esque theatrical love song. I waited for SNL’s sneak peek too, hoping for a decent sound, but I wasn’t impressed. The company I was in were not Shins fans– not even close– so maybe they had affected how I heard the performance.

See, that’s where I failed: I needed to cull my youthful exuberance. When Dear You came out, I was just excited to hear from Jawbreaker again. I wasn’t worried about their stranding in the music world or what I would think if the record wasn’t great. After all the hand-wringing, I read what my friend wrote on facebook (thanks, Scott H.) and I got excited again. To paraphrase: “I’m a sucker for the Shins.” Me too, I forgot. So why am I scared? Two days after the release of what should have been my most anticipated album in a decade, I came home from work, copped Port of Morrow, and got comfy. My fears washed away pretty quickly– by the time Mercer refrains, “You were always to be a dagger floating straight to their heart,” I was satiated. Port of Morrow is great and I’ve listened to it damn near exclusively since I bought it. Fears allayed, I focused on why I would be so fretful, fell into a rabbit-hole of Chutes proportions and have reminded everyone I know of how good this band was/is.

The difference in my youthful ignorance and my world-wearied exterior isn’t personified often: I’ve softened on so many issues and I’m no elitist. Port of Morrow is not an album with grandiose pertinence like their past work. In fact, it’s a bit more direct and preachy rather than story-telling or dynamic. “September” is a grand exception. “40 Mark Strasse,” “Simple Song,” “It’s Only Life,” and “Fall of ‘82″ are all direct messages and unlike anything Mercer has ever done. All the songs masterpieces, collectively, Port of Morrow straddles the line between cheesiness and exaltation. Either way, it’s pop-perfection. He croons over certain songs, whispers and crawls over others. Even the iTunes b-side “Pariah King” serves as an example of how good Mercer is. Filler keyboard rambles, strangely entrancing vocal-highs and philosophical understandings of life amongst the bottom-feeders underline the one thing I wasn’t expecting: I love this band despite their absences and faults. I love them despite my own.

I was planning on just writing “It’s excellent,” and leaving the review at that. And it would’ve done this album some justice. Port of Morrow deserves the boring backstory, though. The Shins deserve my collective sighs and overwrought personality. They deserve everything I’ve got, because they’ve been consistently astounding for this long. Wrapping my head around Mercer’s genre-bending boldness is never old, despite how long I wait. I’m ready to believe again, The Shins. You’ve earned more than what I offered this record, but it won’t happen again, I promise. With renewed vigor, I’m telling everyone the truth. Port of Morrow is more than a comeback record, it’s more than a return to greatness, it’s more than perfection.

It’s excellent.

Maps & Atlases became one of my new favorite bands in 2010, when their full-length debut Perch Patchwork floored me with its blend of intricate virtuosity and accessible pop songcraft.  So I’ve been awaiting new music from this band the way comics geeks have been awaiting The Dark Knight Rises. “Winter” is the first single from Maps & Atlases’ forthcoming album Beware And Be Grateful, and to me, it feels like a nice teaser more than an exciting trailer.  It’s got me a bit more hyped to hear the new LP, though I can’t help but hope they’re just saving the real fireworks for later.

Singer Dave Davison’s vocals and melodies aren’t quite as soulful or venturesome as most of the ones I fell for on Perch Patchwork, but I’m OK with that.  They’re catchy enough to keep me humming along, and besides, the instruments pick up more than enough slack here.  Bassist Shiraz Dada and drummer Chris Hainey are as springy, propulsive, and lockstep-tight as they’ve ever been, while Erin Elders’ guitars fill in the blanks with plenty of squiggly hooks.  If “Winter” proves to be one of the stronger tracks on Beware And Be Grateful, it should still be a solid and satisfying album.  But I’m crossing my fingers that “Winter” is merely a hint of what’s to come, and that it turns out Maps & Atlases have pushed themselves to greater heights yet again.

The Occupy movement isn’t in the news nearly as much as it was before Zuccotti Park allegedly became a health hazard, and Mayor Billionaire’s Brute Squad evicted the protestors in the dead of night without any of those pesky journalists getting in the way.  But Occupy is still a thing, and it could still come roaring back any day now.  Especially with the weather getting warmer, and with the distribution of wealth remaining ridiculously and unfairly lopsided.  And if Occupy does come roaring back, it’s gonna need some kick-ass protest anthems if it really wants to take this shit to the next level.

“Call To Arms” isn’t just Latyrx’s first official single in the 15 years since their excellent debut album, it’s also an eager attempt to be one of those sorely-needed Occupy anthems.  Or an athem for whatever protest movement that may rise up in Occupy’s place, should it fail to carry on, since “Call To Arms” doesn’t explicitly name-check any particular organization.  Nor does the song have a very specific agenda.  It basically asks, “Are you angry about all this bullshit?  OK cool, let’s march” (albeit in much more lyrical ways).  The chorus has Karyn Paige screaming “What do we want?”, and she doesn’t sound angry as much as she sounds like she’s just trying to be heard above the clamor.  Lateef and Lyrics Born, along with special guest Boots Riley of political hip-hop veterans The Coup, respond with “Anybody, everybody, everything.”  When Karyn screams “When do we want it?“, the answer is “Right the fuck now.”

Occupy caught some criticism for not having enough focus or offering enough solutions, and the same could certainly be said of “Call To Arms.”  (It also offers a dubious philosophy or two, such as “Long as we show up/ we’ve already won.”  If only.)  Of course, protest songs don’t necessarily need 10-point plans for correcting the wealth gap and reducing unemployment, they just need to inspire revolution.  In that respect, “Call To Arms” succeeds modestly.  It’s also noteworthy because it adopts an unusual tone for the kind of song it wants to be.  Protest music usually comes in the form of quiet Dylan-esque folk or raging Public Enemy-style noise.  But since Latyrx is always about positivity and throwing all-inclusive parties, “Call To Arms” takes the form of a reasonable, mid-tempo party jam with some decent hooks and a hot bassline.  It aims for the chip on your shoulder, and the fury in your heart, but mostly it aims for your cerebral cortex and your booty.  It may not be the musical Molotov Cocktail the 99% needs, but at least it’s a spark.

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.