Grunge, gravel, girls.

 

Apologies for such a long break between posts. As luck would have it, I'm writing/singing some music of my own for a few different projects. So instead of listening to all the music, I've been busy writing a very miniscule portion of the music. 

Anyhow, let's do this:

New Cloud Nothings! New Cloud Nothings! FINALLY. Pretty much since my first listen to their last release, 2012's angular and aggressive "Attack On Memory" (produced by that one guy Steve Albini), I couldn't wait to see what was up next for this indie-rock/post-punk outfit from Cleveland. And this week, I got my chance: "Here and Nowhere Else" packs a punch in a mere eight tracks, with punk-rock hooks and pissed-off lyrics that will have you shout-singing along. Dylan Baldi has one of my favorite male voices right now—a beautiful mix of gravel and grace.

Perhaps you've had enough of Pharrell's infectious song "Happy" from the Despicable Me 2 soundtrack. Maybe you're full-up on happiness and hooks. Perhaps, on a related note, you're effing crazy. But even if all of those things are true, please consider listening to the rest of Pharrell's album "G I R L." Unless, of course, you dislike dancing, sex, beats that won't quit or gravity-defying, funked-up vocals. Fair warning: aside from "Happy," some of it is a bit NSFLWK (Not Safe For Listening With Kids).

Interestingly enough, the band Perfect Pussy—a punk rock outfit from Syracuse, New York—only formed about two years ago because a local movie needed a punk band. You wouldn't know it from their cohesive sound. On their debut, "Say Yes to Love," lead singer Meredith Graves projects raw emotion to match the fury of her counterparts, with lyrics that are barely discernible but emotional intensity that's loud and clear. And the twists and turns that the band takes harmonically aren't the ones you expect from punk—at times, they're downright saccharine. If you can make it out through all the fuzz.

Some bands get by on bombast, a few basic chords, and some feedback. And some use that as a jumping off point, keeping things simple to make music that rocks hard. Baltimore-based Roomrunner also throws in a healthy dose of dissonance and grunge influence, bringing that whole seems-sloppy-but-is-actually-very-thought-out vibe. Their latest (on Fan Death Records—new last year, technically, but new to me) is called "Ideal Cities." It has moments of complete chaos that swirl into tight, headbangy riffs that take you back to the days of Nirvana. (And might transport you to actual nirvana.)

Outer space, inner struggle, angsty romance.

Yellow Ostrich is proof positive that lo-fi beginnings can lead to great things. The band's driving force, vocalist/songwriter Alex Schaaf, began making four-track pop recordings in his bedroom back in his home state of Wisconsin. And now, the Brooklyn-based band takes simple ideas and makes them larger-than-life. Their latest, "Cosmos," is heavily influenced by the work of Carl Sagan—an influence that can be heard lyrically and felt viscerally. And as Schaaf belts out words like, "I wanna feel small/don't you?", you'll feel just that, in the presence of their universe-sized, anthemic sound.

Sure, the city of Detroit has had its share of bankruptcy, but not when it comes to hip-hop. The city boasts a wealth of artists and has for some time now. Black Milk (real name: Curtis Cross) is one of them, and has recently released the EP "Glitches in the Break" on the heels of the top-rated "No Poison No Paradise" LP from last year. He draws heavily on his hometown for content, and on old-school hip-hop sound, with samples that feel nostalgic and familiar. There's way less lyrical audacity here than in most rap—seems Curtis is more intent on sharing his struggle than being deemed the dopest.



Y'all might know by now that I'm pretty jazzed about Speedy Ortiz. The Massachusetts-based foursome released what I thought was the best album of last year ("Major Arcana"—get thee to it, post haste), and now they're back with an EP called "Real Hair." It's got the noodley guitar work and the inventiveness of their previous stuff, and Sadie's voice kills it with the right balance of vulnerability and power. (For Kansas-City-based folks, Speedy Ortiz comes to Czar Bar on March 19th.)

"Gouge/my eyes out..." You've never heard someone sing words like these quite as sweetly as Eternal Summers singer/guitarist Nicole Yun. On their newest, "The Drop Beneath," you'll find other arresting lyrics delivered in a similarly dreamy fashion, backed by a jangly, phaser-effected guitar, reminiscent of Galaxie 500 or the Smiths. This three-piece outfit belongs to something called the Magic Twig Community, an art collective in Roanoke, Virginia. And they've got hooks for days. If you're a 90s kid, this will play like the soundtrack to your best, most angsty teen romances.

Longing, composing, rambling.

Angel Olsen makes sweet, old-timey-country-inspired music for people with a burning in their hearts. Her sound falls somewhere between Johnny Cash and Mazzy Star, with a 60's era sensibility in the chord progressions but a current aesthetic in the execution. The aching is palpable in Angel's nervous vibrato, and her biting delivery of lines like "Are you lonely, too?/High-five, so am I" cuts right to the core. There's not much to the instrumental, and that feels just right here—her voice is the thing, those lyrics are the thing. And the song "Iota" will take your heart out of your body and stomp on it.

A short history on St. Vincent for the uninitiated: school at Berklee College of Music (like every other genius), then Polyphonic Spree, then Sufjan Stevens' backing band, then solo career. What's amazing and wonderful is how she can take complex musical motifs and present them in a super-well-edited way—every instrument feels crucial to the mix, and nothing feels extraneous. And on this, her fourth album, her songs are just so danceable. Lyrically, she kills is yet again, with lines like "I took you off your leash/But I can't, no I can't make you heel..../We both have our rabid hearts/Feral from the very start." Come for the dancing; stay for the lyrics. And maybe also the dancing.

It's funny to think about where Beck started out and where he is today. He's always been solid musically, but his tongue-in-cheek lyrics, while hilarious and entertaining, seemed to keep him a safe distance from actually emotionally committing to anything. That has certainly changed over the years, and his new "Morning Phase" has charm in its poetic earnestness. With his sweeping string parts and lush arrangements, it's easy to start thinking of him as more of a composer than a songwriter. "Songwriter" just doesn't seem to cover it. This is a beautiful, cinematic record—far removed from the world of "Loser" and "Debra"—and will likely go down as one of his finest.

I'll come out and say this first: it takes a little bit to get used to the rambling lyrical style of Mark Kozelek, lead singer and songwriter for Sun Kil Moon. But if you're initially apprehensive, keep listening—this album is full of beautifully-told stories of tiny, unseemly slices of humanity. Kozelek's haunting baritone voice travels through each scene, interacting with the characters in a way that's so personal it's almost uncomfortable. And ultimately, his rambling voice is what makes it, because these aren't stories with convenient conclusions or easy answers.

An aside: The Joshua Tree.

If you think extroverts have an easier time socially, you obviously never met me in 8th grade. The only thing worse than being the nerd in the room is being the nerd who constantly draws attention to herself.

Much of my 8th grade experience felt like it was ripped from the pages of Judy Blume, only instead of "seven minutes in heaven," it was one year in hell. To help myself through it, I had a journal wherein I'd written a detailed plan for myself—a plan to make friends, including reminders to "be nice!" and "smile a lot!" and "don't talk so much!" That last one was pretty much never followed. And thus, the toothpaste was out of the tube: I'd outed myself as not only a nerd, but a loud one. 

If introverts can't come out of their shells, then I couldn't get back into mine, and I desperately wanted to. My only available option was to make my own shell. I spent recesses in the music room, practicing piano, when I could. And mostly, I took up residence between two headphones attached to a walkman.

It's there that U2's "The Joshua Tree" first gave me a sense of just how transcendent and therapeutic music could be. As a former church-going kid, that organ at the beginning felt spiritual and magical. Then in comes the Edge, with his signature delay and those suspended chords that take their sweet time to resolve themselves. "I wanna run...I want to hide." Yep. Exactly.

They talked about things that seemed more important than the lyrics of other musicians I'd listened to. They played with far more artistry and thoughtfulness. But mostly, it was the first time I saw how listening to an album could remove me from my current shitty situation and transplant me somewhere else. Somewhere where everything was anthemic, everything was a movie montage starring me as the good guy. Everything was possible—even something like a nerd finding happiness.

Problem was, I hadn't found "my people" yet. Any adult within earshot assured me of that, and they were of course right. That would indeed come later, with the school musicals and choir groups and bands and any number of geeky music-related things. But as a lonely 8th grader, there's no way of knowing what's coming at all. And as a kid who's sort of kind of not a kid anymore, that level of despair hasn't ever happened to you before—and it makes you wonder, "Why am I even here at all? What's the point?"

The point was music. Music got me through eighth grade. I've been on this earth for a good while now, and still, eighth grade is about the most painful stuff I've ever dealt with. And the thing that saved me was "The Joshua Tree." It gave me a place to hide, it gave me something to believe in, and best of all, it gave me hope.

"So she woke up,
woke up from where she was, lying still,
said, 'I gotta do something
about where we're going.

Step on a steam train.
Step out of the driving rain, maybe.
Run from the darkness in the night.'
Singing ha, ah la la la de day
Ah la la la de day
Ah la la de day

Sweet the sin
Bitter taste in my mouth
I see seven towers
But I only see one way out
You got to cry without weeping
Talk without speaking
Scream without raising your voice
You know I took the poison
From the poison stream
Then I floated out of here
Singing...ha la la la de day
Ha la la la de day
Ha la la de day

She runs through the streets
With her eyes painted red
Under black belly of cloud in the rain
In through a doorway she brings me
White gold and pearls stolen from the sea
She is raging
she is raging
And the storm blows up in her eyes
She will
suffer the needle chill
She's running to stand still"

When I finally took the headphones off, high school choir was there waiting for me. And I knew my purpose. And I knew it would all be OK.

Transition, self reflection, found percussion.

"Transgender Dysphoria Blues" has been eagerly anticipated for a while now, because of the backstory: lead singer Laura Jane Grace (formerly Tom Gabel) came out as transgender in 2012, and this was to be the first album since that revelation. So many questions: would her voice sound different? (Nope. Still freakin' unreal and focused.) Would the band's sound be different? (Yep. Stripped down, more punk, less produced.) It still carries a strong pop sensibility, but lyrically, it's more emotionally-charged and brutally honest than ever before.



One listen to "Eighteen Hours of Static" by Big Ups, and you might feel like you're in high school again—in the best, bright-eyed-and-idealistic-school-kid kind of way. Because Big Ups is punk with socially-conscious lyrics designed to make you feel things about stuff. And with their pitch-perfect, ultra-earnest delivery, it's hard not to. In their slower, more subdued moments, like the beginning of the track "Wool," they call to mind Fugazi, but they often switch gears and tempos mid-song, quickly careening off into frenzied distortion.

Here's the deal with Willis Earl Beal (that entire preceding phrase needs to be a book title someday): this guy started out in Chicago, attracting attention and an audience by posting flyers. FLYERS. On his album "Nobody Knows," he pairs his evocative baritone voice with a songwriting style that calls to mind "Bone-Machine"-era Tom Waits in its eccentricity. Though he sometimes performs with Cat Powers, as good as she is, she seems to detract from the main event. Beal's lyrics are shockingly (and refreshingly) frank, and his recurring theme of disconnection is something that's very relevant. This is experimental music with soul.

The first song I heard from the latest Cass McCombs album, "Big Wheel and Others," is a track called, "There Can Only Be One"—a sweet, bouncey, Dylan-esque love song with a bass line carrying the melody. And I'm sure glad I didn't stop there: McCombs is a skilled storyteller, and a master of using traditionally country guitar effects in a modern way. It's an ambitious album, both for the artist and for the listener, at 85 minutes long. But this is one that grows on you, and reveals itself over time in subtle and surprising ways.

Friends, fathers, jagbags.

Imagine you're a new father, but even more than that—more than keeping another human being alive—you're also a singer-songwriter. Imagine you record an album's worth of demos at your kitchen table, singing and playing in hushed tones because shoosh, you'll wake the baby. Imagine that someone deems your songs worthy of an actual album release. Imagine the warehouse that's storing your stock of CDs burns to the ground. That's the story behind the original 2009 recording entitled "Bad Debt" by Hiss Golden Messenger (guy's actual name: M.C. Taylor), now finally seeing the wide release it deserves. It's uncomplicated, intimate and lovely.

When "Scenario" by A Tribe Called Quest came out in 1992, I was bowled over by then-new Busta Rhymes. "Who IS this guy?" I remember thinking. I mean, Q-Tip's got the husky, boyish sound on lock—his voice is already so stand-out—and along comes another equally unique, Chuck-D-level voice? It felt too good to be true. And now, with the release of "The Abstract and the Dragon," a retrospective of the Busta/Q-Tip rhyme relationship with some new tracks to boot, it's an embarrassment of riches. Much of this is their legendary collabs, but the new stuff—like "God Lives Through," an old track with new verses thrown on it—is just as good.

Here's the thing to know about the writing of Stephen Malkmus, whether with Pavement or his current band, the Jicks: it's mad Easter-eggy. You'll find plenty of surprises and delightful references if you look, and you won't have to look hard. On his latest, "Wig Out at Jagbags," it takes many forms. On the track "J Smoov," for instance, a sad trumpet plays what can be best referred to as the "nanny nanny boo boo song." This is what has always gotten me about Mr. Malkmus—he's able to throw so many jokes at you that you can barely keep up, and yet you find yourself marveling at how gorgeous and heart-string-pulling the guitar chord structures are.

Taryn Miller is an up-and-coming songwriter in the LFK (Lawrence, Kansas—can't imagine what that F is about). She goes by the name Your Friend and has a singular-sounding voice that's lilting, melancholy, clear as a bell...Bon-Iver-esque in the best possible ways. She pairs it with reverbed-out guitar and manages to get a lovely, much larger sound than your average solo performer. I definitely dig the effect of all that reverb on her voice, but I'm excited to hear what else she has to offer, because hers sounds like a voice that would sound great completely devoid of effects.

An aside: Elliott Smith.

While the intent of this blog is to feature new (and new-to-me) music that I like and recommend, I'd also love the opportunity to talk about the influence that a single artist has had on my life, at a very visceral level.

Most people know how it ended for Elliott Smith. He stabbed himself in the heart, or at least that's what's believed to be true, even though it sounds unbelievable. Another theory is that his girlfriend murdered him, but given his own history of suicidal tendencies, that seems less likely.

There are a lot of male singers whom I've loved dearly who have taken their own lives. Nick Drake. Jeff Buckley. Mark Linkous. And while I still get wrecked thinking about those particular musicians and all that potential squandered, with Elliott Smith, it's different. It's like he was a friend, because he kind of was.

I was late to his music, and when I finally took my friend Al's advice that yes, this was a person worth listening to and yes, it might be depressing and quiet but just do it anyway, I found myself starting out with XO—an album that's the perfect midpoint in his career between his lo-fi beginnings and his over-produced, overly-orchestrated later years.

I was in a crap relationship. The kind that's doomed from the start, where you're together for all the wrong reasons for way too long, the kind where all your friends are like, "Really?" But they don't say anything, even though they probably should. The kind where you don't act like yourself, which should be Clue Numero Uno that you are not, how you say, meant to be. The super-fighty kind. Being generally non-confrontational,  this left me in a constant state of discomfort and second-guessing. Not, "Why is this guy a dick?" but, "What's wrong with me that this guy doesn't love the heck out of me?"

There was a day when I was driving down to Said Ill-Fitting Boyfriend's house, and "Waltz #1" came on. And it stayed on, for about an hour, on repeat. Somehow, I'd started the drive to his house, and the song came on, and suddenly I was just bawling. Just driving and bawling and talking to myself. And making u-turns. I'd drive toward his place, I'd make a u-turn, like, "Fuck that guy." I'd drive away, I'd make another u-turn, like, "Stop being dramatic." The song would end, I'd hit the back button and restart it. Like I was looking for an answer.

With the music you love, you always make it about you. And right then, and for the four-ish years surrounding then, Elliott Smith was writing for me. Those words, and the way he set them perfectly to almost-whispered vocals and lush guitars, well...he might've written it, but it was about me. So basically, we were tight. And because we were tight, I figured, who better to look to for an answer?

"Every time the day darkens down and goes away
pictures open in my head of me and you.
Silent and cliche, all the things we did and didn't say,
covered up by what we did and didn't do.
Going through
every out I used to cop to make the repetition stop...
What was I supposed to say?

Now I never leave my zone, we're both alone
I'm going home
I wish I'd never seen your face."

Not many lyrics, but "Waltz #1" didn't need many lyrics. It said what it needed to say, lyrically and musically. And in doing so, it was the benchmark for bad relationships in my twenties. I figured that if any relationship was bad enough that it felt like this song, then I knew: must abort. Leave immediately. Or not so immediately, but dammit, eventually. Grow a pair and leave.

Many eventuallys later, I drove to that guy's house and dumped him. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, I'm certain—like in about a billion ways certain—that we're both better off. And I wish I could thank Elliott, but you know.

2013: The Year in (Music) Review

The top 12 albums of 2013, according to me. (Sorry. Couldn't stop at 10.)

12. Joanna Gruesome, "Weird Sister." While their name is a riff on the very different Joanna Newsom, their music has nothing to do with her, and though the name's jokey, the music's not.  What I love about them is the way they seamlessly alternate between super catchy melody lines sung in ear-pleasing octaves and cacophonous guitar shredfests. Favorite tracks include "Sugarcrush" and "Secret Surprise."

11. Vampire Weekend,  "Modern Vampires of the City." Hooky (without being trite) melodies, clever lyrics and thoughtful instrumentation makes this album instantly accessible yet something you'll keep with you for the long haul. Favorite tracks are "Step" and "Ya Hey."

10. Run The Jewels, "Run The Jewels." This is Killer Mike and El-P, putting their heads (and rap styles) together to great effect. The rhyme schemes are ambitious, their individual voices are powerful and memorable, but the thing that really makes it are the backing tracks by El-P. In a year full of solid hip-hop releases—notably Danny Brown and Pusha T—this one still manages to stand alone. Favorite track: "Sea Legs."

9. Fuck Buttons, "Slow Focus." This duo out of Bristol, England creates instrumental, electronic music that burns slowly but hotly. Repeated phrases with gradually building layers make for a meditative experience, though that's not to say it's relaxing by any means. I personally like to listen to this album while running, because you can really lose yourself in it. Favorite track: "The Red Wing."

8.  Savages, "Silence Yourself." This band's instrumental tightness is apparent from the get-go—they lock in on the opening track of this album and never relent. Singer Jehnny Beth, in contrast, sounds like her massive vibrato could easily throw her off the rails at any moment. Favorite track: "She Will."

7. Janelle Monae, "The Electric Lady." To me, this album has the cohesiveness, the emotional power, the range and the next-level funkiness of Stevie Wonder's "Innervisions." What it has that "Innervisions" doesn't is an over-arching conceptual hook—this album is the third in her "Metropolis" series in which she plays the role of fugitive android Cindi Mayweather. Favorite tracks are "Giving Em What They Love" and "Dance Apocalyptic."

6. M.I.A., "Matangi." A guilty pleasure, I realize. This album was way delayed because of label concerns over its overt positivity (which, I guess, feels "off-brand" for M.I.A.), but the final result felt no less bad-assy. Favorite tracks are "Bad Girls" (which was released well in advance of the album) and "Bring the Noise."

5. My Bloody Valentine, "mbv." After a lengthy (22-year!) hiatus, My Bloody Valentine pulled a Beyoncé (or, rather, Beyoncé pulled a them) by (a) releasing a surprise album, (b) limiting where you can find it (their website, yes, but iTunes and Spotify, no), and (c) charging an unheard-of-in-2013 price of $16 for it. It's every penny and more: gorgeous, expansive and wonderfully fuzzed-out. Favorite track: "only tomorrow."

4. Radiator Hospital, "Something Wild." Man, this guy's voice. It's exciting to hear a male-fronted band with a singer (Sam Cook-Parrott) who's actually concerned with the business of singing well. The songs on "Something Wild" range from power pop to pared-down ballad. In Sam's words, "I spend a lot of my time trying to escape. Into comics, records, movies. New worlds full of magic and wonder. The record is a tribute to those worlds. Favorite track: "Our Song."

3. Mutual Benefit, "Love's Crushing Diamond." Just plain lovely. While mostly centered around the efforts of songwriter/lead singer Jordan Lee, it's also about who else he brings to the table. The string section. Back-up singers. Guitarists. Hand drums. Random wind chimes. It feels very DIY, but in the best possible way. And refreshingly enough, it's so dang hopeful, in an authentic way. Favorite track: "Advanced Falconry."

2. Swearin', "Surfing Strange." After their first LP, I thought I had Swearin's number. Turns out, they had much more up their sleeves, including another singer. They alluded to some propensity for down-tempo, moodier stuff on their first album, but here, they embrace it. Doesn't mean there aren't rockers, though. Favorite tracks are "Dust In The Gold Sack" and "Echo Locate."

1. Speedy Ortiz, "Major Arcana." This album hits on all levels. Musically, it's amazingly not-straightforward—its guitar work surprises at every turn. Lyrically, it's full of just the right specifics, and in this department, it's certainly all killer/no filler. Vocally, it's got massive range—Sadie Dupuis can sound shaky and vulnerable or belty and self-assured. And overall, it's got the confidence of a much more well-established band. My favorite track is "No Below"—an ode for troubled middle-schoolers if there ever was one. As a Pavement fan, I've always enjoyed that band's more earnest numbers—sure, the clever stuff's dynamite, but in the rare instance when Malkmus' tongue wasn't so firmly planted in his cheek, he created some truly poignant stuff. And now Speedy Ortiz—who, incidentally, are also Pavement obsessed—bring the best of that tradition of 90s slacker rock to bear in the 2010s. And aren't we lucky that they do.

Thanks for reading and listening along in 2013.
*Cat

Church, sin, deals with the devil.

New favorite band alert: Hop Along is from Philly. Their sound is, jeez, indie-folk-rock-ish? (Like everything else I tend to love.) But listen, guys: this woman's voice. It is unreal. It shouldn't exist. It is definitely made-up by some magician somewhere, because there's no reverb bolstering it and no auto-tune in sight. And it also has a massively-unhealthy-sounding growl in it that seems unsustainable, vocally speaking. Which means: listen to her now. I really don't know how long her deal with the no-vocal-chord-nodes devil will last, but I'm not taking any chances.



Before you get annoyed by the spelling of "Chvrches," think of the internet search annoyance caused by searching for a band spelled "Churches." Now that that's out of the way, Chvrches is a trio from Glasgow that boasts a hugely 80s-derivative vibe and a lead singer with an effortless soprano school-girl sound, singing lyrics that are nowhere near juvenile. Hers is a hard sound to pull off live, and yet, clips from their late-night talk show rounds show that she's up to the task. And there are synths—not as part of a larger band, but exclusively, which makes this an album 80s babies will relate to on almost a cellular level, without even knowing why.

So Beyoncé basically just owned the world last week. She released a surprise album last Thursday, and even though the Billboard Top 200 tallies sales from Monday to Sunday, she topped that shiz easily by selling in excess of 600,000 copies in THREE DAYS. Disclaimer: it's way explicit. So if you're not into that, move along, but realize that in doing so you're missing an album that's epic in the for-real definition of the word. And honestly, seeing her go as far as she does is kind of awesome. Why shouldn't she be allowed to own that? What's not getting as much press: how impressive her lower vocal range is, and how vulnerable some of the lyrics are. It's massively hyped, for a reason. Just listen.

Run the Jewels is Killer Mike plus El P, two great hip hop artists in their own right. Bring them together and you unlock a next-level flow, as they themselves acknowledge on the first (and title) track: "Oh shit, what the hell have we done? /It's alive and it's hungry as fuck/Better hide all the snacks and the dough/It is out of my control, you are shit out of luck." And this pretty much sets the tone: you've got some standard-issue MC braggery, but because it's Killer Mike and El P, it's smart as hell and the rhyme schemes are intense. And thanks for El P, the beats bang and the bass booms.

Screaming, whispering, heavy breathing.

You may remember Death Grips from this video, which admittedly, is kind of funny. I mean, why is he in a car? What-goes-what-goes-what-goes-what-goes-what-goes-what-goes-what? These guys are like no one else, and their latest effort, "Government Plates," continues the mayhem with a higher level of production quality.  There are drum machines, way-distorted basslines, breaking glass, laser-beam-like synths, with some screaming mixed in. There are also f-bombs aplenty. It's jarring and unsettling, and that's the point. (And PS, it's a free download, available through the Third Worlds label.)

If you read my last post, you heard all about the awesome fury of Titus Andronicus. Discovering those dudes led me down a rabbit hole, which led directly to Andrew Cedermark, their former guitarist. His brand of lo-fi confessional indie rock is a whole lot more mellow than Titus Andronicus but equally emotionally charged. On "Heaps of Trash," one of my favorite tracks from this album, his songwriting takes surprising turns, at times sounding a little like southern rock and, at others, like something much more pared-down and quiet, all the while moving through unexpected chord progressions and somehow making it all make sense.

"Feast of Love" from Pity Sex is a fantastic album that is, in most ways, kind of a bummer. The vocals, which switch off between male and female (Brennan Greaves and Bitty Drake) are way down in the mix, competing with fuzzed-out guitars and 90s-cliche drum fills. The lyrics, when you can make them out, tell of love made and lost, and get their point across in a surprisingly succinct yet visceral way. It's a little like listening to the retelling of a one-night-stand, from meet-up to hook-up to walk of shame.

Slacker rock, contrary to its name, is hard to pull off, because sounding effortless actually takes effort. (I know. Weird.) The artists that have succeeded in this arena—Beck and Pavement, most notably—are not, how you say, frontin'. They legitimately  have actual chops. And likewise, Parquet Courts might sound kind of lo-fi and de-tuned, and their lyrics might be kind of silly, but behind the silliness is smarts and a strong pop sensibility. One of the highlights here, "Stoned and Starving," feels almost like we have Velvet Underground back in our mist, putting you in a very particular places and state of mind the way Lou could always do.

Nihilistic, harmonic, apocalyptic.

The new Swearin' album is out. (Insert bleepity bleepin' joke here.) "Surfing Strange" is less speed, more shoe-gaze splendor than their last album. Plus, they've added a new voice for a grand total of three vocalists (what are they, Fleetwood Mac?). Bassist Keith Spencer takes the mic for the first time, with admittedly mixed results. ("Glare of the Sun": awesome. "Melanoma": meh.) Swearin' seems to be garnering some criticism for taking their sound in a more down-tempo direction. To me, it seems like solid growth and evolution for a band who was great to begin with.

We must discuss Janelle Monae. First, she's originally from Kansas City, Kansas. (Affectionately known as KCK out in these parts.) Secondly, her trademark suits are an homage to the uniforms worn by the blue-collar family members who raised her. Third, girl can DANCE. This probably shouldn't come into play on a music blog, but having just seen her live, I feel the need to mention it. And we haven't even discussed her droid obsession. Lastly, have you heard her sing? Because hot damn! (In retrospect, this really should be firstly.) This here is a living legend—on par with Prince (a personal champion of hers) and Stevie Wonder ("Electric Lady" is very reminiscent of "Inner Visions" in its range and its downright funkiness). If you miss her, you will regret it.

"OK, I think by now we've established/ that everything is inherently worthless/ then there's nothing in the universe/ with any kind of objective purpose..." So begins "Local Business" from Jersey-based Titus Andronicus, an album of raw emotion with lyrics that are intensely confessional and, at times, hard to hear. Lead singer Patrick Stickles suffers from an eating disorder, a theme he candidly discusses here. As shades of Joe Strummer fade into nods to Black Flag, you'll get the sense that you're listening to a band who, while lyrically confessing to not believing in anything, is obviously of a mind that music can change the world. At least on a local level.

Dale Earnhardt Jr Jr has a name that might make you want to throw something, either because it looks like a typo or because, you know...hipsters. And perhaps you've avoided them up till now solely based upon the "double jr." (I did, until I received a recommendation.) But people: please listen to "The Speed of Things." It's a bit Beach-Boys-ish in its sweet Hubba-Bubba-esque melodies, while the synths remind me of the Postal Service. Yet the whole arrangement, while incredibly accessible, is also pretty complex upon closer inspection. And the harmonies are something I think even crazy old Brian Wilson would smile about.

DIY, dissonance, danger.

As of this week, "B-Room" by Dr. Dog sits atop the CMJ top 20. CMJ stands for College Music Journal, and this is important to mention because "B-Room" sounds like it could have been the college soundtrack of any of the past four decades. Reminiscent of Bob Dylan and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, it's an album that at times feels like listening to a series of cross-stitch sentiments. "Follow the distant light." "The truth don't stop." "A long way down means a long way up." "You can laugh about it if you just let go." You can clearly picture your college-aged self saying, "Yeah, man, so TRUE, dude!" between sips of cheap beer. Or, maybe you'll do that nowadays. I'm not here to judge.

November 5th has been burned in my brain for a while now because it was the scheduled release date for "Matangi," the latest from M.I.A. After her last album, which was a bit more experimental and industrial than her previous releases, it was hard to know what to expect. "Matangi," as it turns out, has the most pop sensibility of any of her albums—the songs are relentlessly hook-y, hyper-sexy and crazy danceable, but in a distinctly M.I.A. way, utilizing samples and synths and infusing it all with Middle Eastern musical influence. It's pure adrenaline, and let's be honest, listening to it might make you feel like a bit of a bad-ass yourself.

Have you ever listened to music so dissonant that after a while it starts to sound melodic relative only to itself? It's something you might experience while listening to an avant garde piece like Alvin Lucier's "I Am Sitting In a Room" (where words distort and degrade over time until they change into notes). While it requires a lot of the listener, it rewards the listener, too, because the listener ultimately finds him or herself in the work. New-York-based Yvette, a two-piece industrial band, produces such music. Their debut, "Process," is aggressive instrumentally—making order out of the chaos of effects and synthesizers with the help of steady, insistent drumming—while remaining cold and indifferent vocally. It's a juxtaposition that works well for them.

Black Milk (real name: Curtis Cross) is the embodiment of DIY, having started out in his Detroit basement with a cheap drum machine and a karaoke system. Perhaps this ability to make due with limited resources is what makes the samples and beats on "No Poison No Paradise" so ingenious. It's a semi-autobiographical concept album, dealing with growing up in Detroit in the 80s and 90s. Tracks like "Sunday's Best" have the imagery (both lyrically and aurally) to put you front row center for that moment in time. Hearkening back to 90s era rap acts like Tribe Called Quest and De La Soul, this is hip hop that's catchy without sacrificing the message.

Headbanging, warbling, meaning it.

There's always that guy, the one who doesn't say much, but when he does, the room stops and records scratch and all ceases in order to hear what's being said. Matt Kivel is probably that guy to his friends. His quiet, beautiful brand of singer/acoustic-guitarness sucks you in and demands that you listen...at which point, you notice the wicked-depressing and sometimes graphic lyrics. Many of these allude to death, and while he certainly comes off as a bit Elliott-Smith-ish in the final analysis, let's hope he chooses to live and to keep making pretty music. His voice, unlike Mr. Smith or really most singer-songwriters, seems equally at home in a high tenor (almost counter-tenor) range as well as a baritone range. That in itself is worth a listen.

Oozing Wound had me at their name. Then, they had me at their gloriously creepy cover art. And, upon listening, they just straight-up have me. It's thrash metal that's, in their words, "by and for people with a desire to slay." And the riffage is undeniable. As someone who's listened to metal somewhat sporadically over the years, my general beef with the stuff I didn't like was that it didn't rock hard enough, plain and simple. And when something did rock hard enough, the subconscious headbanging that ensued confirmed it. Oozing Wound's debut "Retrash" is such an album, as my head and neck region will attest.

My first encounter with Nine Inch Nails was likely similar to that of most other fans: I fell in love with the loudness, the violence, the despair. Lyrics like "I'm the one without a soul/I'm the one with this big fucking hole" made me say, "Yeah, that totally describes me!" (It didn't, remotely.) And then, admittedly, I didn't keep up with Trent and Nine Inch Nails as well as I could have, and the next thing I know, "The Hand That Feeds You" is coming out of my radio and I'm all, "What HAPPENED to you, Trent? When did you stop singing like you mean it?" But with his latest, "Hesitation Marks," there's some of the Nine Inch Nails we fans loved: his amazingly tidy production value, and how much better his voice sounds when he doesn't try so hard. And there's something new: nuance and maturity. And best of all, it sounds like he means it.

Haley Fohr is the imposing alto behind Circuit des Yeux. And, at a young age and in a vastly different decade, she's managed to channel some of the greats of 20th Century avant garde music, bringing to mind Diamanda Galas and, instrumentally, the repetitive minimalism of Phillip Glass. But her take is much more informed by a succinct singer/songwriter's approach. Still, these pieces aren't movements in a performance art piece, they aren't art songs, but to call them merely songs doesn't seem like enough. The emotional intensity brings them to another level—it can be a lot to handle, but you'll be glad you took the time. This is unlike most music you're likely to hear today.

Epic, excessive, yucky.

I can't decide: does "Love's Crushing Diamond" by Mutual Benefit sound like entering the gates of heaven? Or does it sound like falling in love? Maybe rapture is the word I'm looking for. With a string section that calls to mind the romanticism of Nick Drake and the ingenuity of Andrew Bird, a vocalist with the fragility of Mark Linkous (Sparklehorse), plus lush back-up harmonies, an out-of-tune piano, a banjo (which becomes a charming rhythmic element) and wind chimes (wind chimes, for goodness sakes), it's almost like friends playing around a campfire, if those friends were all Berklee College of Music graduates. And it's about the most unabashedly joyous music I've heard in a long time.

"If you fly, do it to death." That lyric could be a message about rising above, or one that promotes excess, at a cost. Give the rest of the content of the latest Pusha T album, "My Name Is My Name," it's easy to see it either way. As the label head and producer, Kanye's influence is evident (think "All of the Lights"), but the snarling intensity is all King Push. There are many guest spots on here (Rick Ross, Kendrick Lamar), but all add dimension without overshadowing the main event. What I especially love: the simplicity of the beats and samples on "Numbers on the Boards" and "Suicide." Feels kind of old school, and it sets off Pusha T's voice perfectly.

Funny, they don't sound like they should be named Yuck. What they do sound like: the soundtrack to a Sunday morning that turns into a Sunday afternoon wherein you're maybe still wearing pajamas and it's cool, y'all, just go with it. Their latest "Glow and Behold" does seem to glow, from the glimmering guitars to the reverbed wavering baritone of Max Bloom to the horn section. It should be noted, though, that the last track contains a nearly-exact rip-off of the ending of the Beatles' "Dear Prudence." So close that I'm thinking it must be an homage. That aside: it's lovely, dreamy, a bit 80s, pop in the best possible sense, and miles away from yuck.

Kelela is an R&B singer who brings with her an arsenal of talented producers on her debut "Cut 4 Me." This is not your mom's R&B: it draws inspiration from more recent acts like Little Dragon, layering Kelela's voice on itself and complementing it with crystal-clear futuristic synths. Part of the beauty of this mixtape is the artificiality of the instrumental and the un-autotuned, au-natural-ness of Kelela's voice. In past interviews, Kelela has mentioned how, as a child of Ethiopian immigrants, she often felt like an "other" in America, even though she herself was born and raised here. It's no wonder she's created a sound all her own, and what a sound it is.

 

"Forever Becoming" by instrumental rock (metal?) outfit Pelican is dramatic and cinematic, using textures to great effect. You'll still get your recommended dose of wicked precise guitar work and impressively fast drumming, but not at the expense of gorgeous, expansive melodies, heightened by the perfect counterpoint among the guitars and bass. No lyrics here, either, so the instruments do all the work. And they more than get it done, in a less-than-straightforward way. Unlike the overall orchestral effect of someone like Godspeed You! Black Emperor, these guys are writing songs with distinct melodies. It's just that those melodies are being played, not sung.

F-bombs, riot grrls, slam dunks.

I am just the messenger here, and as such I need to tell you about a band with the name Fuck Buttons. (I'm sorry, OK? But this is urgent! You need to know!) *Ahem.* Fuck Buttons are an experimental electronic outfit from Bristol, England, and they kind of sound like the future. Not, like, future rock music, just The Future. Like maybe the music our future robot overlords will use to get pumped up for things—not like jogging or anything, because they won't jog (doy, they're robots), but maybe the robot equivalent of jogging? Back to the Fuck Buttons (I said sorry): their latest "Slow Focus" came out over the summer, in all its synth-y, bleepy, sample-y wonder. Many of the tracks slowly expand into a gnarl of sound, where the separate parts are hard to distinguish anymore but are all essential. In the end, it's music that redefines what majestic can be. (Look out, John Williams.)

And since we've already dropped the bomb, Fucked Up (apologies) is a band that put out an amazing album two years ago, and yet I'm going to talk about it now because dang it, it's new to me, and it might be new to you. "David Comes to Life" is pretty darn long at more than 80 minutes of music, but that run time seems warranted to me because (a) it's a rock opera and operas take time, and (b) it's triumphant and weird and worth your eighty minutes. A bit about the band: they're a hardcore punk group that likes to mess with convention—hence a hardcore punk band doing a rock opera, and one that's melodic at that. What I especially love: the growl of their lead singer, Pink Eyes (and his name, duh); the high drama of the lyrics ("All we need is for something to give, the dam bursts open, we suddenly live..."); and the fact that a good 80% of the songs are in the key of E (who does that?) and yet they sound like fully-formed, distinctive ideas (how does one do that?).

It comes and goes in about twenty minutes, but while it lasts, "sorry" by White Lung has both fury and chops. This is ass-kicking music in a minor-effing-key, owing much to the relentless, rapid-fire drumming of Anne-Marie Vassiliou and to Mish Way's voice, which easily alternates between punk rock yell and tough girl purr. But the thing that makes it is Kenneth William's guitar work—it's manic and unexpected, and it'll compel you to back up and re-listen while you think, "How the heck'd he do that?" (And, at only twenty minutes total, it's easy to do). They're from Vancouver (Canada again FTW) and though they have two LPs and three 7-inch's under their belts, they feel like they're just getting started. I sure hope there's a lot more to come.

Recently, I had the great joy of seeing Built To Spill perform at the Bottleneck in Lawrence, KS, and Slam Dunk was one of the openers. While their sound is pretty consistent across their set (in a totally good way, to be clear—they have their sound well figured out), their songwriting is entertainingly multi-faceted: at times, their melodies and chord progressions that sound akin to something that would've made kids in the 50's scream and shout (see track two, "Dying Breed" and the sax, man, the SAX). Wait five minutes, and it's the Clash coming through. Five more, and it's Frank Black. Bolstering all of it is energy—a lot of it—and yelling, and unison sing-along-style choruses, and a good sense of humor. It's a bit unhinged, in the best possible way.