The opening tracks, “Confessional” and “Kings,” kick immediate ass. Guitarist Michael Sadis’ riffs are sludgy as all hell, but the drums and vocals keep up a solid rock energy. If Rage Against the Machine made another record while Zach De La Rocha took singing lessons and Tom Morello listened to more Botch and The Melvins, the result would sound like these tracks.

However, the following ambient-percussive mushroom-forest jam “Memo” sees the first of several abrupt changes throughout the album. Lyricist Ryan Hunter goes into story-telling mode in this “high-and-driving” plot: [LISTEN]

3am, dinner in the gutter, curbside
Super fried, supersized and
Too tired to drive
It’s the sweet sacrifice, look back on days of glory
23 more hours ‘til I repeat the story
It’s 6am drives, jackknifed on the shoulder
Still high from last night, the miles tend to sober
My eyes, stop signs, the miles tend to bore me
23 more hours ’til I repeat my story

After putting the rain sticks away, it’s time to rock again, but “Customer” and “Shoulder Gorilla” [LISTEN] fail to live up to the nuclear threats of the opening tracks. Still, the theme of the former – “You’re nothing more than a customer” – is possibly the most accurately concise 99%er description of present American capitalism, even if the melody leaves a little to be desired. The heavy riffage doesn’t hurt, either.

Meanwhile the hairpin turns in genre start to really get confusing. “(Interlude)” is a solid chillhop piano-and-drums jam, but its dark feel relates to the previous several tracks, especially “Memo.” The following “Vacation Days” is full-blown summertime Cee Lo soul - still cool, but it takes a strange fan to want it in the same set as those opening bombs.

Out of the remaining tracks, “Television” stands out with its funky take on shared isolation as Hunter wishes to “bury himself” with a TV and lover (later leaving the settled life with the TV behind). While “Set a Fire” lets drummer Billy Rymer flex his Dillinger-style uptempo ghost-note shred-muscles, but in a more toned-down fashion.

We’d call the album ‘hit-or-miss’, but it’s all pretty much hits. A better term might be ‘incongruously-eclectic but innovative’. Although this applies less to Hunter’s grimy themes, even from the shitfaced sex-hounding on “Kings” to the lost time of “Vacation Days.” Still, it’s experimental, which means nothing is off-limits. Plus, even the more “mainstream” sections still feel musically creative, which should make for interesting contrasts as the forthcoming tour openers for Fall Out Boy. Picture all those sugars, before they go down swinging, contemplating a situation where whining is not an option:

When you haven’t gotten any lately,
And you’ve been stumblin’ back home lookin’ pretty shitty
…
When you’re hanging in the gallery, you don’t stop
When the big wigs bought the whole Goddamn block
When you live to see 27, feelin’ dead at age 30

Why the two chose the name ‘Dungeonesse‘ is a mystery. Letter-for-letter it means nothing. Could be an Alaskan crab metaphor? A reference to an England headland? The world may never know. Though we’re going to tie it to the feminization of ‘dungeon’ for kicks, which’d fit right in with its 10-song, 35-minute stretch of Mariah Carey throwback, guitar-less pop. Particularly the sparkling, ides of the 90s-era opener “Shucks,” and its sedating twirl of a young love chorus in the throws of naiveté: [LISTEN]

I know it doesn’t look like much
But it’s love
And I know that it’s good enough

As much as Wasner and Ehrens muscles are not use to the hip-popping slides of a bygone era – at least, construction-wise; who knows, they may be dancefloor heroes – and aside from misstep “Cadillac,” this project is an imperfectly perfect peach, that shows a bit of mold at the end. Love is very much like a dungeon, which Wasner doesn’t fully reveal until closer “Soon,” waning on its bubbly chillwave coattails, “you can’t erase the pain.”

Before this, you’re taken for a sweet-sixteen ride stroked with tinges of Washed Out, Ace of Base and Alliyah, as Wasner waxes on about early swooning euphoria, from the shoulder-pad pop of “Private Party” to the hazy, seductive 3 a.m. dreams of “Wake Me Up,” pining, cooing, chasing a fleeting love. “I’m a prisoner of your past,” Wasner even teases on the claustrophobic blip-bloopery of “Anywhere You Are.”

Do these sentiments make for a timeless ride? Not really. But how much do you remember some of your crushes that turned sour? And wouldn’t you rather just tear up a dance floor to the bright moments?

Told you it’s alright, and I told you that I’m over it
And if I didn’t lie I would leave without knowing it
I’d better stay tonight, I can feel it taking over me

Self-described as “a mystery disc of nocturnal garage,” their third collaboration with producer Nicolas Vernhes features everything from jagged psychedelia (“Neon Junkyard”) [LISTEN] to wistful travelling blues (“Pensacola”), while the lo-fi Southern rock of “Dream Captain” even borrows from Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” to hammer home the dream of escaping to a better life:

Dream captain take me on your ship
I’ve been feeling like I’m gonna be sick
I’ve been landlocked for too many weeks
I’ve been feeling like I’m leaving
I’m a poor boy from a poor family
…
There’s nobody left to take care of me

The group may have experienced a reshuffle since 2010’s Halcyon Digest (bassist Josh McKay replaced Joshua Fauver while guitarist Frankie Broyles was recruited from Lockett Pundt’s side-project Lotus Plaza), but it’s Cox’s tortured confessional tales which inevitably still remain the focal point.

Indeed, named after his obsessive traits, Monomania seems pre-occupied with the quest to discover his true identity. The jangly dream-pop of “Sleepwalking” [LISTEN] might appear to boast a sunny disposition on the surface, but is in fact a helpless plead for respite from a decade-long search “for something that time will never bring.” Meanwhile, the primitive sleaze-rock of closer “Punk (La Vie Anterieure)” admits to the ADD nature of his personality with a series of bold statements about his various fads:

For a year I was queer

I had conquered all my fears

Not alone anymore

But I found it such a bore

For a month I was punk

For a month I had no luck

Throw into the mix a deceptively bleak tale of a younger brother’s suicide (“T.H.M.”) and a desperate account of a love gone sour (“Back To The Middle”) [LISTEN] and Cox doesn’t appear to have relented in his mission to “sodomize mediocrity.”

However, musically speaking, only the sinister experimental rock of “Leather Jacket II” and the discordant blend of revving motorbikes and white noise that concludes the title track really reflect the predominant sense of anguish. In fact, the gorgeously dreamy indie-pop of the Pundt-fronted “The Missing” and the creeping Americana of “Blue Agent,” the latter a biting riposte to a fairweather friend, might just be two of the most hook-laden tracks the band have put their name to:

If you need a friend now
Better look some place else
You burned this bridge long ago
Here’s to your health
I’m a blue light, I’m a crippled coward
Shining out in the night
The sky is clearer now that I’m filled with fright

Cox may be second only to Morrissey when it comes to making deliberately antagonizing grand statements, but Monomania proves that once again, there’s more to his avant-garde talents than a penchant for shooting his mouth off.

Pollard and the “classic” GBV crew don’t hold back the kook on their 20th effort, English Little League, here. “Crybaby 4-Star Hotel,” “Biographer Seahorse,” “Sir Garlic Breath,” – these are the titles of familiar, throw-away two-minute-ish lo-fi adventures surface deep. Swim with the “Flunky Minnows” into deeper waters and this is the kind of non-sequitur poetry you’ll have the privilege of deciphering: [LISTEN]

Saw the rapture in its palms
He tried to feed you flunky charms
But then we owe you a lot
You really know us very well
We love you, everything is wonderful
And microscopes are fun

The trade-off is that, well, many of English Little League‘s 17 tracks are throw-away two-minute-ish lo-fi jams that almost make a fool of the one trying to decipher them, strewn together from a wily former school teacher who now has his own home studio to crank this stuff out ad nauseam. GBV cut three records in 2012. Counting singles and EPs, there’s virtually no escaping a calendar month without a release.

Let’s be clear here – by no means are we saying prolificacy should be met with a less receptive ear. Nor are we saying two-minute, 4-track, warbly cuts are inferior to some of the three-minute, 16-track cuts GBV pump out. But let’s just put it this way: the “Kicker of Elves” moments on English Little League are a rarity. Take the bludgeoned piano build on “Reflections in a Metal Whistle,” not an easy jam to coddle, even with its well-seasoned Pollard word cloud:

Charlie had his chance
Friction in Japan
Running with Teddy R
On Motown night

When distilled, the rabbit holes get more special, per usual GBV standard, though, showing colors of their planky, Big Star power pop shades, in which you can catch a glimpse of just what the hell said rabbit holes were dug for. There’s a moment on “The Sudden Death of Epstein’s Ways” that perfectly combines the magnetic poetry thread with that grainy sing-song hook any GBV fan knows the pleasure of discovering. It’s just a shame it stands largely alone:

From kingpin to butterfly
He says he’s dancing with Jesus

Certainly there’s no rule to for the title-less push. And great things happen to art when left the hell alone to interpret without a title, debut or not. Just the same as a late career decision may signify a complete shift in creative direction. But there’s definitely an unwritten mantra that such a move is reserved for an unveiling, a take-it-or-leave-it, this is our band (or this is me), hear us roar.

This is river-finger Swede José González‘ and Junip crew’s second album. Arguably one of the worst times to go eponymous, following three perfectly titled EPs – Black Refuge, Rope and Summit, In Every Direction - and an ever finer titled debut, Fields, accompanying a tantric, almost down-tempo acoustic and moog trajectory with meditative choruses that float like white froth on a riverbed, or wind uninhibited, always leading to something free, or an escape. One of Fields‘ finest moments happens on”Without You,” distilling the band’s ethos into a verse: [LISTEN]

She feels she needs to leave
To avoid a messy aftermath
Alone between lines of anguished needs
Rearranged to allow a newborn path

There were obstacles to maneuver around on Fields, named with things like “Sweet & Bitter,” “Don’t Let it Pass” and “Off Point,” Junip providing the calm velocity over/through them. But they weren’t harrowing obstacles. Whereas Junip gets dark. The paths traveled here can get treacherous, its opening track, “Line of Fire,” is a do or die cautionary: [LISTEN]

No one else around you
No one to understand you
No one to hear your calls
Look through all your dark corners
You’re backed up against the wall
Step back from the line of fire

Same story with “Your Life, Your Call,” “Villain,” “Beginnings,” handfuls of tracks roll out with more space in between the band’s careening vibe of yore, percussion more intense, shadows taller, moog and synths swathier. The latter of those three, a stumbling brooder of a walking bass number, has González almost giving up on the journey:

Oh to see the light before the day you die
Tired of asking for you to try

It’s a beautiful new direction for the band, fearless, while still using familiar tools in their wheelhouse, thus very much transformative. Life, unfortunately, often gets divided into two sectors. Like a half-empty or half-full water glass. Uphill or downhill. Yin or yang. Junip have found a away to get closer to themselves and remind us once again that obstacles make fluidity that much more transcendental. And of course, an eponymous statement can be made on a sophomore effort. By the time you get to “So Clear,” on the heels of “Line of Fire” and “Suddenly,” it will all make sense:

Wherever you look
It’s always the same
So many people
Playing the same game
Didn’t imagine
We would end up here
Now that it’s fading
I feel so clear

There’s still the odd sense of foreboding throughout its 12 earthy, organic tracks, none more so than on “Winter Prayers,” an achingly sad stripped-back ballad which hints at a riverside tragedy involving a former lover: [LISTEN]

Hollow trees, talk of hand
All the neckties are toasting with empty cans
And you know why she’s gone
Clothes in the river, drifting on

But the follow-up to 2011’s Kiss Each Other Clean largely backs up Beam’s claims that he’s now moved away from his usual anxious tension. The mellow Americana of “Joy” [LISTEN] might just be the most optimistic track he’s ever recorded as he pays tribute to the wife and children who have rescued him from a life of bitterness, while a similar loved-up state of mind is displayed on the languid folk-pop of “Low Light Buddy of Mine” and the country-tinged closer “Baby Center Stage:”

Deep inside the heart of this crazy mess
I’m only calm when I get lost within your well darkness
Born crooken as a creek now you’ve come to contest
That you’ve been bringing me joy

Joined by various members of Bob Dylan‘s backing band, Antony And The Johnsons and Tin Hat Trio, the warm vibes also extend to Brian Deck’s production, which successfully recaptures the AOR sounds of the mid-70s, from the wistful Carpenters-style lounge-pop of “The Desert Babbler” to the twinkling soft-rock of “New Mexico’s No Breeze,” the latter of which sees Beam look back nostalgically on a summer romance:

God gave you red light
On every green road sign when you left Santa Fe
We were two strange beings
You were too 19
You were blowing away

The unexpected ventures into Motown (“Grace For Saints and Ramblers”) [LISTEN] and silky smooth jazz fusion (“Caught In The Briars”) are just as tailor-made for long drives across the West Coast, and although fans of his more miserablist fare may be slightly confused by his new-found sunny disposition, Beam certainly won’t be the only one who will view Ghost on Ghost as a reward.

Go ahead tell me ‘hello’ or ‘fuck you’

Whatever introduction suits you

I ain’t tryin’ to fight

I’m just tryin’ to ride this train to make it home tonight

This isn’t the ‘freak’ of the Devendra Banhart kind. Nor Captain Beefheart, Syd Barrett, Frank Zappa. None of that. In fact, Vile’s not a freak at all, really. He’s a humble, plainspoken cruiser, with way more handfuls of accessible tunes under his belt than cryptic ones – “On Tour,” “Freeway in Mind,” “My Sympathy.” He’s put out a consistent set of records that shake out whatever cobwebs are entrenched up in that chill head of his, able to carry Neil Young angst on J. Mascis wings. His fifth effort, Wakin on a Pretty Daze masters the craft, Vile opening with a nine-minute, very simple open-window zen chaser called “Wakin on a Pretty Day:” [LISTEN]

I live along a straight line

Nothing always comes to mind

To be frank, I’m fried

But I don’t mind

He’s not Emerson or Thoreau. There are several cringing lines splayed about the record, most of them in “Too Hard” – “Life is like a ball of beauty/It makes you just wanna cry/Then you die” – but they all lead to transcendental moments if you ride the sprawling guitar work long enough, even on “Too Hard,” where Vile fingerpick dances around a reverb-swathed lap-steel fill waxing upon the beauty of fatherhood:

There comes a time in everyman’s life

When he’s gotta take hold of the hand

That ain’t his

But it is

Most of Wakin on a Pretty Daze is like this, like endless road trip conversations with the most even-keel of your friends. Strokes of black may show up – a suicidal thought here, an exploding heart there – but with Vile at the helm, ain’t nothin’ can’t be healed with a bluesy howl and a swaggering melody that unfolds like fresh concrete beneath the wheels. The most animated moment of the record, a handful of ‘woos’, are on a cowbell shimmy called “Shame Chamber,” that has Vile mocking the very concept of such a thing. This is a dude who’s vibe cannot be killed, who has found his way of bottling it in record form.

There’s a line on a shaker midnight ride that endcaps the 11-track gem, “Goldtone” that pretty much distills Vile’s current ethos, if you’re one to cut to the chase. And it doesn’t require a ‘hello’ or a ‘fuck you’ introduction to grasp:

I might be adrift, but I’m still alert
Concentrate my hurt into a gold tone
Golden tones

Mika Miko now disbanded, the two sisters dabbling in separate bands in the interim, they’ve reunited here as Bleached, to chase that punk ethos. Only problem is that sweet golden ride is now sullied by love and a high-school notebook full of burnt-out, heart-tugged sentiments that weigh down a Cali spirit. The sisters shake a mean power-pop fist at things, but Ride Your Heart is plagued by dudes these girls just can’t get over, or much less figure out, the two harmonizing on the title-track:

You took me to the stars

So I can ride your heart

…

If you change your mind

If you want to try

The words don’t come out right

So we say goodbye

In effect, we get this Best Coast archetype, songs freewheeling repetitive, boy-tired choruses in a kind of meditative two-minute, beer-swilling catharsis. It might not be poetry, but it’s allowing these girls to not give a fuck and get back on path toward the frenetic buzz of their past. Sometimes it gets lost in a Bo Diddley beat and a twangy early-rock and roll vibe (“Guy Like You“) that doesn’t jibe with the rest of the record’s mood, but when it hits, it hits just as hard as any 1970s power-pop 7”, hair-whipping, Fender flurry, as with the b-side flip “Waiting By The Telephone,” 116 seconds, three chords, about some dickhead who hasn’t called yet, but of course, it only makes love’s vice stronger: [LISTEN]

I keep waiting for you to call

I keep waiting for you my dear

…

He’s my guy and I won’t let him get away

Should the sisters have broken this up into a handful of singles and payed homage to power-pop heroes past? Probably. But then there wouldn’t be a kiss of a resolution happening, as they shake these dudes for good and enter a new era of youth. Also the opening jam, “Looking For a Fight,” wouldn’t nearly be as Highway 1 bird-flipping:

I walk you home at night

But you better steer clear

‘Cause I’m looking for a fight

…

I walk you home at night

But you better steer clear

‘Cause you know I’m not right

…

Are you pushing too fast

‘Cause you know this love it won’t last

Afraid of Heights finds the real world catching up to snotty lyricist Nathan Williams. Inspired by public breakdowns, paranoia, “where is my life headed” crises and the responsibility of supporting your parents right after mooching off them, Wavves truly do sound more developed. Williams pursues these inner “demons” by venturing into new musical territory – mainly 90’s alternative/grunge – with some outside help: Top-40 big-shot John Hill (Rihanna and MIA) produced and Jenny Lewis provided backup vocals and weed delivery.

Williams’ and Hill’s decision to drop the noise-pop copious distortion trick exposes the songwriting. Some songs shine in this unveiling, and others were shown to be basically Weezer and Green Day covers. Probably because Williams listened to The Blue Album everyday when recording and they’ve always been more pop-punk than your average Pitchforker would ever admit.

“Lunge Forward” sees Williams sounding exceptionally Billie Joe-like while power-chord chugging at a “Basket Case” speed and complaining “you’re so fucking boring that I’m fucking snoring.” Maybe “mature” isn’t quite the name for it. The title track then lifts the “found Jesus” line from “Say it Ain’t So” and the harmonies of “Buddy Holly” with drunken apathy, but the outro redeems with a sonic split between kaleidoscopic colors and a Doldrums-feel from The Phantom Tollbooth as Williams realizes that being really high won’t curb boredom or reveal purpose in life: [LISTEN]

There’s nowhere to go
Got nothing to lose
When it comes to being high
Got nothing to do
Nothing to prove

When Williams’ inspiration varies more, the honest lyrical insight and added sounds really show a band growing up. His questioned choices on “Everything is My Fault,” “I Can’t Dream” and “That’s on Me” make the best songs on the album. The first two are droning, minimalist ballads, while the third uses Kim Thayil guitar effects and Alice in Chains harmonies to spell out Williams’ reconsidering everything and claiming responsibility: [LISTEN]

Do what your brain says
Take what you like
Soon it’s over, you’ll regret your whole life
It’s not easy as I thought it would be
That’s on me

It’s different. It’s better. But it’s still Wavves. Save for the “blown-out-speakers” touch.

As their name implies, Low are seasoned pros at soaking in a depressive state as a form of cathartic therapy. Or, as they describe it on “Waiting” [LISTEN]: “The truth can hide/Sometimes right behind the sorrow.” They refuse to stop looking for that truth, and they’ll check behind every last piece of sorrow they can find.

Parker, one of the pioneers of the stripped-down, mallet-and-brush indie-drumkit, is nothing if not subdued. Although Low bumps up the speed on a couple tracks, their volume never reaches “full rock.” Even when guitar-distortion makes its album debut in the breakdown of “On My Own” [LISTEN], there’s no bass drum or full-fledged drumstick to be heard. The rebellious choice reminds of John Roderick‘s recent punk-bashing manifesto, where he states ”indie rock is the belief system that loudness and energy [are] egotistical excesses.” Low prove this point, but even post-rock mope-masters Mogwai recognize that uplifting instrumentals with some bashing are good for the soul.

From the single-loving consumer angle, it could also use a heart-wrenching, TV-show-worthy cut of bald-faced, stripped-down beauty – like their own “Point of Disgust” [LISTEN]. The closest jam to that is the standout “Just Make it Stop,” [LISTEN] which skips along quickly, but resolves its chord progression infrequently and at strange times. This, coupled with the upbeat tempo, gives a sense of frustrated dissatisfaction that beautifully matches the need to “just make it stop:” our narrator tantalizingly close to her desires, but that one hindrance outside her control just won’t “stop.” It doesn’t matter what “it” is, because we’ve all felt it:

Now I’m looking up from a ten-foot hole
Seeing nothing but blue sky shining on my soul
As I enter the court, I untwist the knot
We could get where we’re going
If I could just make it stop

Although Invisible… starts with bitterness towards entitled drug users and plagiarists [LISTEN] and follows with loads of depression, it ends with a solution [LISTEN]: don’t “abuse the love we all need.” It’s largely single-free and less catchy than your more heavily-played alt-indie records, but the entire album calmly relieves you of unhappiness by bathing you in it.