A pleasant mishmash of pop styles, noisy ethereal stuff, if you like. The vocals alternately lilt and growl, and the music morphs to fit the mood of each particular song.

The songs themselves don't follow strict construction rules, instead generally meandering about and finding a good place to alight for the moment. I wish the writing was a bit more disciplined (that would help eliminate some of the more egregious musical tangents), but this loopy style has plenty of its own charm.

Ultimately, the songs just don't quite click for me. There are lots of nice moments, but Caledonia just hasn't quite settled on what it wants to play, and that indecisiveness leaves the songs lacking that final defining moment.

A work in progress, most definitely. There's plenty of potential, but not quite enough craft. More live shows ought to work out the songwriting kinks, and once that gets more settled, who knows?

Muted poppy stuff, kinda spacey at times (mostly due to some fine organ work). The songs themselves have very little energy, even though a couple would be rather punchy numbers if performed by another band. Claudia Malibu is definitely suffering from the musical form of mono.

Just the slightest hint of desire would suffice. Like I said, the songs themselves are at least serviceable (and most better than that), but the renditions here are positively mind-numbing.

You know, I didn't like Codeine, either. Claudia Malibu is much more energetic than that band, but this music demands to be played with at least the slightest semblance of joy and verve. Just a little. Please.

As George Bush has been known to say, "There has been an evolution in my position." Or more specifically, a shift in Don Caballero's musical emphasis.

Cause, see, I've loved the band as one of them "reely reely individual type sorta groups". There are now three Don Cab albums, and none of them particularly resemble the other, with the obvious exception of a distinct lack of vocals.

The last album was more conceptual and less direct (not so many pounding chords), and this puppy continues the trend. In fact, the delicate interplay between the band members sounds a lot more like Gastr del Sol or other Jim O'Rourke projects than anything Don Cab has released before.

Not a bad thing at all. Music to complicate your life. This stuff demands attention and contemplation. Anything less would be insulting. I can't claim to understand exactly what inspires these intricately crafted masterpieces, but I do know great music when I hear it. And Don Cab can always be counted on for only the finest in aural adventure.

A lot a lot a pop culture references tossed into a fuzz-guitar rock act. Well, the fuzz is a sometimes thing. Wouldn't you know.

Actually, Garbo Swag has recorded five songs which have very little in common musically. If you don't like one song, try another. "Aurora" has a slight funk feel, Bottle Blonde is, oddly, a dirge-like piece. "Love?" is an uptempo acoustic guitar bit, "Nacho Girl" has some faux-south of the border references (with some light ska) and "Rising Sun" sounds like a shortened version of "Children of the Sun" as played by Hootie and the Blowfish (Yow!).

Completely incoherent, when taken as a group. The songs themselves hold together well enough, though, and they lyrics are uniformly strong, if a bit smarmy in spots. I really have no idea what Garbo Swag is all about, though obviously the guys can craft a number of different sounds pretty well.

Still, there's no soul. This is ace craftsmanship without anything below decks. I want to know what makes Garbo Swag groove. And that can't be heard here.

Two women from Georgia. Boy, wonder what they sound like, hunh?

See, that's where silly stereotypes come from. Yeah, the roots are in folk rock, but this album is a lot more rock than folk. Easygoing guitar licks and angst-ridden lyrics. Gentle Readers are not afraid to get dirtied up a bit before escaping into the clear.

In fact, other than Susan Fitzsimmons's husky voice, there's very little here that is reminiscent of the Indigo Girls. The music is basic and generally upbeat, and the lyrics concern more overt issues. Not preachy, but not obtuse, either.

Yeah, this more powerful approach might give the impression that Gentle Readers aren't the deepest group around. Probably true. But the songs kick out some nice grooves, and the lyrics still have plenty to say. Alright, so sometimes musical cliches creep in. Still an appealing album.

Shrapnel honcho Mike Varney decided to create a strictly fusion imprint (which will probably be the home of Richie Kotzen and other current Shrapnel artists), and he enlisted three well-regarded musicians to kick off this new endeavor.

Scott Henderson has played guitar with Chick Corea's Elektric Band, Jean Luc Ponty and his own band, Tribal Tech (among many other gigs). Steve Smith is indeed the Steve Smith of Journey, and he's played drums for more folks than I could list in one review. In addition to a highly successful solo career, bassist Victor Wooten plays with Bela Fleck. Not a bad lineup.

Most of the songs were written and worked out in the studio, with an intriguing cover of Coltrane's "Giant Steps" thrown in for good measure. Unlike most one-time improv groups, these guys keep a tight rein on their playing, sticking to a coherent group sound. This does avoid some of the potential highs, but also wipes out any serious gaffes as well.

Virtuosos who also know how to play with verve and feel, this trio kicks out some impressive licks. The teamwork shown here is impressive, and the songs show a nice range. A thoroughly enjoyable outing.

The title refers to the fact that the rest of the band worried that singer/guitarist Stimy would OD before the album came out. Boy, what a positive attitude.

Luckily, death did not visit Inch, and so this new album. About the same vein as the first two, which is to say extremely crunchy punk pop. One part Heatmiser and one part Rocket from the Crypt. The songs here are a bit more subdued and melodic at points, but not so much as to claim an actual change in direction or anything.

And not enough new ideas to completely change my mind about the band. They do a decent job with the San Diego sound, but not well enough to really kick my ass. Inch remains in the middle of the pack, though a bit closer to the top with this album.

Part of it is that I'm kinda tired of the sound, and part of it is that Inch isn't really finding anything new to say. This is a fairly enjoyable album, but that doesn't mean there's anything profound here.

Roadrunner has been trying to broaden its appeal for ages. Sometimes, even the good efforts (Senator Flux, Blue Mountain) haven't quite made big inroads in the sales department. But hell, the folks keep on trying. Jupiter Coyote is a southern rock band. That's southern rock a la R.E.M., Blues Traveler and the Hootieman.

So is it really southern? I dunno. I do know that the songs tend to cheese out just at the moment when something profound could be taking place. Well, some songs are bad imitations from the start ("Words" is an eight-minute excursion that never needed to shove off shore), but there are some pieces which opt out for the easy kill at precisely the wrong time.

You know what I mean. The difference between, say, "Radio Free Europe" and "Stand" is that the first keeps a simple groove and never chooses the obvious transition. The latter song invariably lurches toward an easily-predicted course. Jupiter Coyote is rocking by the numbers here, and I find the lack of originality truly boring.

Too bad, too, because many of these songs did have potential. Until the chorus and bridge comes along. Then it's time to march in line with everybody else.

I don't correct my reviews very often. Most of the time, the complaints that arise are over opinion ("All my friends say this is a great album" and that sorta thing). The Laddio Bolocko guys were a bit cheesed when I said they used tape loops in the first version of my review of their Strange Warmings... disc. They don't. I changed the review to read "what sounds like... tape loops". And I did so happily.

This album throws all the messiness of that first disc right out the damned window. The songs are still based around some mechanical-sounding rhythm grooves, but there is much less ambient noise. More attention to melody (however contorted the melody might be). A stronger sound altogether.

Right in the vein of the Shipping News or June of '44. Regular readers know how much I love them (interrelated) bands. Well, Laddio Bolocko impresses me just as much. This is really wonderful stuff.

Would seg well with the Don Cab, too. Instrumental lovelies, thriving on the lush interaction of instruments cranked to the edge of distortion overload. This harnessing of energy is most impressive, and while I liked the caterwauling primal scream of Strange Warmings..., this disc is ever so much more impressive. The sound of a band growing into its genius.

Orchestras are generally better at propagating dance music than smaller acts, and the Latin Jazz Orchestra is no exception. In fact, that's one of the avowed intents of the band. Live, the orchestra uses six to nine pieces (a little big band, if you will), but on this disc the number occasionally swells to twice that.

The LJO does its best work with the deft handling of Afro-Cuban dance rhythms, merging those sometimes frenetic beats with the smoothness required by an orchestra. Never out of its element, the LJO manages to swing mightily.

Because this is orchestral jazz, there is a much greater emphasis on the overall sound and relatively little attention paid to the individual players. Still, the sound is impressive and the playing first-rate. Four of the songs are arranged and conducted by the Chico O'Farrill, who has been working with this music for more than 40 years.

A fresh blend of old and new permeates this disc. I generally prefer smaller groups, but the LJO has won me over. This is solid work, stuff that easily impresses despite being immediately accessible by almost anyone. Quality fun.

A heavy duty dose of the Hendrix, filtered through Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin. I know, they're kinda interrelated as it is, but Magic Wave just wallows in the stuff. Without completely ripping either off (the vocals are much more of a glam metal wail, for example), which puts the band ahead of most.

Still, nothing here suggests any musical growth within the last 25 years. Magic Wave is just stuck in big guitar grandly played. Done well enough, but this music has been done before.

It pains me to come down on this disc, because the band is definitely talented. The playing and sound are great. It's just that I'm not a big fan of retroid band which don't really move any of the old ideas forward. And Magic Wave is stuck in neutral.

Too much of the old times for me. I'd like to hear even the slightest hint of innovation.

I know, you're sitting there going "How can you remix Mogwai?". After all, this is a rock band with its base in elemental music. Not horribly conducive to the electronic revolution.

Well, I'll tell you. The remixes are organic, almost ambient at times. Completely rethought and reworked, the songs come across here as a nice fusion of the dirty prog rock that Mogwai plays and the dirty electronic music that's been replacing the techno sound of late.

Truly and wonderfully out there, in all the good ways. This isn't a club album, and it's not much of a rock album. But it's wild, hairy and unrestrained. Right on the edge.

Which is what I've come to expect from Mogwai. Why not a remix album? Why not, indeed.

One album on Dischord, this one for Touch and Go and the inevitable break-up. Now this lame duck album which still manages to convey the fire and desire of a working band.

The Monorchid plays some high octane punk rawk. Complicated bass and guitar lines, though, so as to confound the formula. Almost Nomeanso-like in the bass at times. Thick, chunky and every moving. The guitars swoop in from side to side, highly distorted and sometimes almost hidden.

Oh, what a joyous melange this is. Folks having fun making loud and crazy music. Stuff that doesn't follow any rules, but still manages to stay coherent enough to understand. Nice and tasty.

The songs just keep throbbing out. Yeah, it's a damn shame the band is no more. And yet, the music will always serve as a beacon. Oh, man, did I really say that? I'm so sorry...

The one Cargo album that doesn't contain a reference to death in the title is the one where a band member died. Phil Suchomel, guitarist and main songwriter, died on April 25th of a massive asthma attack. Not fair, of course, but that's what happened. So this is another lame duck album (following on the heels of the Monorchid in the review list).

And just as invigorating. Naked Aggression uses its guitars to full effect, playing a full force punk attack with lots of skillful asides. At its most basic, the music throbs with power. But often enough, the band pulls back and exposes some more subtle ideas.

Folks who know how and when to kick the ass. And with a sound that is almost-but-not-quite out of control. The sound of a buffalo herd just before it plunges off the caprock. And Naked Aggression holds it together admirably.

As a final testament, Gut Wrenching Machine is more than adequate. Awe-inspiring is more like it.

Alright, if you were one of the people who bought one of the first thousand copies of Arise Therefore, you've got this disc, which then went by the title of Songs Put Together for the Broken Giant. Also coming out soon (without any nice promo copies for hacks like me to review) is Little Joya, which accompanied the first thousand copies of Joya.

Will Oldham, of course, is the man behind Palace (Palace Music, Palace Brothers, Palace Palace, whatever). He's given up on the whole Palace concept and now is releasing his music under his own name. Hey, I went along with the whole Prince thing, so this is fine with me. A person should be called whatever they want to be called.

The eight songs on this disc are reminiscent of Arise Therefore. Starkly spare arrangements, just Oldham and his guitar, or Oldham and an organ. The songs are presented in something of a leitmotif format (I've been reading the liners on my Star Wars CDs again...). Basically this means that certain themes keep coming up again at specific points, and that those themes mean something.

But hell, you already knew that. The release of this album and Little Joya means that this music is not nearly so rare as it used to be, even if the original discs still are. A nifty trick. Just like the music within.

Manic, strident pop songs (like a rustier version of Superchunk, perhaps) separated by some truly weird "found" music. Found all over the place and then spliced together into some intriguing sound bits.

Or the usual inspired, insanity-inducing fare from Secretly Canadian. When PAGC actually plays it straight, the music is anything but. The songs have very sparse arrangements and often meander into glorious tangents.

There's a rhythm to the songs and the soundscapes, though. A current which flows through the album, inviting me into the madness. Hypnotic and enticing, the various sorts of music eventually merge together to find a greater truth.

Or something like that, anyway. I got lost. Really lost. Didn't want to come back, either. Kinda spooky when you're on the outside looking in. This disc gets me there fast and then encourages me to deface the walls. Psychic vandalism can be a kick, you know.

I seem to remember MTV announcing the demise of Rancid sometime in late 1996. Maybe I'm crazy. What did happen is all of the members took some time off to focus on other projects. For example, Tim Armstrong got together with Epitaph big guy Brett Gurewitz to start up the Hellcat label, which has kicked out an astonishing number of good ska bands in the last year.

But all that is put aside for the moment. The new Rancid has arrived, and it begins where ...And Out Come the Wolves left off. Highly flavored sloppy pop punk music with a wonderful lack of attention paid to enunciation. You already knew that, of course. What you want to know is does this album measure up?

Um, the easy answer is yes. Branching out into even more sounds and feels than before, Rancid stretches itself nicely. The songs themselves are as tightly written (and loosely performed) as ever, bouncy, catchy and addictive. Just what you demand, and a little bit more.

There's been some serious hype and anticipation for this album, and all I can say is that Rancid exceeded my high expectations. This is a solid piece of work from a band who has nothing left to prove. With a little luck, this could be the album of the summer.

Death Factory is a new imprint for the fine Swedish label Cold Meat Industry. Slogun traffics in the sonic excess of acts like Namanax, except that the cascading pulses of white noise also have lyrics which echo behind the wall of sleep.

The band (straight outta Brooklyn) calls the sound "True Crime Electronics", and that's fine for me. Obviously on the outside edge of the extreme, Slogun's incorporation of lyrics into this sound is a new twist, and it works pretty well. Though I have to admit I found myself waiting for the lyrics rather than getting lost in the sonic chaos.

Yeah, yeah, 99.9 percent of humans would call this unlistenable crap. So what? I groove on the carnage, and there's plenty here. Fans of some of the more edgy Japanese noise acts (Otomo Yoshihide and Merzbow come to mind right away) should know exactly what I'm talking about here.

Music which immediately reverses the effects of Prozac. A good thing, if you ask me.

Yer basic melodic hardcore, riffs slung out in the style of Seven Seconds. You know, rhythmic chord changes that don't quite follow the path of the vocals. Something Thin Lizzy was really good at doing (there's a reference for you!).

Workmanlike. Good, but not particularly distinguished. Makes me want to dig out some old CDs. Swindle does the sound as well as anyone, but there's no real growth or musical movement.

I'm not sure if it's worse to suck or be stuck in the middle of the crowd. There's a lot of decent punk bands out there, and Swindle is one of them. Just not in the great category.

What else to say? I enjoyed the spin, but there's nothing here that I haven't heard before. Just doesn't get me going, you know?

Can I just say that Jason Wilber has some of the scariest hair I've ever seen. Fonz hair, stiffened with soft hair spray instead of lard. Alright, I said it. Now on to the tunes themselves.

Country-tinged rock music, but old style country. Almost rockabilly at times. I can hear echoes of Johnny Cash, Buddy Holly and Carl Perkins. The sound has even been altered to present a somewhat scratchy picture of the songs. Tape hiss. Wow, it's been a while. A pretty cool additive to the songs.

Wilber is happy to kick out ballads and ravers as he pleases, and he sure knows how to write folksy songs that cut right to the center of the situation. The classic style, done real well. And the music is hardly overdone; the loose sound gives the songs room to breathe and find their own space. Somewhat surprisingly, on the second half of the disc he begins to favor a Paul Simon-like sing-spoken delivery. It works pretty well, offering a bit of a departure from the first few songs on the album.

Well done all the way around. Wilber has a real talent for songwriting, and this album captures all the poignancy of those pieces. One of the best albums I've heard this year.