A bunch of b-sides and other odds and ends, all combined together with some new mixes. The vast majority of the stuff comes from the 80s (and most of that the early and mid-80s), which has to be expected, as that is the most fertile period in the history of Alien Sex Fiend.

Strangely, this set paints a more conventional portrait of ASF than the devoted fan might guess. Not that the material is generic or not adventurous, but as often happens with material that sounded so "out there" at some point in the past, the rest of the world has caught up. In this case, with something of a vengeance.

The whole techno-industrial complex, which seemed awfully bizarre 15 years ago, is in full swing now. This set does quite a good job of exclaiming "Hey! I was here first!" And if not first, certainly close to the beginning of this particular side note.

A good set for those who want to hear what the "weird" Brits were doing in the retro years. And, of course, as ASF has continued to evolve since then (and still wielding great influence), it's also an interesting look at how the extreme gets drawn into the (somewhat) mainstream fold. Of course, it's a big wad of fun, too. Can't forget that part.

A couple of guys from Big Drill Car, one from Doughboys and a drummer they picked up off the street (or something). Yeah, yeah, enough jokes. This does sound a lot like what you'd expect: Thick sound, taut riffage and somewhat understated hooks. All done with precision and care.

Yep, just another pop punk album. Well, better than that. These guys have demonstrated ability in the past, and this new configuration hasn't changed a thing. Bouncy stuff, without that annoying cloying aftertaste. Goes down easy even as it revs up the senses.

The sound here is proof that you can produce a punchy pop album without resorting to excess. Yes, the guitars (and even the vocals) are pretty thick. But there isn't that icky sheen that the major label sorts seem to think is necessary for selling mega-albums. Again, the dull edges undercut the tight hooks, precisely to avoid that unnecessary sweetness.

Coolness upon coolness. This is the sorta disc that sneaks up on you and takes hold after a few songs. The kinda thing that does a slow burn on the mind, and then sticks around for a while. A disc with a future, methinks.

The more I listen to this, the more Amen reminds me of Bullet Lavolta. Part of that comes from the fact that singer Casey Chaos sounds a hell of a lot like Yukki Gipe, the Bullet Lavolta frontman. But even more similar is the driving riffage laid over bounding bass lines. Hardcore, but of a vaguely tuneful sort.

And as I delve deeper into the album, the more I'm impressed. All the rancor and rage is dished out with the greatest care, and it fuses together into a roiling mass which never fails to be witty. There is always a reason to crank up the volume.

Really, now, is there a better reason to blast out an album? Always a piece to latch on. Not a gimmick, but a solid guitar line, bass groove or drum lick. A proper handhold for the ears.

This thing just wormed its way into my brain. I resisted, I'll admit, but in the end Amen won me over. Top quality riffola with the requisite brains behind the carnage. A quality piece of work.

Ah, the irony. Any self-respecting pop band (or, in this case, one-man pop band) wouldn't really call itself by this name. And so, while the sound here might be vaguely ramped into the "pop" realms, in all honesty these songs rarely approach anthemic status.

Which only makes sense, as the most important element in pop these days is irony. After all, any idot can put three chords together and harmonize, right? Maybe. But Anthemic Pop Wonder (the pen name of a certain Dfactor, which is itself a pen name for a certain Dave Murrow--irony, see?) generally messes about with sounds and song structure, starting when he might otherwise be stopping, playing tight, clean licks where some distortion might be expected, etc.

And so the disc wanders on and about, never quite taking hold of anything for very long. I admire the iconolastic way in which Murrow creates his work, even if some of it is just a bit too obscure for me to find purchase. There are more than a few moments where the sounds just don't make sense. Not a bad thing, necessarily, but I don't hear any reason for the incoherence except for the sake of being incoherent.

Perhaps this is just more irony. Who knows? This guy's mind is probably as inscrutable (and intriguing) as some of his songs. Challenging and odd, two prime characteristics for a good disc. I just can't hear how this all gets pulled together somehow. Maybe it's not supposed to be. I guess I just don't "get" it. Perhaps I should simply try a little harder.

You gotta like a band who kicks off an album with "More Stupid than Stupid" (which concerns "generation excrement"). Hard to really argue there. And if you needed any more encouragement, Lars Fredericksen produced, so chances are he likes the boys, too.

The lyrics are political and angry. Nothing surprising there. But the level of wit is high, and even as the fairly generic riffage grinds on, there always a laugh to be had at the expense of society's haves. Again, this is never a bad thing.

They even include a "radio edit" for "I'm True." The main reason, of course, is the expletive-riddled content. I myself am quite the vulgarian, so I don't mind. But I guess GMM is hoping for some serious airplay from folks with more delicate ears.

I don't think that's going to happen. I don't think it should. The Anti-Heros are a punk band, you know the Underneath the Underground kinda punk band. There's no reason to foist them on an unsuspecting (and generally uncaring) public. Leave them where they are, doing some real good.

The producer's notes say that Canned Heat never got enough credit for bringing real blooze 'n' boogie to the white masses. That's probably true, and despite a sometimes heavy hand in the engineer's booth, this disc is a decent case in point.

This disc kicks off with two great songs, "Wait and See" and "Last Man," two tunes which cause spontaneous blistering. In particular, "Last Man" sizzles. It's fiery boogie and angry lyrics exemplify the sound.

After that, Canned Heat kicks back. The album really begins to drag, and while the songs are competent, they are not inspired. Not like the first two tunes, in any case. Hell, it's amazing enough that something called Canned Heat (no original members are left, though a couple members have been with the band for more than 30 years) put out an album with a couple good songs.

Which is what this is. Yeah, the rest of the disc is perfectly fine, certainly better than filler, but not particularly memorable. Still, "Last Man" is up on my list of good songs of the year. That counts for something.

Energetic and peppy pop hardcore. Very much in the Down By Law tradition, though certainly heavier. There is a definite attraction to the hook, though, which keeps things lighter than might be imagined for the sound.

There is a spark missing, though. At times, Divit sounds like it's searching for the groove, not quite sure where to strike the next note. The boys don't sound completely confident in their sound or songwriting abilities.

Which is odd, considering the abandon with which they play. The odd drop-out sounds out-of-place, and yet, it's always lying around in wait. Hard to really explain without pointing to sections of songs, but basically at times the momentum of the tunes just gets lost.

And yet, this is an appealing disc. The problems, while annoying, don't ruin the set. They are merely an aggravation. If Divit can chart its course a bit better, well, the sounds might be wonderful. Here, they're just alright. With loads of potential.

Punchy pop, with plenty of rock undercurrents. The hooks are crunchy, and Even*rude presents them with flair. The funk has been toned down in favor of a more straight-ahead approach, but the results are similar. A nice hang-out album.

With loads of humor, witty and crude. After all, why not a song called "Tourettes?" Well, I can think of a few reasons, but this one's pretty amusing, nonetheless.

Five songs, each with a somewhat different take on the band's sound. I'm still not entirely in love with what these guys do, but they make me smile. Hard to dislike a disc like that. It really is.

A tinge of the blues, but more of a mellow folk feel. Hoffman doesn't sing so much as speak her songs (though she does have a lilt). The sorta thing some of my male friends like to call "chick stuff." Marketing folks will probably stick her in the Lisa Loeb section, but that's not fair, either.

Hoffman writes some great songs. Her arrangements are exemplary, and while her voice never really whips up a storm, the backing music is complex and intriguing. The lyrics, similarly, work on several levels. And, lest you think I'm slamming the voice, Hoffman's vocals work for her sound.

In other words, she knows how to express herself, and while the sound is somewhat unconventional, it works. Period. This is solid work, stuff that impresses easily. Hoffman co-produced this (which is why I give her so much credit). She's got loads of talent.

It's easy to hear on this disc, too. Slap this puppy in the stereo and dig into her world. She spins the web so effortlessly that you hardly notice you've been snared until too late. Not that the bindings are painful. Rather, just the opposite.

Tightly-crafted garage pop. If you'd like a few more oxymorons, I'll be happy to oblige. That would get silly, though, so let me say that these Delaware boys have a pretty fair handle on how to crank out this stuff.

The press blurbs for the band's first album throw about a few lofty references, and my inclination is to go along with the crowd on that one. The Knobs are decidedly in the "moody" camp, and so the nods to the Flaming Lips, etc., fit in just right.

Shifting gears fairly often within the same general context, the Knobs piece together many sonic snatches to complete the album. No, none of it wanders too far upstream, but there are definite shifts in the sound. Subtle and classy moves, certainly.

I didn't hear the first album, but if it's anywhere near as good as this one (and I trust enough of the reviews to believe that), I'd say these guys have really proven their mettle. Consistency isn't a problem. Exposure is the only issue now.

Something of a concept album, paying tribute to a few well-known celluloid (and otherwise) monsters and generally creepy things. This is a highly-amped version of the Misfits, with top-notch production from Daniel Rey and mixing from Ed Stasium.

Sounds a lot like the Ramones, with better vocals and dumber songs. Which is to say that there's plenty of toe-tapping fun, but the stuff is not exactly frightening. I think what made those old Misfits albums so spooky was how raw they sounded. This sounds like a generic pop punk album. It's just that there's a Misfits cover on it.

Not bad, particularly, but not really good either. Mostly generic. And for the Misfits, that's a pretty sad statement. There's gotta be something better. I hope, anyway, or there's really not much reason for another Misfits album, period.

I'm not trying to be overly negative. This album is actually better than I thought it would be. My expectations were not high. But mediocrity isn't wondrous. For a band which came to fame as something "extreme," this rather tame disc just doesn't fit the pedigree.

Two main singer-songwriters for this band (and they almost alternate track positions, too). Jangle-pop grooves and loose hooks. The rhythm section, however, is uniformly tight. These songs have to stay together somehow.

And they do. The pieces are just quirky enough to provide a spark, and the lyrics are pleasant with the slightest hint of a bite. Again, about what is to be expected with top pop stuff.

Generally, the sort of songs that really make me smile. And in fact, I've been bounding about a bit while giving this puppy a listen. There's a lot good here. The writing, playing and production are all good, sometimes even great.

Just what a band starting out should do: play great stuff and take a few chances. There's nothing to apologize for when you crank out pop music like this. Some first-rate stuff.

A couple years ago I reviewed a live/studio set from the boys, and it didn't impress much. Oh, it wasn't bad, but it lacked fire. This album, well, this one's a lot better in that book.

Still not the most adventurous music in the Britpunk book, mind you, but at least worth cranking the volume up and thrashing about a bit. There is no pretension here, just straightahead riffage and gang vocals.

Memorable? Not really. But the sound and energy of this disc are infectious. And that's really what I was missing on that earlier set.

No grand prize winner, certainly, but a pleasant chunk of the punk nonetheless. One Way System blasts all out, and it falls short of the mark, well, it's not for lack of effort.

Jonathan at Secretly Canadian always warns me before he sends out a disc. When he e-mailed with a message telling me to expect something new from the Panoply Academy Glee Club, well, I got a bit excited. Didn't have to clean up the desk or anything, but let's just say I began counting the days.

This is something of a departure from the last album, focusing more on a band sound and less on the effects. The songs are somewhat more coherent, but see, I've got to quit referencing that old effort and explain what's going on here.

Which is somewhat difficult. The Slint influence has always been obvious, but PAGC has its own warped take on eccentric rawk. The tunes have a lurching quality. It's not always apparent how the songs will get pulled out of the fire, but somehow they always are. Just returning to do a little more psychic damage.

So that finally, when the curtain falls, I'm simply left drained. Wanting more, but not sure whether or not I can survive another onslaught. This is the kind of stuff which involves all of the senses, dragging my mind to places it hadn't imagined (and isn't sure it wanted to, either). All in all, highly recommended.

The press notes that these boys were inspired by Uncle Tupelo's Still Feel Gone, and that's easy to hear. Perhaps a bit too easy. Too many of these songs not only echo stuff from the second (and first and third) albums by the Belleville band, they just about steal them. Each Satellite Inn song has a direct antecedent, even to the point of keys and riffs.

Now, if I hadn't spent five years in college literally watching Uncle Tupelo transform itself from just another band to a movement-inspiring juggernaut, well, I'd probably dig this stuff. But Satellite Inn is way too close to the original. "Sometimes in the Morning" is a pale echo of "Screen Door," and "Who Are You to Say for Sure?" takes every piece of "Fall Down Easy" but the chorus.

Now in these boys' defense, they are from Italy, and they're not stealing songs as such. They just love Uncle Tupelo so much that they haven't bothered to find their own sound. That's really the issue here. Satellite Inn needs to differentiate itself from its American heroes. Somehow. Because this is way, way too close.

Perhaps some more seasoning, more exposure to other bands in this general musical area (the Jayhawks, Bottle Rockets, etc.) will help Satellite Inn find its own grounding. These songs are fine, but a little too close to comfort for me.

What might have been just another pop record found something glorious. Silverscene's songs are generally basic fare, with somewhat waifish vocals. But instead of laying some sheen on the guitars and going for the hooky kill, the guitars themselves wig out into dissonant waves of distortion, waving a discordant flag behind the vocals.

A great idea. Now, this isn't to say that Silverscene would have been dull without the guitars, but those make the deal. All of a sudden, it's a lot easier to fly away with the vocals and dive into the lush sounds presented by the band.

Indeed, there's very much a My Bloody Valentine thing going on here. More Glider than Loveless, if you can dig. The songs roll on, just enough echoes to trip the mind into a trance. Something makes most songs sound like they're on a tape that's about to snap (another reference to the guitars, I guess). Quite the effect.

Just understated enough to really kick my ass. Silverscene comes on slowly but locks in tight. I tossed this in without expectation, and I came out a massive fan. This is some really fine stuff. I hope whoever picks these folks up doesn't overdo the studio tricks. No use ruining a good thing.

Is it moody or is it ponderous? Does it really mean something or is it just morose? Well, here's there's no contest. Sister Sonny does draw out a phrase (and a musical line) to its fullest extent, but these songs do move. They go somewhere. They're not wallowing in anything.

So, see, the Nick Cave references might begin to flow. But no, we're not in that territory. Not quite. There's a kinda retro 60s-90s feel to the sound. Maybe channeling a bit of the Syd Barrett. Though not that warped.

And not terribly excessive. These are slow songs, sure, but they're still intense as hell. There's a feeling of impending doom, and sometimes it never arrives (lending to an increasing paranoia as the songs bloom--nice trick). All I can say is that the songs themselves do fully flower. And whether it's into beauty or horror, well, it's still one hell of a display.

Mesmerizing is a word that gets overused. But it fits here. Judging just by the stuff I've reviewed this issue, I'd say that psuedo-psychedelic pop is on the rise again, and while I didn't like it the first time out, I've warmed to the stuff now. Indeed, I'm happy to embrace albums like this.

Passing the rhymes around like a dinner plate, Skygod is more of a hip hop collective than anything else. Is this the underground? Well, sure. Does Skygod have something to say? Well, sure. Is it really advancing the cause? Well...

Rhyming around (rather than on) the beat is an interesting idea, but not a new one. Some of the MCs are more creative than others, but even that gets frustrating when, once again, the mic gets passed. A good minute gets wiped out by a bad one.

As for the beats behind the rhymes, Skygod hearkens back to more old-school days, with some nods to the styles of today. This is the area where the disc just didn't excite me. There isn't a high degree of invention in the music. It's just fine, but I'd like more than that.

Not so much bad as simply muddled, Skygod is just too unfocused to really score a lot of points with this album. The scattered pieces don't fall together in a mosaic. They simply fall. A few nice moments do not an album make, and that's where Skygod needs the most help.

Ooh, the lovely squalls of feedback drenching strident riffage. Actually, that's about all that's going on here. The vocals are more spoken than sung, and the lyrics are more stream-of-consciousness than crafted.

But there is this screeching rhythmic quality to the songs which keeps my ear attracted. This ain't no pretty racket now; it's downright mean. Incoherence can be a virtue, but sometimes it just gives a headache. The UMW kinda walks that line, slipping every once in a while.

Sounds like an Albini knob job, though it isn't. The focus is on the guitars, most definitely. They have a great sound, even as they squeal out in pain through most of the tunes. Not exactly thick, but strong. These guitars have some real attitude.

Adventurous listening, to be sure. The UMW isn't traditional in much of any sense, and the songs simply fall as they're thrown. There are plenty of intriguing moments ("Sing Along Your Heart Out" is a fascinating mix of conventional and unusual sounds and constructions), more than enough to invite a visit. Just be sure you're ready.

A vaguely bleak take on the whole pop thing, with a particularly midwestern touch. Don't know if the band is from there, but this sounds somewhat like folks were trying to do when I was in college at Missouri. Sorta depressing, even more so when you realize how ironic the lyrics really are.

Unlike those bands of my "youth," however, United States Three uses some seriously intricate arrangements. Highly crafted, though it sounds pretty loose. It's just that all of these pieces couldn't come together without plenty of care.

And while the songs spin their wheels stylistically (there's plenty of small adjustments), the flat sound for the bass and guitar really ties everything together. Just sort of a dull throbbing, lending a bit of accompaniment and occasionally kicking the songs when they're in need of a boost. So, in summation, perhaps we might call this a midwestern approximation of the Britpop form, with a nod to Beck. In any case, it sure is interesting to hear a pop band that doesn't rely heavily on the guitar.

Nope, there's plenty of piano, organ and lots of beats and pieces sounds swirling about. The United States Three wrapped its songs up into neat packages and has presented them wonderfully. The careful preening didn't stifle the emotion in the songs, however. If anything, it increased the intensity. Ooh, this one really hits all my spots just right.

I'm always stoked to get a new sampler from the Big Fish folk, and this set is no different. There is the requisite pop punk element (Big Fish's stock in trade), but plenty of other cool sounds as well, stuff that wanders all over the map.

Not exactly a label, Big Fish is more of a distributor, and these are songs from CDs and tapes in the store. The set is most tastefully done, with an obvious eye to including some of the more original and interesting items lying about.

Just another quality set. Big Fish is a great place to start scoping out the Japanese music scene. They don't have everything, of course, but what's there is quite good. This sampler simply proves that more.

This is a play, written by Chris Kessler and produced by something called Lynskytology Ink. This play attacks the media overload, taking a trip into a woman's mind. With the help of more than a few controlled substances.

Highly opinionated, the script takes aim at just about every piece of our mass consciousness, with a particular interest in the news. Some of the jokes are a bit too easy (the ditzy broadcast reporter is a bit hackneyed; I should know. I've got a few of them in my own repertoire), but on the whole the stuff is pretty amusing.

Considering how scatterbrained the subject matter can get (which is a necessity when you're satirizing media excess), the play hold together pretty well. There's really not much of a plot, but there is plenty to think about.

Not a spoon-feeding operation, to be sure. Living in a Box challenges the listener to assimilate a good chunk of material and make a few personal judgements. This isn't yer traditional stagecraft. Indeed, the CD is probably the best format for presenting this material. Plenty of cool ways to drop into this stew of ideas.

Just about what it looks like, a sampler from one of the Bay Area's less well-known labels. Don't let a relative lack of name recognition keep you away. There's some great bands on the label, many of which you've seen reviewed on this site.

With the exception of a couple track from forthcoming albums, these songs are previously released. So if you haven't heard this font of punkdom before, this disc will point you in the right direction.

And while this is stuff I've heard before, the folks did pick out some of the best bits of the bunch. A more than serviceable introduction to Coldfront.

Another label sampler; this one comes from the other coast. The home of the Turbo A.C.'s and plenty more (there's 22 bands here), Cacophone specializes in the rock and roll basics, a little rockabilly here, a little punk rawkage there.

I hadn't heard much of this stuff here, and most of it hasn't appeared on an album before. The liners are most instructive. For one band there is a note saying how much Cacophone wants to do a full-length. Other notes give some bio or other pertinent info.

Simply a trip into the basic holes of rock. There's nothing pretentious here, just a journey on a go-cart powered by a 454 big block. Hit the gas and let it roll. There's a wealth of cool sounds here.

Led Zeppelin was just another in the slew of British bands who wanted to play the blues real bad. Some did play badly, but most simply added a rock and roll edge to some soulful music. At times, Led Zep even managed to find some of that soul in its own performances.

And so, in this latest installment of the "This Ain't No Tribute" series, we hear people like Eric Gales, Otis Rush and Gatemouth Brown reclaim the lifeblood. Is it necessary? Oh, probably not. But unlike most tribute albums (or whatever this IS), at its best this set actually does strip Led Zeppelin down to its original influences.

Probably the best example is "When the Levee Breaks", performed by Magic Slim with Billy Branch and James Cotton. The laid back arrangement really brings home the song, perhaps even lending an insight into what Led Zeppelin heard when it was playing. Similarly, Gatemouth Brown's rendition of "Rock and Roll" sends the clock back to the 50s, before the blues gave up the rock in the first place.

There are some clunkers (Rush and Chris Thomas King are both dreadfully overproduced, considering the rest of the set), but on the whole, this album comes across as one of the best tributes I've heard. Fine stuff.

The whole story of this tape can be distilled in the first song, "One Dance with Mia Farrow." Vance writes lines like "I found it hard to resist someone who was Frank Sinatra's lady and then had Rosemary's Baby" and "I'd never chase your offspring," puncutated with the requisite "Mama Mia" exclamations.

The music is well-crafted, if somewhat routine, roots rock. The thing about it is that Vance is so damned earnest. I mean, he really means all that silly stuff he's singing. Listen, I know that even the best songs have their silly moments that have to be carried off by the artist, but really, Vance's lyrics are beyond the pale.

Too many howlers. And I'm not saying that to disparage the feelings behind them. I watched Shadows and Fog last night, and I must admit I felt some similar feelings for Mia Farrow. But there's a better way to express them.

Damnit, though, he is sincere. This isn't phony or calculated. And while it is heavily crafted, the music is good enough to attract attention from the more mainstream folks. Vance just needs to work on making his lyrics a bit more credible.

The first song on the disc is called "Another Form of the Blues," and that's what the Welfare Gypsies seem to be cultivating. The funkier side of the blues, but more of a sheen than out and out syncopation. All of the songs have their base in the blues, one way or another.

And there are a lot of ways that the Welfare Gypsies wander. Always looking for a new shading of the blues, the band adds some salsa, boogie and roots sounds to the base funky feel. The influences don't overpower, however; they bring the strengths of the band to the surface.

One strong point: the technical skill of the band. These songs are played with immaculate skill and a good amount of touch. At times I'd like to hear just a bit more emotion, but in no way is the sound stilted. It's more wanting for more success.

The folks can play and sing; the sound is good and the songwriting more than up to the task. On the mainstream side of sounds, of course, but quality is quality. And the Welfare Gypsies have all that.

The "old" Yes lineup (Jon Anderson and Steve Howe lead this incarnation), this album still manages to sound a lot more modern than I imagined it would. Modern in the sense of "new age." Kind of an adult contemporary feel at times. Pretty sing-songs. Not unlike a Disney soundtrack.

And despite some tech help from the likes of Rhys Fulber, this Yes really doesn't break any new ground. Well, maybe for Yes, but not in general. Indeed, Fulber's contribution on "Lightning Strikes" brightens what otherwise would have been pretty generic piece.

It's not bad. I can't say that. It really isn't. The playing is still good, and the writing is workmanlike. It gets the job done. There isn't a high level of inspiration, though, and that's where I question the need for another Yes album.

I guess when you get old, you play music like this. I just don't particularly want to hear it. That's all. Perhaps my parents will groove happily. I'll let them.