Well, it's another Agnostic Front album. That's what this is. Lars Frederickson did the knob work, but really, this sounds like most any AF album. Rough hardcore with just enough melody to slightly sand off the corners.

Ther are a few changes, but I'm not talking about an evolution or anything. Some of the guitar solos have a bit more reverb than usual. That's all. The songs are as angry and political as ever, and the riffs flow from the classic hardcore fakebook.

Why evolve when you can spit out such great hocks of venom? Geez. It's like asking John Grisham to write a romance novel or something. Well, maybe that's a really stupid simile. Particularly since I don't like Grisham.

Anyway, I think I made my point. Fans know what they're gonna get, and AF delivers. Analysis is futile.

The intent here is to create a "pagan opera" which examines and celebrates Atlantis and some historically documented lost societies. Pretty lofty goal, if you ask me. Calls for some seriously overwrought music.

Ataraxia is ready for the challenge, though. Gotta give the folks credit: These songs are way over the top. Not in terms of sound; indeed, many of the pieces are so delicate they sound as if a breath might shatter them. But the themes and musical complexities of the songs are so involved as to leave a sense of overload.

At first, I was somewhat put off by the grandness of the vision. It seemed almost hokey, and I just couldn't get into the start of the disc. But by the time the middle flowed past, I was more receptive, having been once again entranced by the musical creativity of the band. The folks take old folk melodies and combine them with more modern notions, the way Dead Can Dance would do in its better work.

Oh, there are some silly moments, particularly when it sounds like the band is really taking all of this Atlantis and gods and goddesses stuff seriously. But the music makes more than easy enough to get through such spots. Another fine disc from these folks.

Some folks use electric instruments to pick the blues up a bit. Some folks use the blues to give electric instruments a way to sound interesting (think Jon Spencer). And there are those, like Bourbon Jones & the Smokes, that use the blues as a springboard, wandering far afield into all sorts of strange musical territories.

Any way you slice it, this is dark territory. The bass lines are reminiscent of grunge, but the guitars are blues with country tinges. The vocals are, well, bourbon and smoke-soaked.

And the tempos never quite pick up. I usually find that annoying (turgid is a word I've been known to bandy about), but it works here. I mean, the blues don't have to be happy, and most of the time they're better when not.

A spooky ride into the darker shades of the blues. Bourbon Jones & the Smokes never lets up, presenting a strange and eclectic vision of the mean life. Always welcome at my house.

The press refers to Girls Against Boys and Slint as influences. I didn't get that at first, but it came to me. Imagine Slint playing GvsB stuff and omitting the grooves. That's right; hoarse vocals and thick bass lines that simply don't go anywhere.

Hell, the guys have loft ambitions. I can hear that easily. Each song has the potential for a transcending moment. Sometimes it comes, and sometimes it doesn't. That's what happens when you take chances.

Cole very well might have what it takes to craft a stunning album that will forever change the face of rock and roll. Really. There's a big wad of creativity in this music, and it's easy to hear a willingness for experimentation. Unfortunately, at this point Cole has no discipline. So it's just not harnessing much of its talents, and the energy simply blows off in all directions.

It's stuff like this that can be the most frustrating of all. Because the boys were so close at times, but they couldn't quite grasp the greatness. And so the jar fell to the floor and smashed, scattering candy to the wilds. Bummer.

EP? Try six songs in less than eight minutes. With titles like "Fucked," "Hell Race" and the title track, you know you're not in for an evening of discussing the great Greek philosophers.

What can be found are six hi-octane punk rawkers, each charming in its own way. Basic basic, but amusing as well. My only real problem is with the sound. This thing sounds like it was recorded in a padded cell. All of the sounds are rather muffled for a professionally-recorded set.

Ah, well. It is punk, after all. Can't have everything. I'll take the adrenaline and cheap three-chord symphonies just fine, thanks.

A strange cover and band name for folks who play basic anthemic rock. Valentina Cuden's vocals make this more interesting than it should be, but come on. Grunge died a few years ago.

Okay, that was harsh. And not fair. Dr. Squish doesn't play grunge. This is merely slow to mid-tempo rock played with thick guitars and fairly standard bass lines. Like I said, without the vocals, there's nothing distinctive here.

Which is too bad, because the playing is quite good. It's even somewhat expressive, which is hard to fathom, considering how mundane the music is.

Boy, I hate to slag on a disc like this. It's easy to hear how much time and effort the folks put into making a good-sounding product. What I don't here is enough work on the creative end. Dr. Squish needs to find its own voice, its own sound. Some way of breaking out from the pack. Something to make assholes like me take notice.

The beauty of punk music is that kids can literally play it. That, by the way, can also be considered a drawback. I'm sure exactly how old the guys in Dropzone are, but they're definitely pre-Hanson. And while the stuff is competently played (almost to the point of commercial rock, really), the lyrics just don't have much punch.

Punk has always been a great music form for expressing ideas, particularly those outside the mainstream. Well, these kids apparently haven't lived terribly rough lives, and they seem content to sing about girls and playing music and girls and cool friends.

Alright, alright, so that's what Green Day does, too. The difference is that Green Day specializes in irony. This stuff is delivered straight up. There's no where to go but back in line.

Not horrible, just kinda dull. Happy punk music without any bite is just three chords on a cake.

The band's name isn't quite right. There's a guitar going on as well. Otherwise, well...

One key to endeavors such as this is the interplay between the different instruments. Obviously, the tuba works as a decent sub for the bass, but the sound isn't quite the same. That doesn't really matter, though, as the trio works together tirelessly to find its own sound.

And what a sound it is. A pulsating, rhythmically complex set of songs, each immaculately crafted and honed. Jazz? Well, I'd say that's where these boys were trained, though this music doesn't really fit in anywhere.

That's the beauty of it. There isn't another band out there that sounds anything like this. And for this to resonate so fully as it does is simply astonishing. All hail these adventurers who did find what they were searching for. Drums and Tuba creates music of the highest order.

Might as well get this puppy out before the new Rage disc hits stores next month. Oh, I'm sure that didn't have a whole lot to do with the release strategy here (it's silly to worry about what megastars do), but EDL does drop down with a little straightedge metalcore. Somewhere between Earth Crisis and Downset, these guys actually bring some new ideas to the table.

Like some slammin' digital hardcore beats, and plenty of space between the sounds. So instead of merely overwhelming, EDL provides more of a complete emotional impact. Why simply destroy when you can build up? That's the trick here.

There is still a bit too heavy of a reliance on strident riffage, but even there EDL does a pretty good job of integrating more ideas into its moshing moments. Let's just say I didn't get bored listening to this disc, and that happens way too often when I'm listening to many bands like this.

In fact, the more I hear, the more I like. EDL has an easygoing take on this most intense of sounds (that's a relative comment, mind you), and that really takes some of the dreadful pretentiousness out of the mess. Wow. This is something worth a spin or few.

There isn't any such thing as a "regular" Emperor Penguin track. A few loops, some regular playing and lots and lots of weirdness. I mean, when you kick of an album with two minutes of keyboard noodling called "Phantom of the Gay Opera," absurdity is only a moment away.

Absurd and intriguing. On this disc, the Penguin lays some funky jams over the trippy electronic base, managing to fuse the two sounds in a rather unimaginable way. I mean, this really works. The sound is lush and full, and the fat grooves really spice up the Penguin's inherent goofiness.

In fact, some of this is so wacked it almost ventures into Wordsound (the label, y'know) territory. Yep, that inventive and that visionary. And while this certainly has to be considered much more commercial than anything the band has done before, it's still invigorating.

Emperor Penguin never hits the same spot twice. This disc is just the next step in a continuum of musical experimentation. This particular venture is most rewarding. Great stuff from a band which never ceases to amaze.

Sludgy groove rock, with an idiosyncratic bent that's hard to identify. It's just that when the band might be expected to zig, it wheags. Knowhutimean? Given two options, Epic Adventure picks the fifth.

And so what might have been a reasonably accessible sound is plunged into seeming chaos. The songs are uniformly disjointed and stumbling, though after a while they start to make a little sense. Obviously, this is what the guys were after.

Though the overall reasons for this approach are a bit more difficult to decipher. I do like the meandering approach to the songwriting, but honestly I'm not entirely sure why they're the way they are. Except, of course, that's how Epic Adventure wants them.

Interesting, without a doubt, but kinda frustrating, too. Hey, I'm more than willing to hang out and try and understand what's going on, but my patience can get exhausted. After these four songs, I'm not closer to understanding Epic Adventure than before I laid the disc in the player. Oh well. Some things must be left a mystery, I guess.

Jaunty, disjointed pop fare. These boys' heads are in the same space that Alex Chilton's was when he thought that a deflated basketball would make a great snare drum on "Downs." And, in fact, the French Kicks do have a decidedly Big Star bent, albeit with a pile-driving beat.

The tunes really don't sustain much in the way of grooves, but there's plenty of soul in between the licks. Joyful? Well, yeah. I'd say so. These guys are fairly desultory in their delivery, but it still sounds like fun.

Indeed, this is something akin to glorious. No sheen here; nothing glossy anywhere on this disc. Nope. Simply hooks which immediately undercut themselves and a squalid guitar sound which rather quickly insinuates itself into yer brain.

Um, yeah, the French Kicks have got something here. And ugly duckling sound, but utterly beautiful music. Proof that it doesn't take a million-dollar knob job to craft astonishing pop music.

Acoustic guitar-tinged roots pop tuneage. The usual eccentricities found in singer-songwriter fare can be found here, but generally in a good way. These songs roll along quite nicely, which gives the words behind the music a chance to sink in.

There's a cool echoey quality to the recording, which gives the songs a smoky, haunting feel. And while the lyrics are more intimate than mysterious, the sound does help them sound more poetic, somehow.

That's not too hard, though, because everything here fits together so well. Alright, the guys aren't breaking any new musical ground, but the stuff is heartfelt and genuine. That works, too.

I See Spots has a good grasp on these songs. With a sound that's not too pretentious or sappy, but merely very good, this album quietly impresses. I can handle that.

Recorded after the Anahata sessions, but before the album was released, this set of six songs showcases June of 44 at its frenzied, furious best. If you're not familiar with the concept, the Dutch Konkurrent label invites bands it likes to spend a couple days in the studio and craft a 20-30 minute EP.

The liners call this a link between the band's two previous outings, but really, I simply hear it as more of an extension of June of 44's general musical approach. Which involves kinda dancing around a few musical ideas, eventually coming to some sort of consensus on the subject.

The short writing and recording time, which is intended to bring an almost improvisational quality to the music, seems to have inspired the boys. While three of the songs contain some form of the word "generate," to be honest, they all take rather divergent paths. Which, of course, follows previous form.

Me, I think getting any and everything by June of 44 is a really, really good thing. Even so, this is a project more than worth experiencing for yourself. The band is in top form, and the music is nothing short of astonishing. Even if that is, in fact, the usual from these guys.

I was listening to the first Kiss the Clown disc in my car a couple weeks ago, wondering out loud if the band was still around and if there was another album out there. And not two days later, this thing arrived. As a born-again atheist, I'm a bit skeptical in general about supplications to the gods. But, hey, if there's anyone listening, I haven't heard anything from the Boorays in years...

In all seriousness, there's more than one good reason why Kiss the Clown has put a stranglehold on my mind. Starting with Kerry Donivan's raspy, warbling vocals (no one sounds anything like him, trust me) and continuing pn to the band's manic metal-pop music (I can think of a couple obscure bands in the 80s which tried this trick, but it never caught on), I guess there's just something in the whole mess which ties my pleasure center in knots.

The only real change in sound I can hear is somewhat slower songs. Or, perhaps, I should say there are more slower songs. Because the norm is still something like the band's self-titled theme song, which bounds with joy and abandon.

That's the thing. Listening to this disc is akin to sucking down a bottle of oxygen tipped with caffeine. I simply feel like hopping around and getting all goofy. Hard to complain about something like that, surely. In all ways, this lived up to my high hopes. Simply lovely.

Just couple songs, so I'm gonna have to be brief as well. Luciar has a wonderful voice, full and lush, and she uses it extremely well. The music which backs her up reminds me a lot of later Pat Benatar (the more electronic stuff), and that lends a dated effect.

The first song, "So Peaceful," is just that, a slow ballad that shows off Luciar's strength and flexibility. The second song, "Amuse Me," constantly shifts gears, and has something of a Tori Amos quality to the writing (but Luciar's vocals are much more mainstream in style).

Enough of a taste to get me interested. I've been promised a full-length at some point in the future, and it could be interesting. There certainly is talent here.

A rather monstrous sort of final compilation. This trio garned quite a bit of attention during its rather brief lifetime, and the extensive set of works here (just about every recorded bit that wasn't included on the band's two Thrill Jockey albums) is almost too daunting to even begin to contemplate.

As many of these songs were recorded as one-offs and for rather obscure projects, the recording quality varies wildly. The same can be said for the sort of sound A Minor Forest tried to create. Fans know that these boys could warp from contemplative to destructive in about five seconds. If anything, these songs are even more adventurous than the "regular" releases.

In any case, what this set does bring out in me is a sense of sadness in the passing. It's too bad that A Minor Forest isn't recording and touring any more, but at least we've got some memories. And the music, of course.

Bleah. There's no need to be excessively sentimental or maudlin. This set only furthers the legend, one that is likely to grow even greater. Something certainly worth celebrating.

I reviewed the newest Yes album a couple weeks ago, and there are element here which remind me of that old warhorse. Howard Herrick's vocals are reminiscent of Jon Anderson, and the songs swoop with a gentle grandeur that also recalls some mellow prog moments.

Still, most of the guitars here are acoustic, and the songs don't go on forever and ever. And unlike the most recent Yes effort, this stuff has substance. The sound is fairly lightweight, and the songs themselves aren't terribly involved. But there is an undercurrent of complexity which helps propel Minster Hill past generic status.

Now, I'm still not the biggest fan of the hippy prog sound, but Minster Hill does it pretty well. And, really, this is pretty fun fare. Each song wanders off into intriguing directions, even while keeping decent contact with the whole.

A cool disc, all the way around. Perhaps Minster Hill might be a bit more ambitious, but hell, that's certainly quibbling. There's plenty here to enjoy.

Complete with an overblown overture and everything. The basic premise is that it's about time for mankind to evolve and move on. Precisely where? That's what this is all about.

This is pop done in the grand style. The music slogs down a bit, at times trying a bit too hard to sound "important." Most of the time, though, the hooks manage to overcome any excess pomposity.

In any case, this puppy is a lot easier to handle than any Styx concept album. It's a lot more literate, too. I have to admit that the weenie metaphysical philosophy is a bit silly at times (humans were planted on earth by aliens, and now it's time to justify our existenc,e etc.), but the stuff isn't too weird to enjoy.

An interesting attempt. I'm not so sure that pop music, which the need to craft hooks incessantly, is really the best medium for expressing such seemingly serious ideas. The Montgomery Cliffs ended up with some stultifying passages, but mostly, a cool disc.

Just in time for Halloween comes this gothic soundscape. One part orchestral (mostly in the background) and two parts sequencing, the two guys of A Murder of Angels have pieced together some wonderfully spooky music.

Not in the horror movie style, but more thoughtful, suspenseful. Some might even say ethereal, but that's just because this stuff isn't created with a sledgehammer. No, there's plenty of bizarre substance, creating little nooks and crannies within which to hide.

And that seems to be the desired effect. The overt structure is utterly amorphous, but there is an underlying cohesion which binds the entire project together. Little bits and spots of melody flit in and out of the trees, daring a listener to delve even deeper into the forest.

What lies at the center? You get to find that out for yourself. While often subtle (certainly without many aggressive instincts), A Murder of Angels is still a master manipulator. This is creepy fare, wonderfully so. So many places to explore. So many ideas to conceive.

Electronic disturbance theater. MZ.412 is unabashedly satanic (or in any case, the folks are completely anti-Christian), singing and speaking of pain, murder and war over a mass of modulated white noise and highly distorted recordings.

As an old college friend of mine would say, "Yummy." This stuff sounds evil because it is. It would be rather difficult to argue otherwise. But that's just fine with me. I rather enjoy the theatrics. And I certainly dig the underlying noise.

That's really the treat here for me. Oh, I'm always good for a "Hail Satan, well met" at any party I attend, but what keeps me interested here is the great fuzz and noise which rumbles beneath the showy presentation.

Dark and nasty, just 'cause it wants to be. Sqaulls of noise rumbling off into the distance. Clouds of pain gathering on the horizon. Sounds like a great time to me.

Just yer basic punk rawk. Nothing particularly inventive, nothing particularly notable. Simply six songs kicked out with just enough of a sneer to keep my toe tapping.

The stuff is often fairly catchy, even within its fairly generic constraints. I know, punks not all about taking chances, but hey, some sort of difference from the musical norm would be nice. And no, a female drummer doesn't count.

Ah, hell, I'll give the folks a break. There's nothing wrong with this stuff. It's just not the most exciting fare in the world. Somewhere in the decent-to-good range, hailing back to the late 70s style of pop punk. Could be worse. Coulda sucked.

Hyper-slick, ultra-tight pop. Punk? Well, there are some overtones. Still, this sounds like a big-budget affair. Hell, they got Ed Stasium to mix the puppy. That ain't cheap.

But hey, when it works, it works. This does sound like a major-label pop effort, but at least it's a good one. And even the strange touches (an extended Andreas Cantor sample on the first track which doesn't seem to related to the song itself, for example) aren't too egregious.

Plus, there are the guest shots, like the amazing Cinder Block from Tilt on "Fairy Tale of New York." Quality fare all the way. If yer gonna make such a slick punk record, might as well do it right.

And No Use for a Name sure did. Hard to argue with results like this. Sure, it's a long ways from ragged pseudo-harmonies and chunky riffage. But hey, we've all gotta grow up someday. And this is a better way than most.

Twitchy electronic pop and utterly tone-deaf vocals. Strangely enough, it works really well. The songs are stitched together with a drum machine/synthesizer rhythm section. Guitars kick in from time to time, but they're not universal. The vocals, however, are.

And really, they are off-putting at first. Simply put, the singer cannot hold (or even hit) a given note at any time. Not to overemphasize the point, but Daniel Johnston has a better sense of pitch.

Yet it still comes together really well. The completely amateurish vocals cool off the sometimes sterile electronic components, humanizing the whole.

Don't let me fool you, though. The music can be as eccentric as the vocals are dreadful. Now, that's what I like. The weirder, the more unusual the better. I eat this stuff up like Tabasco on ice cream.

There is only one Iggy Pop. He can howl at the moon better than anyone. And he's also pretty good at delivering utter cornpone, too. But sometimes he goes really, really weird. This counts as that.

Don Was is as commercial a producer as anyone (Garth Brooks used Was to help "transform" himself into Chris Gaines), but he also is renowned for giving true visionaries a wonderful forum for their ideas. Bob Dylan, Wayne Kramer and even Iggy himself have benefited from Was knob jobs.

The mood here is contemplative. There are three spoken word bits backed by keyboard washes which are straight out of Van Halen's 1984. Even when Iggy gets worked up on a song like "Shakin' All Over," he never really gets revved up. For the most part, however, the music is a minimal force. You have to pay attention to Iggy's less-than-perfect warbling and his forcefully emotional lyrics.

And that's a mixed blessing at best. A morose Iggy Pop isn't all that exciting. And that's what is served up here. Oh, there's some energy at times, but not enough to salvage the whole. Iggy needs to search and destroy, not mope and whine.

Not exactly an odd and ends release, but pretty durn close. There's three remixes of "Where the Planets Revolve" from Somnium, three live tracks and something called "10/3/79." No, I don't know, either.

But that's alright. The remixes do go a number of ways, from electronic to full-on atmospheric. Which, actually, isn't too far from the regular range of the band. This disc doesn't really take Sianspheric anywhere it hasn't already traveled, but the voyage is pretty cool.

Not necessary, really, but still fairly entrancing all the same. For standing in place, this is a fairly fun set.

Yer regular sludge trio, with just enough grooves to keep the sound moving in the right direction. This album was recorded in Chicago with Steve Albini. No complaints there, but I've gotta wonder why not record at your label's home base with Bill Stevenson and company at the helm?

But why worry about such silliness? There's an entire album here to critique. And while this is competently executed fare, it doesn't often rise to a decent level of excitement. Oh, the bashing is all good; I mean, crashing about is good for the soul. But past that, I'm not thrilled.

The production is typical Albini. A wonderful guitar sound (a wonderful musical sound in general) and merely average treatment for the vocals. Though I can't say that there is a whole lot of be done with throaty hollering. That's not a put-down, by the way. I like a good hearty howl as much as the next guy.

This just doesn't get me hard. It happens. It's decent, most certainly listenable. Just in the average range, that's all.

Take a cheap and trashy Kiss sound and throw in a lead singer in drag. Oh, can you smell the irony? Well, the problem is that you've also got to deal with the music.

It's not so much bad as simply uninspired. The riffage has been recycled so many times you can still hear Mick Mars' fretting squeaks. The stuff is peppy, in a tres pop way, but not enough to really kick start the chain reaction. The songs end up sitting on the floor, waiting to rev.

Ah, well. Worth a few cheap thrills, perhaps, but not much past that. Easy come, easy go.

Moody as all get out, though with enough 70s pop kitsch to stop the proceedings well short of morose. Just sorta restrained, in a sexually frustrated kinda way. Music for college students who justify their inability to get a date by looking down at the rest of the world. Trust me. I know exactly what I'm talking about here.

But I'm not gonna get suckered into ripping the album. Oh no. This is really cool stuff. There's plenty here to stimulate the intellect as well as the emotive center, and that's why it's so perfect for moping around the dorm room. There's just enough pretentiousness to leave the barest edge of an attitude, and that's great.

Even past that, though, there's something intimately appealing about Tram. I guess it's that I found it so easy to identify these songs with a particular period of my life. My guess is this disc should put people in touch with the "dark and nasties," those really depressing parts of life. And what the disc does in the end is apply something of a salve to those wounds. A nice trick, that.

So indulge the need and feed at the bowl of discontent and ravaged self-esteem. Tram will provide the transportation. You just need to open the door.

Back in the days when r&b meant music sweated out by a real live working band (and not some studio-created harmony group), the blues element was as important as the rhythm. Jon Turk remembers that often enough to give his songs a nice edge.

Turk is more convincing on the boogie numbers, laying his lean guitar licks down and letting loose on the vocals. When the songs slow down and Turk tries a ballad or two, well, the results aren't as impressive. In particular, the lyrics aren't particularly emotive or smart, and without a driving beat, you're forced to confront that fact directly.

But when Turk keeps to the more uptempo pieces, his playing and singing more than carry the day. Much of the time, Turk is responsible for all guitar and bass parts, with a session drummer chipping in. The sound isn't quite as tight and intimate because of that, but it is adequte.

Turk's talent is slinging guitar, and he certainly proves his mettle there. His songwriting is often rather pedestrian, though, and he's gonna have to improve that is he wants to really expand his sound.

Playing very much in the same grooves as Living Color, 12th Planet merges soulful vocals with somewhat understated rock. Probably a bit poppier, but really, this really does share a lot.

Gabriel Gordon wrote or co-wrote all the songs, and he's obviously a big fan of the same bands as Lenny Kravitz. What Gordon is able to do, however, is translate those influences into his own sound. In particular, the intricate drum and bass lines (within a relatively mellow context) set 12th Planet apart.

The production gives the band plenty of time to build its songs to their logical conclusions. There is room to grow within each song, plenty of space to fill with emotion and dynamic changes. This disc is anything but overblown.

Right in the middle of the mainstream, but done quite nicely. 12th Planet has its own voice, and it's an attractive one. Gordon is a guy with definite songwriting skills, and he's just waiting to explode.

One of the biggest problems with a lot of spiritual music is that the message overshadows the music and the performance. Another way to put this is that the stuff is boring. Now, it's important to realize that the vast majority of soul superstars of the 60s, from Sam Cooke to Aretha Franklin to Tina Turner, started their careers performing in church. So if such exciting folks could "do God," why is so much religious music dull?

Well, this disc kinda answers that question, and probably not in the way it would like. Folks like Andrae Crouch and Walt Whitman and the Soul Children show off the good side with exciting performances (the live tracks here far outshine the studio recordings), but much of the material here is, well, uninspired.

When I was growing up, "joy" was a big word in church. There was joy everywhere. If someone was "on fire for the Lord," that was considered a pretty good thing. And yet, much of this material is keyboard-drenched ballad stuff, and the singing just doesn't have the requisite fire. It's almost as if the performers and the producers alike just don't want to offend anyone.

Let it loose. There's a reason Crouch and the Mighty Clouds of Joy have been mainstays on the gospel scene for ages and ages. They spread the joy, not worrying about what people think. They're proud to get up, get down and holler in praise. I wish there was a lot more of that here. I hear bits and pieces, but the package as a whole is merely spotty.

Emo goes international. This latest installment from the newly relocated Deep Elm find five international bands of the twelve on the disc (Sweden and Spain with two each and one from England), and near as I can tell, not one Deep Elm band in the bunch.

Not that these samplers have exhibited any favoritism in the past. The purpose, it seems to me, has been to simply further document the advancement whatever it is that we're all calling emo these days. And that definition has certainly expanded during the past year.

Hell, there's even a K-Tel emo sampler out now (and it's not nearly as bad as you might think), but nothing comes close to the Emo Diaries. Once again, John has found 12 great songs and crafted together a disc which does a great job of exhibiting just what's been going on in this side of the punk universe.

Bottom line: melody and craft are definitely on their way in. If you want more specifics, get the disc for yerself. This series has rapidly become the standard by which samplers are judged, and this chapter simply extends an already compelling storyline. I can't wait to turn another page.