From Sweden, with feeling. The Backyard Babies have a lush glam metal sound with all the requisite hooks intact. And, you know, this sorta thing is coming back around again.

If it arrives in a package like this, I'm not sure who can resist. The songs don't fuck around; they come on in full buzzsaw mode and don't let up from there. Dirty, gritty, messy -- it doesn't matter what you call it, as long as you call it good.

That's really the deal. Backyard Babies have a great feel on this sound (a bit more glam than metal, so they're really going back to the Sweet/Kiss roots) and the songs pack some serious punch. The wall of sound is exactly what's called for, and it just booms out of the speakers.

A true joyride of epic proportions. Where I live, it's illegal to have this much fun. Yeah, sure, I'm riding the remnants of my teenage throbbing desire, but fuckit. Them's the best kinda days.

Moody examination of the whole Hollywood phenomenon. Lotsa keyboards and lotsa slow contemplative numbers. Not quite as eloquent as it thinks it is, I'm afraid.

Hey, I know that the big city can get you down. And I'm all for noble and epochal stretches. The Big Parade has ambition alright. Apparently the folks think this is the grand statement on Tinseltown. Or, at the very least, A grand statement.

I don't think so. Part of the problem is the music, which simply doesn't have a sense of grand tragedy or enough complexity to accentuate the love/hate relationship expressed in the lyrics. The sentiment expressed is that for all the shit, Hollywood is still the center of dreams. If you want to get to heaven, you've got to wallow in hell for a while.

Perhaps I'm reading too much into this. Quite possible. I'm working really hard to find something as grand as the concept, and I'm not finding it. The Big Parade tries its ass off; I'll give the boys that. The delivery is lacking. The results here just can't match up to the vision.

Some S&M for the pain, baby. Jonathan Sharp is bio-tek, and the music which flows from his creation isn't exactly nice. Heavy techno in full industrial effect. A somewhat gothic form of what the Reconstriction folks liked to call "cold wave."

The main difference is that these songs simply do not flow in normal ways. Sharp is something of an idiosyncratic songwriter, preferring to wallow in synth overage and excessive beatmongering at the drop of a hat.

The results can be disorienting, certainly. Add to it the theme of the album (something of a comment on religion), and this stuff can sound downright evil at times. Particularly when the chaos begins to overwhelm what solid construction exists.

Ah, but that's where the beauty lies. This album is all about pain, physical and psychic. It's loud, mean and nasty. And when least expected, it's just plain crazy. Perhaps that is the ultimate rebuttal of religion: The chaos of the music resembles the anarchy of the universe. I dunno. But I quite like albums that make me think like this.

Blue Meanies may take their name from Yellow Submarine, but there are very few sweet harmonies. Rather, the emphasis is on hardcore and quick steps. This particular disc is actually a reissue of the band's 1995 album, which has long been out of print.

Music that refuses to bow to convention or acceptable form. Any given song might borrow from a number of influences, often three or four at a time. "The Time Is Now" uses some jazz tunings in the horns and some old school hardcore rhythms (with just a hint of the ska) to create a wholly infectious piece. Likewise, "Grandma Shampoo" melds klezmer, ska and straightahead rock (not unlike Firewater, though much faster) into a blenderized frazzle.

The manic energy of the band is irresistible. The creative ferment within each song is intoxicating. There are so few bands willing to try new things, that when a truly original act comes along, it simply stuns. While this is somewhat dated material, it still holds all of the manic fervor that has come to be known as Blue Meanies.

Just another reason to pry up any rock and look into every cranny to get a taste. Yes, this is only for folks who crave complexity in waves, but hell, there's at least five or six of us around, right? I'm blown. Twice in a night.

More formally, Brian Fraser and Chris Palmatier. Both take on the task of programming drums and samples and then plugging in some guitar and other extraneous melodic inputs. Very much an assembled sound, but still fairly organic in feel.

It does help to use acoustic guitar and samples which sound "real" (if that makes sense). There are also a few voices, though usually fuzzed out in the extreme. Dissociative and inviting all at once.

There isn't a consistent sound on the disc, but that's only because there are so many ideas expressed. Well, I take that back. The use of electric guitar throughout stays within a certain boundary. And most every song has electric guitar. But all have so much more.

Noodling disjointedly into the sunset, Brian and Chris pulse out some seriously cool tunes. The density of the sound may scare some folks off, but you shouldn't flinch. Once inside, you'll hear what all my scribbling is about.

I know, it's pretty easy to cast a band into the emo pit these days. And damned if By a Thread doesn't have half a foot there. But this too tuneful, too focused. There isn't the blind rage or distance found in most emo. Just a further pop sheen on the form, I guess.

So what is By a Thread? A strident pop band, I guess. These songs do generally stick to standard construction. There are a few "letting go" moments, but even those are within the bounds of the sound. By a Thread keeps a handle on its emoting. And that's why this isn't an emo album.

Jesus, what am I? Some dork who has to label everything he hears? I really hate that. But I don't hate this. Actually, I kinda dig it lots. By a Thread does tear off some nice, hooky riffage. The songs are rather satisfying.

I'm just gonna stay away from the whole "genre" argument. Too much of a mess for me to figure out right now. This is simply good music. That's all. Really. No need to blabber on so.

Well, you know, it is a Fat Wreck album. You guessed that Consumed plays some sort of melodic punk. Well, the melodies here are in the guitars. The vocals are hooky without really being terribly tuneful. Man, I really like that.

So we've got 14 great howlers here (that's a song count), and I couldn't get enough. Yes, there is a formula to this stuff. Yes, Consumed breaks no new ground. But hell, any fool can acquire the ingredients for Guinness and still, it tastes best direct from the tap. Same with this stuff. Some bands can do it. Consumed, for example.

And, really, the guitar work is really nice. A thick sound in the rhythm section and just enough fuzz on the lead licks. Makes the riffage all that much more enticing. This is the sort of disc that can kick my mind into overdrive.

Not to mention my ass, thighs and feet. Hard to stay immobile long enough to write this review, much less stay sane. I kinda wanna get up and do some damage. Right now. Talk to you later.

Once upon a time there was a band from Tampa called Crimson Glory. The band released a couple albums on Roadrunner, with the second, Transcendence garnering such attention that MCA picked it up for re-release. That didn't work out so well, but the band still managed to get another album released on Atlantic (Strange and Beautiful) before getting dropped.

Now, almost 10 years later, there's a new Crimson Glory disc. Hard to believe, but here it is. And while the guys have smartly dropped the face paint, the music is still rooted in that spacey metal groove the band did so well all those years ago.

This album reminds me a lot of latter-day Voivod in its mechanical sound and technically-precise execution. No one is making music like this these days. Wags might follow that with a rude comment, but I like this. It's excessive and at times kinda silly, but it sounds great.

No Transcendence, mind you, but this is a better trip than I imagined it would be. The chops haven't diminished, and the songwriting remains as iconoclastic as ever. Crimson Glory is still walking the line between intellectual and silly, but hey, it hasn't fallen off yet.

There's something hypnotic about Drunk albums. Not sleep-inducing, but merely trance-enhancing. The muted pop sounds flit past the brain, alternately soothing and exciting in a not-quite regular pattern.

And, see, this is contemplative stuff, music which requires attention and devotion. Yeah, it would be easy to passively play this in the background, but then you'd be missing the whole point. Like what the music is all about in the first place. You know, its reason for being.

Oh, no, I'm not gonna let that cat out of the bag. You'll have to experience this for yourself. But I can say that the moody reckonings here have a way of winding their twisted hearts into the depths of your soul.

Oh, yeah. That good, indeed. Drunk is out to psychically kick your ass. You gotta take it into your heart first. Once there, well, prepare for the onslaught. Truly astonishing.

If Hi-Standard was just yer average Japanese punk band, well, it'd be pretty cool. The off-key harmonies and pleasantly grating riffage is more than enough to satisfy me. But there's more.

Big wads of humor, probably best coming into focus on a cover of Black Sabbath's "Changes." Not only are the vocals a suitably poor-man's Ozzy, the uptempo reading really puts the song in the right place. Wildly cool.

Just pop enough to keep the smiles going, particularly in the bass. But even when the hardcore stridency creeps in, Hi-Standard never really gets too mean.

Nope. A big wad of fun, and there's nothing that makes me happier. The amusement factor is high, and the music is more than meaty enough to satisfy. A very Hi-Standard, indeed.

All the parts are here: sweet harmonies, chords falling in the right places and important sounding song titles. The Hollows are competent craftsmen. Just not particularly interesting songwriters.

Both lyrically and musically, the band simply swims in the middle lane. There's nothing here that would differentiate the Hollows from an thousand other pop bands. Not that the guys are doing anything wrong; they're not. Like I said, all the tools are there.

But not the life. Not that one spark that makes average bands good, or good bands great. The Hollows are earnest and hardworking. That much is easy to hear. But all that work just doesn't prick up my ears.

Guitar, bass and drum machines (with a few samples) blasting out beneath some great death metal vocals (is that what they're still called? Well, I'm old school...). This is music intended to cause sonic disruption, stuff that is supposed to warp the brain.

The production is a bit tame. The sound comes off somewhat sterile at times, and that kinda takes away the whole overwhelming aspect. Still, I've gotta say this does remind me of Streetcleaner, though you might hope we've come a ways since then.

Perfectly competent and sometimes even better. There's just a bit too much calculation here to really make my day. I know, when you're working with machines that can happen, but I was hoping for a bit more. Inner Thought can do better.

Just yer basic death metal trio. It's been so long since I've heard stuff this raw and aggressive (I really need to get out more). There's a pleasant aggro rush in the riffage and the proper rasp in the vocals. Best of all though is the way the rhythm section finds a groove and, miracle of miracles, sticks to it.

You'd think this was an easy concept, but most bands get a good idea once a song and then abandon it for a succession of crappy grooves. I've never understood this. Yeah, okay, so I'm a pop punker a heart, but hell, it just can't be that hard to stay in pocket for a whole song, can it?

I guess not. Interzone (did they name themselves after the Joy Division song? If so, just another note of good taste) sure knows how to wail away with impunity. Not only are the riffs creative, they're mixed in with the bass and drums to create some great mosh action. Hey, hair dancing is not always a bad thing.

Interzone isn't content to merely blaze away. This is a nicely textured album, at least within the basic constraints of the sound. And as far as that goes, the boys sure know how to keepa song together. I'm most impressed.

The first band on Nikki Sixx's Americoma label (he produces as well), Laidlaw cranks out a big-ass chunk of southern-fried rock. Overamped and underconsidered, there's just not a lot here to get excited about.

Some members of the band have worked behind the scenes in the music industry (guitar tech, roadie, etc.). And these songs have some of the trappings of big rock, without any soul to fill in the holes. Sixx is actually a competent producer (though having Steve Perry sing backup vocals is certainly a questionable decision), but he tries too hard to dress up what is so obviously a shell.

Rock by numbers is an ugly description, but Laidlaw deserves it. Yes, the playing is good. Can't argue with that. But the lyrics are insipid at best and mind-grating at worst. And the country-rock cum glam metal sound just never really works.

Just an example of the bad ideas on this disc: An over-the-top version of "Rock and Roll Hootchie Koo." If ever there was a song that didn't need the anthem treatment... Oh well. I'll be quite happy to forget about this puppy. As soon as the shakes stop.

Sorta like if Primus wandered into Pink Floyd and moshcore at the same time. The impulse to jump around is tempered by the technical looniness of the playing. Oh, and the bass really wanks out really loudly.

And the point is... to try lots of stuff, stir it around for a while and call it a song. Hey, I'm for breaking the rock paradigm as much as the next guy, but come on. I just don't hear enough coherent thought on the edges here. Never mind the innards, I'm worried about the whole.

There's nothing to it. This is a goulash with no taste. Lots of ingredients, but nothing combining to make a tasty dish. Plenty of wild-ass thoughts buzzing past, though.

Bitchen it ain't. Interesting and intriguing are two words which leap immediately to mind. I kept waiting to hear what would happen next. It's just that the necessary connections were never made.

You know they're from Chicago; they drink Old Style exclusively. The Lawrence Arms spew out a stream-of-consciousness punk tour of the Windy City. The parts tourists don't get to so often.

Have to be a local to really groove on the tuneage. This is gritty fare, without much in the way of urban renewal, if you know what I mean. The real treat is the vocal fare, which is funny, incisive and pretty much the real attraction here.

Nice to hear a punk band that's really pissed off. There are too many happy punks out there these days. The Lawrence Arms are angry and frustrated and generally hacked off at everyone and everything. They don't see anything to celebrate in the heart of the city. Plenty of sludge, though.

Quite the tour, though. Got to hear ideas I hadn't contemplated before, and I'm always happy for such opportunities. The Lawrence Arms is a punk band in the best traditions of the name: slopy, uncultured and most definitely aggravated. Hard to beat that.

Grand, epochal statements in the folk-rock tradition. You know, like 10,000 Maniacs. A lot like 10,000 Maniacs, actually. And while Methuselah Jones quite competently executes the concept, there's really not much of a new spin on the subject.

That's really the my deal, and I seem to be repeating myself this issue. I just don't understand starting a band if you're not going try and create your own way of playing. Doing this is real close to playing in a cover band, which at least has the virtue of being a decent-paying gig.

This disc is well-produced, and the playing is first rate. Hell, the songs are nicely crafted, with plenty of room for emotional release. All of that is great. It's just that I can't shake the notion of having heard them before. I haven't, but it really feels like that.

I know, I know, folks will throw my advocacy of "soundalike" punk bands in my face. Probably a fair complaint. All I can say is that I don't hear anything here which makes me want to delve deeper into the sound. Nothing new to these ears.

Just in case you were beginning to get the idea that Utopian Vision is just an "extreme" (we used to call it "death metal") label, here' s More.ca (you know, like More--Canada). Something like a more prog Sisters of Mercy (the early years). The goth guitar and singing styles are omnipresent, but the technical precision of the delivery accentuates the spookiness of the whole.

Just enough echo on the guitars to lend that spooky air to things, but in all, More.ca doesn't take to excess. These songs are immaculately crafted, and the playing matches. Even with all that care, the emotional impact is still solid.

Just enough here to make me crave more. More.ca sure has a cool way of piecing together a song or few. More is certainly wanted from this corner.

They sing in Russian. They play in punk. Or something silly like that. To be perfectly fair, the most interesting part about these guys is the language barrier. I have no idea what they're singing. It sounds alright, but a bit faceless.

Pleasant and rollicking enough, though Naive never quite breaks through. There's just not much in the way of personality. Basic basic, with just enough tuneage to carry the sound.

Speaking of which, this is fairly well-produced. The edges are sharp, and the lines are thick. Not enough to really give these guys a unique sound, but at least serviceable.

And that's what this is. Pretty good, but still somewhat in the generic punk walls. Naive may be one of the great Russian punk bands, but that doesn't necessarily translate. I enjoyed the ride, but the thrill was extremely fleeting.

It's been a while since I've heard a Dan Swano project. I am, of course, quite happy to have the opportunity. Only three songs here, almost not enough even for a taste. But here it is.

Epochal Eurometal, probably a bit of the doom style thrown in for good measure. I do wish the tunes would have picked up a bit and been somewhat less anthemic. There is a sense of overkill at times. This is grand, certainly, but not necessarily that amazing.

I'm a bit disappointed. This sounds like more of a rehash than refreshing. Swano has created some of the great metal albums of all time. Odyssey isn't in that league. It's amusing, but not much past that.

Always a little closer to the hip-hop than the hardcore, Orange 9mm adheres to the grooves even more on this album. In fact, the fairly extensive use of drum machines and programming takes a little bit of the live edge off the sound.

Orange 9mm has always been one of the more innovative groovecore (rapcore? I'm just not up on my terminology, I'm afraid) bands around. This effort doesn't hurt that rep. The increasing reliance on technology in the studio probably isn't changing the live sound so much, but it is a bit disconcerting here.

That's my main complaint. I kinda prefer the live sound better, and the somewhat sterile production here has stripped a lot of the fire out. I'd like to hear a bit more raging. The lyrics are still intense, but the songs don't come off as incendiary as they should.

I had a good time, as I usually do with the guys, but I'm left a little cold. The overall effect of the album is a downer, despite some decent moments. Just a bit too far over the production line.

After a few years of solo outings and other projects, Kevin Seconds decided to trot out the marquee name again. And, well, why not get back in pocket with some real rippers.

Drums blazing, guitars screaming and lots of howling. Yeah, the stuff calms down a bit in the middle (the breakneck pace is probably a bit too much, even for guys half their age), but just enough to showcase some Seconds harmonies.

Quite the change of page from recent Seconds outings. The mellow pop songs have given way to the power of his youth. Perhaps these reunion things don't all suck, after all.

I will quibble a bit: While this album is suitably blistering, there isn't a real grabber in the bunch. Good stuff, but nothing truly outstanding. Still, even average 7 Seconds is pretty damned good.

Softball sounds like a pop band trapped in the cloths of a punk band. Almost hardcore at times, but with choruses that beg for the layered harmony treatment. There are a few gang vocals, but not quite as textured as they might be.

The songs themselves are structured is standard hardcore style, which means they don't really mesh perfectly well with pop. The verses go on a bit long, and often enough what might best be called a bridge serves as a chorus (until the real chorus arrives, of course).

Before you get the idea that I don't like this, though, I must admit that I quite admire the spirit and energy of the stuff. Softball doesn't quite get to where I think it should be going, but that's hardly a cardinal sin.

Yeah, there are flaws, but there's loads of spunk as well (and I mean that in the best way possible). Softball may be a frustrated pop band, but at least those frustrations wear reasonably well.

Recorded with Arab Strap, this time out finds Jason Molina making more "traditional" songs than ever before. Not that he was so weird before, or that these songs are terribly commercial in nature, but let's say he's a little closer to Neil Young than Palace these days.

Organ plays an important part in these songs, and it adds an epic, yet haunting quality to the decidedly muscular songs. Yeah, the stuff is introspective, as always, but there's no moping and bitching here. Searching, but not whining.

There's a fuller sound here than before, perhaps something closer to Molina's vision of the band? Maybe. The production keeps improving and the songs keep tightening up a bit. And, not incidentally, the added craft hasn't taken away any of the emotion.

In fact, I think there's more. At the very least, there's a greater complexity of emotion and feel to the pieces. The good stuff just keeps coming.

A little Texas swing, with all the suave coolness that's required. A sweet pedal steel, songs about heartbreak and loose lips and throaty, soulful vocals. Sure, this is highly crafted and tightly produced. Almost has to be, really, for it to work just right.

And it does. The Souvenirs swing and wail as well as I've heard in some time. Sure, there is a formula. The boys use it as a canvas, adding plenty of personal ruffles and flourishes to create some beautiful works.

The production incorporates a good balance of sheen and folksy appeal. Slick enough to attract more mainstream country fans and ragged enough to keep from totally pissing off the roots music fans. A difficult task, but one that sounds like it was accomplished with ease.

Sultry and fun, the Souvenirs swept me off my feet almost from the first note. This is some great drinking music, the "drown your sorrows" type. And once you pick up this bottle, you won't stop until it's finished.

Speltz lives in Nashville, but this really isn't typical fare for that territory. There is a vague Rosanne Cash feel, but that's a sound that country music hasn't acknowledged in more than a decade. Speltz spins tales of joy and loss, power and insecurity, wandering all around all sorts of emotional pitfalls.

The music is generally moody pop, and whether you want to place individual songs near Lisa Loeb or 10,000 Maniacs, early Mary Chapin Carpenter or anyone else, the fact is that Speltz has carved out a nice sound of her own here. Folky pop with the vaguest of country lilts.

The emotions do hang heavy, but they never become overwrought or excessive. This is the sound of a woman baring her soul with tender grace. Speltz's alto voice isn't a perefect instrument, but those flaws are what inject the most feeling into the songs. Speltz knows how to sell the lines, some hard and some very softly, in such a way as to produce the greatest effect.

A rather assured album. Speltz's music may fall somewhere in the cracks between "acceptable" women's music trends, but I'm guessing there's got to be someone out there willing to take a chance on a singer/songwriter like this. There's just too much talent here to ignore.

Some originals and a few remixes of other folks' material. In either case, the sound is purely Thine Eyes. This is painfully calculated techno, melodies and beats so carefully thought out that the map was left in the carnage.

And by being so artlessly excessive, Thine Eyes manages a truly original electronic sound. I've never heard anything like this. The only parallel I can think of is the sound of bubbles popping. Highly amplified, of course, with a few accouterments, but still. Bubbles are what keep flitting past my mind.

Sterile is just the beginning. This is sound which has had all the organic life sucked out and spit into a pile on the side of the road. What I'm trying to say is that much of pieces sound hollow. Not exactly with echoes, but nothing is quite solid. I return to the bubbles popping.

An unusual trip, to be sure. Thine Eyes is truly unique, and that alone earns it high praise from me. There is also the notion that this might be wondrous fare. I'd have to concur there.

Just in case the oddities disc Over Served got you confused, this here 22 Jacks album is back in the basic power punk pop arena. Solid hooks, exceptional riffage and a driving backbeat. Over and over again. I fall.

I kept waiting for a song that might bum me out a bit, that might tell me to be a bit less effusive in my praise. Then I started to pay closer attention to specific elements, wondering if I could pick it apart that way.

That's a stupid way to review this kinda stuff, but even so I didn't find any weakness. Well, there is the occasional tendency to write in a vaguely anthemic way, but even then the drums don't let the songs get dreary and overworked. Nope, just a kickstart back into overdrive. Which puts things just as they should be.

This puppy just blasts off and doesn't look back. Now, one bit of warning: This album will not reveal the meaning of life. But that's not the point of course. A good time to be had by all, that's the key. And it most certainly is.

Yep, this is another "So unbelievably cheap it's positively insane" exposure-grabbing discs. Four bucks for 28 bands. Most of the Asian Man roster, some stuff from Tomato Head records and some other odds and ends.

Those familiar with Asian Man know what's gonna be here. Some pop punk, some ska, some stuff that kinda trends toward hardcore and, well, some other stuff. The sheer number of bands ensures a good variety, but the quality is high throughout.

A nice way to sample Asian Man's fine offerings. Unlike many samplers, this one was put together with care. A marketing gimmick? Sure. But one that begs to be bought, certainly.

Subtitled "A Compilation of Death and Rebirth," it's pretty obvious that the pretensions are running high. And while the word is overused, this puppy is chock full of gothic soundscapes to die for.

Acts like Dream into Dust and 4th Sign of the Apocalpyse I've heard before. Ones such as Empyrium and Kerovnian I've haven't. Some utilize a small number of instruments and effects, others head into whole hog territory. These differences in execution, however, do not detract from the overall purpose.

Yes, yes, in a way this is so cliche. The ultimate goth compilation has to be one that rhapsodizes about death and the afterlife. Alright, so this falls right into the laps of the cynics. The thing is, there's no faulting the content here. It's great stuff. Dreary? Overwrought? At times. We are talking about spirits unknown, remember.

With no nods to commercial acceptance or mainstream appeal, this compilation actually manages to live up to its lofty ambitions. The key, always, is to make people think. These songs do just that.

Sorta like if Robert Smith fronted a prog emo band. Oh, the possibilities, right? Matt Thomas has those seriously overwrought vocals (more so in feel than tone--he doesn't shriek much), the guitars noodle endlessly about while dueling with the bass and the song structure is definitely of the nonlinear form.

The highly technical playing sounds a bit strange at first, but it's not hard to acclimate. The vocals are a bit rougher to handle, though I managed quite nicely. Just another direction for this almost ubiquitous sound.

Enhancing the prog feel is a knob job that leaves the guitars with that dull, Stanley Jordan sorta sound. It certainly works, bringing out the intricate melodies with verve and urgency. The mix leaves plenty of space between the instruments, also lending to something of a jazz feel.

I like this sound. I like the way these guys write and I like the way they play. It's just quirky enough to make me lean back a smile a spot. And, hey, when they've got something important to say, I'm all already there. The music is perfect prep for introspection.

The hardcore edge of the metal/groovecore revolution. Will Haven thanks tourmates such as Vision of Disorder and Limp Bizkit, but really, this sound is more extreme. Every single sound is simply, well, more so. There is more distortion, heavier guitar sound and a greater sense of chaos.

Heading toward the great waves of excess works well for the boys. This isn't happy music; it is the sound of rage and alienation. There is no need to simplify for the masses. The masses don't care. That's why this album sound so raw in the first place.

Oh, and simply a lovely job in the producer's booth. The sound is heavy (though flexible so as to move when necessary), and the mix blurrs the instruments and vocals just enough to create that solid wall of pain that's fairly necessary.

The songwriting is impressionistic in style, obliterating a number of styles with the keel haul sound. A vaguely friendlier Buzz*Oven? Sorta. Will Haven has crafted its own sound quite well within a sound full of generic posers. I bow in honor.