This has that "real important pop" sound all over it. The hooks are insistently anthemic, and there's some serious craftsmanship in the writing. Mannered would be an understatement.

But that doesn't mean that Alien Crime Syndicate is overdone. Not quite. I kept waiting for that moment where the band crossed the line, losing its sense of passion and joy. Didn't happen.

And when you walk the line like that, some really nice things can happen. The sound is precisely tailored to the style of the songs, and it allows the clever little bits of craft to shine through.

Alien Crime Syndicate isn't bash'n'pop (though there is something of a Replacements influence bounding about). These are guys who know exactly what they're doing. They've written and performed these pieces extremely tightly. Sometimes calculation is a wonderful thing.

Personal and idiosyncratic lyrics spit out over somewhat densely-layered pop burblings. Sounds like the latest thing from England, but of course, it's not.

There is, though, that smug sense of importance in these songs. But Craig Bennett doesn't go so far as to jump wholly into the pool of pretentious poets. He dips his toe here and there, but mostly sticks to the sides.

Which makes the songs all the more approachable. There is so much style in his substance that it might be easy to dismiss this as merely pop candy. The disc sounds quite wonderful. But there is plenty beneath that veneer that invites a listener back again for more (and more).

You know, it's be great if the next big thing from the U.K. sounded like this. I'm just happy someone turned the trick. Bennett sure knows his way around a pop song.

Generally influenced by emo and noise pop, Boom Hank has this arty streak which leads it into some adventurous sounds. The songs are often not particularly viscerally appealing, relying more on an arresting intellectual reaction.

And if you carry that bag as much as I do, well, Boom Hank has plenty to offer. The ramblings rarely get tedious; rather, there is a transcendent beauty which emerges as the disc plays. Skipping through will not achieve this effect. You've gotta commit.

Hell, that's what music like this is all about, anyway. There are little switches in the brain that have to be turned on in a particular way, and they an't be flipped at once. But as soon as the music has zapped those synapses, well, there's no hope for recovery.

Yeah, I know, you've gotta think about this stuff. If you can't hack that, then go find something else. Boom Hank has crafted a loopy little masterpiece.

The guys call their stuff "futuristic" pop, I guess because of the fuzzy shimmer and fairly obsessive production sound. I'll have to make do with "pretty damned good."

Three tunes, all of which display a rather full and lush sound. Sometimes it's accomplished with just the regular band, and at times some friends come in on strings and such.

There are the requisite "wig out" moments, particularly on the intros and fade outs. The Brother Egg knows what it's doing. It does this well. Exceedingly so.

Formed by former Dead Milkmen Joe Genaro and Dean Sabatino (nee Clean), Butterfly Joe hews closely to the eclectic pop track. The lyrics are often silly (if not stupid), but then, what can you expect, really?

I was one of those folks who found the odd Milkmen song to be amusing, but in general I thought the guys ran jokes into the ground. Butterfly Joe doesn't always even try to explain itself (is it joking?), and I'm not sure if that's better or not.

There is the intensely incompetent writing, though, and that still grates. Genaro's sense of rhythm and harmony is, shall we say, off kilter. Sometimes it's off the map. Now, I'm all for unusual-sounding stuff, but Butterfly Joe tries to be They Might Be Giants and just ends up as another clunky pop band.

There are plenty of average moments, and the odd nice one. I've just never shared Genaro's vision of musical carnage, and so this project also comes up flat for me. No oomph for my ears.

Why Vanguard didn't ship this disc out to Sugar Hill (a recently-acquired label that houses such folks as James McMurtry, not the erstwhile rap label), I don't know. Since his 80s pop days, Case has increasingly leaned toward the roots singer-songwriter style, and that's a perfect fit for Sugar Hill.

Oh well, at least this album is out there somewhere. The writing here is stronger than on Full Service No Waiting, and that's saying something. The songs rely on Case's acoustic guitar and his voice, but the window dressing is nice as well.

That sound never gets overbearing, nor does it ever threaten to overshadow either Case's voice or his writing. A sparse, loose feel is what is called for, and that's just what he got here.

Top to bottom, these are great songs. The performances are loose and relaxed, and as a result the tunes just roll off the disc. Start anywhere in here; there's no way to go wrong.

Claudia Malibu really, really wants to be an edgy pop band. I don't know if it's the bashing of the drums or the sometimes mismatched riffs, but the band can't quite get out of the rock and roll groove.

There is a difference, though the distinction is pretty gray these days. Still, I'm not knocking the folks. In fact, there are a number of fine rock songs on this disc. I just get a little uncomfortable hearing the music try to be something that it isn't.

Enough of the lame griping. Claudia Malibu is adventurous enough to try a number of sounds and feels, and the slower, more introspective songs in particular work well. The arrangements are still a little rough, but even that adds charm.

A solid album, even with my discomfort. Chalk that up to a personal problem on my part. Once I walled that little voice up, I had a good time with this disc.

Roots taken to a grand vision. The Clinic plays a well-structured form of roots pop, with the choruses tending to plow into anthemic territory.

Perhaps just a little too upright. The Clinic's moves are obvious a mile away, and there is a slight disjointed feel to some of the riffage. I know, the latter is sorta common in the style, but I like to hear bands settle into grooves.

Nonetheless, the Clinic has gotten some ace sound work. Despite the presence of acoustic guitars, organ and piano, the production did not allow the mix to get overly sweet. The good parts of the songs and the performances shine through.

I just like to hear bands that sound a little more comfortable. The Clinic ought to be just the slightest bit more laid back. It's a subtle thing, really, but kinda important. The band does need something to break out of the pack. If it can find that ingredient, well, it's pretty well set otherwise.

As the press notes, Consolidated is less a band than a collective. The main instigator of this release is Adam Sherburne. The subjects here are as dire and desperate as those on Dropped, but in all regards this is a more attractive disc.

Probably because the music on that disc reflected the lyrics. It wasn't pretty, and I really didn't get into it much. Not a lot of creativity, just a whole lot of pounding. This sounds much more like a typical Consolidated outing, which mixes political and personal screeds with funky beats and insistent grooves.

A formula that is positively inspiring when it works. On this disc, it does pretty well. There's a return to form here, a sound that makes me think there might be a little more gas in the Consolidated tank.

In particular, the rediscovery of the bass as a tool of social protest. A fine bass line can tear down mountains. Consolidated has found the rock once again.

Just yer basic tribute song, aping the style of the object of affection and working in as many references to his works as possible.

The synthesized production is lush, but the processed horns and strings are a bit tinny. As for the song itself, it sounds like a generic John Lennon song. That might be the aim.

I wish the song was more personal, that it gave a few reasons why the writers love Lennon so much. This is more of a mass market kitsch run.

There's something in a Dirty Three song that cuts through my consciousness and dives directly for that which lies beneath. Admittedly, any violin, guitar and drum trio has instrumentation unusual enough to attract attention, but it is the content of the songs here that blitzes my mind.

Unlike most earlier D3 albums (Horse Stories, Ocean Songs, etc.), this one doesn't have a sonic theme. Instead the trio simply expands upon previous ideas and adds a few new ones as well.

While the sound is fairly sparse, there is a heavy echo which brings an almost unimaginable depth. The songs sound like they're emerging from the deeps of space, from the oneness of the Cosmos. An eternal quality, if you will.

Certainly, a sense of wonder pervades. I love to listen to Dirty Three and just let myself go for a while. It doesn't matter where I end up; I know I'm in good hands.

Start with the dual-female vocals and gothic feel of Switchblade Symphony and then ship that across the ocean to London to pick up a little electronic/hip-hop action. The arrangements are somewhat lackadaisical, but they do fall together in the end.

In fact, that loose feel is one characteristic that separates Dreamfield from the pack. This is hardly overblown; the space between the sounds is most illuminating.

Restraint can be a wonderful thing. Dreamfield uses it to great effect here. A full-length would be most welcome.

Thoreau talked about lives of quiet desperation. Elliot isn't a quiet band, but that's the general feel I get from these songs. Yeah, they can get raucous, but it seems like desperation is driving the chaos.

I think I'm just not making any damned sense. Well, I could also talk about the great sound. The music is wrapped up inside a sonic shell, so that a filmy filter separates the band from the ear. Almost a symphonic sound. It is so grand that a disconnect is required.

This fits the pieces well, particularly "Calvary Song." Some bands just seem to know what they're doing from the beginning. Elliot sounds like one of those. One amazing little slab of vinyl.

With the exception of some piano on the first track, Bill Foreman performed every sound on this disc. I'm always impressed by such things, though the music is still the test. And Foreman's stylistic wanders do try.

Try my patience, test my intellect, attack my sense of being. And before you go thinking I'm ripping this, think again. Whether he's laying down a sweet guitar-picking groove or whacking away with abandon, Foreman's passion is omnipresent.

He can't sing. Not really. Usually, he doesn't even try. His lyrics are spoken (or hissed or shouted or whatever) as much as sung. Sometimes all he does is rap out a poem. Don't matter what he does. It works for me.

The purity of individualistic artistic expression is difficult to handle. If Foreman really wants to "get anywhere," he ought to take on a collaborator, someone who will refine his vision into something the general populace will understand. Of course, that would deprive us of discs like this. There's always a tradeoff.

Anyone who claims inspiration from the Young Fresh Fellows and the Kinks is always worth a listen or two. And rather than ape either of those heroes, the Frampton Brothers merely use the common currency of irony.

These Pittsburgh boys have a jaunty feel to their punkish pop, eschewing real hooks for the more attainable of simple sing-along choruses. Truly fine sing alongs, I might add.

The energy is utterly infectious. The songs are irresistible. While not hookmeisters, the boys certainly know how to find a groove and wear it out. There's no stopping once the rhythm section has locked in. Who would want to stop, anyway?

Dunno. I began this disc merely bouncing about in glee. By the end, my jaw was on the floor. It kinda snuck up on me, I'll admit, but once there I was more than happy to swear allegiance.

Ultra-tuneful punk, with raggedy hooks and shouted choruses. The kinda stuff that's a bit too rough for mainstream radio, but goes down so smooth with the populace of the underground.

There are no cows too sacred here (the lead track makes fun of the lead guitarist's sexual "exploits"), and no subject to touchy. Hell, there's even a cover of "Living in the Real World."

Went by way too fast. A lot of punk bands have a problem with overcoming the faceless syndrome. Not the Frustrators. They shine incandescently.

It's a shame that when an act like TLC actually puts out a song with some social comment, people react with surprise. From the time of Marvin Gaye through acts like Public Enemy , there have been urban artists with a conscience. Where have they gone?

Go-Rin-No-Sho would like to change that. His musical chops do not really measure up (the synthesized soul sound rings a bit hollow), but he's got a smooth delivery and his raps go to the heart of the problems of the city. He doesn't shy away from what he thinks needs to be done.

This sort of lyrical content shouldn't be refreshing. There should be legions of R&B and rap artists deliberating the problems of society. But there aren't, and so Go-Rin-No-Sho is there to fill the gap.

Like I said, the music is not inspiring. It's passable, I guess, but that's about it. On the other hand, the ideas in the rhymes are cogent and powerful. There's definitely a need for that these days.

A nice little funk band with generally rapped vocals. The style is laid back more often than not (that's singing and playing), though the guys do ratchet up the intensity when necessary.

What Hairyapesbmx does quite well is crank out the grooves. These guys know exactly how to find a slinky little kink and exploit it for all it is worth. Funk can be complicated, but there's gotta be something simple at the core.

The band sound (as opposed to a synthetic-sounding faux-funk feel) really drives home the grooves. This feel is nice and organic, a warm sound that really provides a nice space for the songs.

The guys aren't afraid to take chances, either. Hairyapesbmx covers so much ground, even while staying true to the groove, that I'm simply knocked out. Quite stirring.

The invention of two Jacos, Michele and Danny. The music is commercial-style folk/groove rock, with some nice flourishes.

Danny does most of the playing (another person helps out occasionally with percussion) and Michele takes care of the singing duties. The vocals are solid, well-suited to the style. I wish Michele had a bit more resonance to her voice (I think it needs to have a bit more depth), but that's probably more a question of recording than singing.

The music is impeccably played, and when it doesn't hide behind the vocals, it stands out well on its own. Unfortunately, the music undergoes something of a dulling effect. Doesn't have the same snap.

Good. Competent. Above average at times. But Jaco's Invention just doesn't have that spark I like to hear. Could be the performance, could be the writing, could be the recording or any of the above. I'm not entirely sure. This just didn't make my heart skip a beat. That's all.

"Cult" doesn't even begin to describe the appeal of Pat Fish and the various friends who have wandered through the Jazz Butcher machine. If you don't know, you can have anything on the menu, as long as it's irony.

This is recorded live, and there are plenty of fan favorites and a few new songs as well. The live atmosphere shows off the skills of Fish and friends, and it lends a wonderful intimate feel to the songs. The Jazz Butcher was never much for overproduction, but this disc sounds just great.

As for the prospect of future projects, well, this is the first release in five years. There is a U.S. tour planned, so who knows? Maybe another new project might find itself in the works.

Die-hards will rush out for anything, of course, though to be honest, this one is worth the cash. A full set of new songs would really be better, but this half-kettle suffices.

The big problem I had with acid jazz is that the music tended to lag when the vocals came in. Not so here. Jazzhole mixes hip-hop beats, old school R&B vocal stylings and a number of other sonic references to set its mood.

And the mood is cool, certainly. But unlike the bombastic "soul" music of the last 15 years, this fare allows the instruments and vocals to mingle and forge a stronger emotional impact.

And Jazzhole isn't content to wallow in any single sound for too long. Apart from a general mellow tendency, the guys have a wide-ranging ear, incorporating a large number of sounds without making the songs feel cluttered.

Just well done, basically. This isn't exactly acid jazz, but that's close enough. I haven't heard someone riff through this territory with such confidence and skill in quite some time. Definitely some serious inspiration here.

Well, June has got himself a band. Or, at least, he's got some sides. Calls them his "Silver Sound." This way there is bit more of a live feel, but the featured performers here are the songs themselves.

The typical June Panic song dives straight for an utterly uncomfortable subject and then probes that area for a long while. There's not much in the way of middle ground. I kinda like that sort of uncompromising approach.

So I've listened to this thing three times already today, and I'm still climbing into the songs and examining my own responses. There comes a point (usually after the 10th listen, I think) where my reactions become a bit predictable. That, of course, is the complacency point.

There's no way to escape the power of these songs. They will overwhelm you. But you gotta let that happen. Can't worry about it. At some point your subconscious will strike back, and that's where you've got to pay attention.

Man, I love music that does this to me.

The last Mekons album (not counting the rarities releases) was a discursive take on our rather consumer-oriented society. This album goes utterly the other way, to the dark recesses of the individual mind.

Now, this doesn't seem obvious at first. The songs are about night, particularly night in London, but the liners between the lyrics (and the thoughts between the lines of the songs themselves) illustrate an inner conflict.

Perhaps this might well be called the "Midlife Crisis" album. What do you do when you've got so much you want to do within an increasingly limited time frame? Oh, hell, the stuff isn't that dire, but that's the feeling I'm getting. And gosh, these are about the prettiest songs the Mekons have ever recorded ("Last Night on Earth," in particular, is stunning). The guest backing vocals of Neko Case, Edith Frost and Kelly Hogan add even more texture to the potent sound.

But we're not talking AAA stardom here. Too much fiddle and lyrics that are a bit too incisive. This is an album that the Mekons couldn't have recorded 10 yeas ago. Sometimes it's best to let things come in their own time.

Not as gloomy as most gothic soundmeisters, Midnight Syndicate nonetheless has crafted some intricate tunes. What is lacking in doom is more than made up in compositional craft.

Yeah, some of the stuff does veer into the martial or new age areas from time to time, but these pieces are well-grounded in musical theory. They may not be ultimate goth, but they're solid tunes.

I suppose there are arguments both ways. This is, indeed, goth music for the non-goth fan. I myself would prefer the stuff to delve a little deeper. But it's hard to overly criticize something that has been shaped so well.

Good work. Not great, perhaps, but certainly fine enough to merit praise.

Steeped in 70s rock and roll, what with the howling, affected vocals and anthemic tendencies in just about every note. These are SONGS WITH SOMETHING TO SAY, they seem to scream.

And, sometimes, they do. Once I get past my normal allergy to such things, the Modern Relics kick out some nice songs. Though there are a few other grating bits.

"Every Single Day" uses the same descending chord structure as "Whiter Shade of Pale," though otherwise the two don't sound much like. There are other times where influence has been abused a bit much.

I suppose that's the main problem I have. The Modern Relics have not quite been able to craft a distinctive style. "Just kinda rock and roll" is nothing to be ashamed of, certainly, but I like to hear folks assert a little more independence.

Sprawling, open songs of almost impossible beauty. Since I spent my formative years in the nation's breadbasket, I'd say this album sounds midwestern. I'm sure other folks might have other references.

The style of the music itself is highly varied. The changes are subtle, but Monk isn't afraid to shake things up by tossing in a little funk or uptempo groove. And yet, the overarching feel of meaninglessness pervades.

Well, maybe more insignificance. Standing in the face of something so incomprehensible that you disappear. There is a grandness to this disc that really can't be explained easily. It is in the sound, but it's also in the writing and the performance.

Something to ponder as I listen to this puppy again and again. It's that kinda affair.

Strident and insistent, Mycomplex plays something that almost has to be considered a prog form of hardcore. The lead guitar licks are speedy and intricate (way too complex for regular punk), and the guys tend to write songs that turn on a dime.

Reminds me a little of that fine Kalamazoo outfit Thought Industry (these guys are from Michigan as well). But a little less refined. Like I said, something in the prog hardcore realm.

Which is a mighty unique sound, let me tell you. I couldn't have predicted this even if I had been told what Mycomplex does. Indeed, a truly singular vision.

But not so strange as to scare away folks. Just cool enough to prick up the ears and beg the question: What the hell is that? Well, it's some fine fare. Time to dig in.

Drawing on influences going back a good 40 years, Pidginhole is playing some pretty wonderful songs. There are some really great musical references, and the variety of sounds comes together quite well.

My only quibble is with the production. It is a bit restrained, which probably would work with the 60s-oriented bits, but there are some raucous pieces here, and they get lost in a bit of mush.

Kinda takes the shine off the songs. I also get the feel that the band might get a bit more into the stuff as well, but I'm gonna go back to the engineering. The orchestration (with a number of organs and such) is great, but it needs a steadier hand on the sound.

There are some truly great songs here. I just wish the sound was a bit better than demo quality.

The Posies are one of the unrecognized great pop bands of all time. Not just of the 90s (which they ruled). But all time. And while the records are good, live the band took on an entirely new countenance.

Jon Auer and Ken Stringfellow tended to jump up and down. The whole fucking show they were bouncing, you know? Well, needless to say the energy level was amazing. This did not vary. Every show I saw was a cataleptic extravaganza.

So here's this live disc, recorded in Barcelona and originally released in Spain. Since there are no more Posies studio albums to look forward to, well, this will have to do for my jones.

But it doesn't. The exuberant performances are here, but the mix is rather muddy. Instead of slashing guitars and tight harmonies, the sound is a ball of confusion much of the time. And it's too bad. Completists will be happy for the set (and Stringfellow's rambling liner notes), but I'm going to rely on my memories when it comes to the glory of Posies past.

Some folks just seem to have a natural talent for writing vital, vibrant songs. Of course, ascribing such skill to talent alone is bullshit. Takes a lot of work to write a blisteringly great song. The guys in Resolve wrote a bunch of great songs. And then they put them on tape.

And it doesn't matter if the material is jocular pop or midwestern-style roots rock (or any number of other jangly forms). Resolve knocks the stuff flat. Dead solid perfect. This is one of those albums that takes hold of your throat and then squeezes. For forty minutes.

There just isn't a bad song here. I know. I listened long and hard for the guys to screw up, throw something less-than-worthy into the mix. I waited in vain. And I'll tell ya, Resolve takes a bunch of chances. They just roll sevens every time.

Natural talent? Probably. But a lot of hard work goes into a disc like this. It's eve more impressive when the songs sound like they just tripped off the tongue two seconds before I heard them. I'm completely breathless. This is one chokehold I can't break.

Just four songs (only three if you don't count the "intro"), but that's enough. I can hear what Shutdown has to offer. As in the title of the last song: No compromise.

Uncompromising riffage, confrontational lyrics and a skin-tearing buzzsaw production job. The sorta thing I always liked to hear when it came from Earth Crisis. Shutdown is a bit closer to the anthemic hardcore side of things, but that doesn't mean this puppy doesn't pack an awesome aggro punch.

Indeed, adrenaline is the order of the day. The song construction is basic and by the book, but Shutdown just kicks the ass out of the tuneage. There is no letdown in the attack. None whatsoever.

Tuneful Britpunk, complete with trombone and organ. Quite the punch behind the melodies. These guys may be getting on in years (they've been doing this for more than 15), but this is more than solid.

That amazingly thick sound is a bit, um, numbing. Snuff plays hook-laden anthems, the sorta stuff that probably does play a bit better to folks like me who see their high school days as ancient history.

That said, you've really gotta crank up the volume to get the full effect of this heavy sound. The songs are incomprehensibly dense. Not overproduced, really, but simply ponderous. Once the volume issue has been solved, however, the music becomes transcendent.

If you play this album loud, you will never be able to give it up. About that simple, really. Snuff is a lot more complex than yer average bunch of punx, and so it only makes sense that this album requires just a bit of adjustment. Once that kicks in, though, better watch out. Blisters on my ears, man.

Made up of former Exploited, Filth and Lager Lads members, Tension epitomizes the no-frills school of punk. Steady, if fairly pedantic riffage, vocals that range from a growl to full spew and one tempo: fast.

Nothing wrong with that, of course. I must admit that I kinda started to nod off a bit, but it might have been the massive burrito I just ate. The adrenaline just didn't kick in. And there is plenty here to feed on, certainly.

Workmanlike production. Nothing exceptional, but good enough. The songs similarly basic. I think fans of the guys' previous bands would be reasonably pleased. No sell-outs here.

But this doesn't really roust me about, either. A quality disc, though not particularly distinctive. Plug in, though, and see what you get.

Dreamy pseudo-goth tunes, centered around Robin Tinker's vocals. Without them, this project really wouldn't fly. But with them, all the pieces fit together exquisitely.

A lot of my hardcore goth buddies probably wouldn't like this. There isn't an overwhelming sense of doom in the sound; in fact, nothing overwhelms. But it isn't the intent of Twelfth of Never to create an entire new world. All this band wants to do is put together some good songs.

And, indeed, that's exactly what it does. To be more specific about the style, Twelfth of Never lies somewhere near latter-era Dead Can Dance. Plenty of interesting ideas, even if they're not the most adventurous on the block.

Executed exquisitely, however. That's why this works. Simply put, a well-done album.

It's been quite a while since the Femmes put out a studio album. Last year's Live in Wisconsin proved that the trio still has the fire, and this album shows there might be miles left in the old clunker.

The songs on this disc were written at various times over the last five years or so. And thus there really isn't any "theme" to this album, which might be why this is one of the band's most consistently engaging efforts.

Now, this album is not gonna make many converts. Gordon Gano still has one of the most annoying voices in rock (fans may find his warbling cute or otherwise endearing, but that whine can kill), and the songs are still written in amazingly iconoclastic style.

But of course, the Femmes have a sound all their own. No two ways about it. I liked this album as much as any in the past, but I'm not a monster fan. Still, if you think you might still be interested in the boys, give it a whirl.

A cool trio that goes about as far as a guitar, a bass and a drum set can go. No singing, no aspirations for pop or power trio fame. Just intricately constructed songs, and fairly long ones at that.

Following in the footsteps of such bands as Slint, Don Caballero, June of 44, etc. There isn't one particular sound the band espouses, any single style that predominates. There is merely a starting point and an ending point for each piece, with lots of exploration in between.

The exploration is what's important. Von's aspirations seem to be utterly artistic; after all, no one actually buys music that sounds like this. That's one of the reasons I like stuff like this: I know the bands are utterly earnest in their ambitions.

The music has to come to you, but you have to let it get there in the first place. Give Von a little time, and you'll find yourself rewarded. Give Von a lot of time, and, well, your mind will thank you.

The accompanying descriptions says this is "not folk, not country, not rock...", and I'd have to agree. White is very much in the same territory as Songs Ohia and Palace, a singer-songwriter who uses expressive singing and playing to get her point cross.

Though I'd say she's a bit more accomplished musically and vocally. White has an amazing emotional range with her voice. Her guitar picking is precise without sounding mechanical. It just sounds great.

The songs themselves aren't really wrenching, though they do delve into some uncomfortable areas. This is a very personal album (which I think I alluded to with my references), one that connects in ways much deeper than surface musical sound.

Daring and original, White steps confidently on this disc, making a big statement without any pretension. I'm utterly smitten.

Davey Williams plays guitar, devices and toys. His side men also play, among other things, devices and toys. The music they make, well, it's not so neatly described.

Where some instrumental noise pop bands get contemplative and moody from time to time, Williams and Numb Right Thumb almost always keep things in motion. There are less involved moments, but these songs (while often lengthy) come in a rush.

Which is not the say that the sound is excessively filled out. Not at all. Indeed, there's lots of space between the notes. This disc sounds anything but full and heavy. Cluttered, perhaps, but that's another thing altogether.

The title of the disc kinda shows that the band likes the oblique side of reality. The songs here reflect that attitude, and they can be a little difficult to handle at first. I'd suggest kicking back and letting everything hit you at once. Don't overanalyze any one part; judge the whole. It's pretty impressive.

Some rather young-looking guys from College Park who like to crank out the medium-throttle rock. The edges are dulled, but the songwriting is rather sharp.

Which is to say, if they band decides a song is only worth 45 seconds, that's all it lasts. I like that attitude. Who says a song has to be three minutes, or five minutes, or an hour? The mechanics of the pieces sound somewhat disjointed, but that's more in the connections. The internal workings of the pieces are rather tight.

Plenty of feedback and distortion. That's where the dull sound comes in. But it's hardly distracting. Indeed, it helps to form a conduit to the soul of the pieces. Now, I'm not trying to make this sound horribly deep (it isn't), but there's a lot here to like.