Not the old industrial band, but rather a collective of folks who would very much like to have been recording in the early 70s. Well, maybe.

If you can imagine a 90s jam groove driving Bowie, Led Zeppelin or even some early glam, well, that might get closer to the point. Acumen takes chances, which I never beef about.

Even when the chances rather blow up. After all, do you really want to hear a Dead-like jam in the middle of what might have been a really great glam rock song? Sorta like if Yes decided to record the works of Big Star. Interesting? Um, yeah. But probably annoying as hell.

Acumen usually avoids being annoying. And its wide range of influences keep the band from sounding like another Phish rip-off. No, Acumen is more than able to stand on its own merits, for better and worse. Mostly for better, I'd say.

Alice Schneider (who is Alice Texas) has one of those voices that might be described as "dusky." But she doesn't work it in that direction. Rather, she imbues her vocal cords with a much wider range of pitch and dynamics. In other words, she blows that idea away.

Most of the songs build slowly to a rather shattering climax. But Schneider doesn't stop there. She also throws in a couple of silly pop tunes (played with maximum distortion and disjointed aplomb) and then flitters about a bit. Doesn't matter, though. This album just has that feeling.

I must admit a certain yen for women who know how to use an alto voice. And Schneider sure knows how to work hers to the hilt. But she also writes songs that perfectly fit her style. Some people try to force themselves into a sound. Schneider knows what works for her, and she just dives right in.

Alright, if intense singing (sometimes howling) blaring out over moody music doesn't do it for you, stay away. But I think most folks will be won over by Schneider's full-tilt singing and writing. She went for broke and came up sevens.

Three guitarists. Two percussionists. Eight songs without titles. Recorded in sessions with three, four and five members present. Dare I call this--avant garde? Well, okay, but first let me mention that one of the guitarists is Chris Forsythe (of whom I have written many nice things in the past) and a few friends. So right off you can probably guess that I'm gonna like this.

You know what I like? There are moments where every instrument is in motion and playing in a different time signature (if they're even adhering to that much structure). I love shit like that! Chaos, but with something cohesive burning at the center.

The real treat on this disc is hearing five talented players vaguely work together to build a sound. While these pieces may not have much in the way of traditional structure, they instead act as organic creatures, simply living in the sound waves.

Alright, alright, so maybe I like this sort of thing a bit too much. I just happen to be a big fan of the abstract. And All Time Present does one hell of a job of presenting abstract musical ideas in a most engaging way. I'll be staying on that field trip to my frontal lobes for a while longer, thank you.

The press sticker on the case of this disc described the music as "correlating the loud and soft of rock music." Or, to use a well-worn label, emo (this is acknowledged in the next line of the sticker, which places the band in the "post math/emo/hard core stratosphere"). Now, Bellwether is a bit more straightforward in its song constructions than more traditional emo bands, but I think this just takes the sound in a somewhat different direction.

Because emo has been heading in the power pop direction. This turns the other way, wandering back down a Archers of Loaf/Treepeople kinda path. There is some wonderful idiosyncratic lead guitar playing, and in general, the music consists of many lines coming together at the most intriguing points.

And, of course, it's soft and it's loud. Not to mention in-between. The one thing Bellwether isn't is subtle. There's none of that here. Not much wit, either. These boys simply play with music with all the passion and intensity they can muster. Ah, the glory of youth in full bloom!

I'm not making fun of the guys. Rather, I'm marveling. Making an album like this requires huge piles of inspiration and hard work. Not to mention a little luck. Bellwether has all three, and also seems to have a sense of how songs should sound. That's damn near priceless.

Thick, throbbing, classic hip-hop grooves and over-the-top attitude-laden vocals. Oh, my, but this is one big pile of fun. No way around it. None at all.

You know, the sort of songs that get played over and over at sports arenas. Except that there's just the slightest bit more depth here than in most of those vapid anthems.

I guess part of that comes from the fact that these are much more party songs than real anthems. Just for fun, folks, and nothing else. Which also translates well into mass experiences.

Alright, one last shot: If acid jazz got a hard edge and didn't give in to the faux-soul singing. Brassy is just that: Loud and up front. Nothing subtle and nothing hidden. Just full-on pleasure. Easy? Yep. And there's nothing wrong with that.

The master of gothic noise rock returns. R. Karmanik has been traveling these jagged waters for some time now, but this effort really shows off his skill and tortured mind to fine effect.

A lot of noisesters use distorted vocals as a way of getting their ideas across. Karmanik has none of this, instead using his vocals as an instrument unto themselves, modulating them into rhythmic pulses and playing them off the percussive samples he uses.

Um, you know, like really loud and mean. That's what this sounds like. Terror knows no bounds when in the hands of Brighter Death Now. Once the onslaught begins, you have to wait until the final wave of agony passes. There is no respite.

But for your trouble you'll be left bereft of hope and peace. Maybe not the bargain you thought you were making, but that's what happens when you parley with a disturbed genius.

Rian Murphy gathered a few friends together and put together an album of soulful 60s pop covers. Well, not all 60s and not all pop (there's a Hoyt Axton song, fer instance), but that's the style. And, of course, these aren't exactly songs you know by heart.

The album was recorded in a sort of faux-live setting by Steve Albini. The band itself is tight, and the guys knock the songs stiff. Just a wonderful live vibe going on.

Alright, so the concept is a little contrived. The guys work a little hard to sell some of the sillier pieces, I'll grant you. But damn, when the grooves get working (which is most of the time), this stuff is almost impossible to put down.

Not that any of this is terribly surprising. This project fits right into Murphy's obsessive musical nature, and he certainly knows plenty of folks who can play. Throw off your shoes and kick up your heels.

These guys have been around for, like, almost forever. But they didn't hit the U.S. until February 2000. This disc was recorded at CBGBs (New York, duh) and the Great American Music Hall (S.F.) at shows two days apart.

And the boys show why they've been around forever. Hard-driving, tuneful punk plays with fire and grit. The hooks are lean but meaty. Just the sort of thing to warm up a cold winter's day.

Quite simply a joyous collection of tunes. This disc serves nicely as a "greatest hits-for now" or as a solid primer on the band. Either way, you'll come out a winner.

Live albums generally either work or they don't. Cock Sparrer has had years to hone its live attack, and that work shows. This is a great live album, recorded with fine sound. A wonderful portrait of a great working-class punk band.

Also known as Neko Case and Carolyn Mark, the Corn Sisters riff through a series of vaguely country songs (moving effortlessly from torch to folk to bluegrass to, well, whatever they feel like playing) in front of a live audience. About half the songs are originals (most of those written by Mark) and the rest come from writers such as Loretta Lynn, Nick Lowe and Lucinda Williams.

Two women, a guitar, a snare drum and the odd bit of piano. Case has one of the great "big" voices in music today, and Mark's somewhat more fragile vocals are a fine complement. Indeed, Mark sounds much more at home on the more spirited numbers.

The biggest joy of this disc is simply the energy created by the duo. Both are impressive when singing solo numbers, but when both start singing (and competing, to an extent), the sound leaps out of the speakers and into my bones. Shattering would be an understatement.

Who boy, a big ol' wad of fun. There isn't a clunker in the set, and really, just about every number soars. Sometimes the most powerful sounds can come from the simplest packages. This one is simply not to be missed.

The two main players are Robert Gueits and Susan Tojo. Tojo takes care of the vocals and Gueits works the guitars. Other friends help fill out the sound (including Eric Alexandrakis, who also produced the album). The easiest description of the sound is full-on pop, but that only scratches the surface of what's going on here.

Yes, the constructions are basic pop (verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus, etc.), but the lushness of the arrangements must be heard to be believed. Alexandrakis has layered Tojo's voice and Guetis' guitars to great effect, creating a simmering sound that isn't cloying.

Indeed, few major label efforts have such a solid production job. This album sounds like a million bucks. Alexandrakis deserves a lot of credit, but so do the songs of Gueits and Tojo, which handle the incandescent sound very well.

A gorgeous album. No other explanation is necessary. Some thing just sound right. Eyes of Pandora has crafted a thing of beauty. Now all it needs is for someone to notice.

Five songs that bring to mind early My Bloody Valentine (the pre-excess sound), though with more than a hint of the current retro electronic feel. Loopy bubbly pop that burbles its way into every nook and cranny of the brain.

Still and all, the songs are driven by guitars. There is a underlying wash of distortion (used kinda like the foot pedal on a piano, dragging out certain chords and sounds) and also that wee bit of electronic techno babble.

The kind of stuff that makes the head light with giddiness. And, well, with just enough weight to make repeat listens not only bearable, but desirable. The sort of EP that brings wishes of an imminent full-length.

Contemplative mid-tempo pop music that still manages to pack a few punches. Garageland has that "serious band" sound (like these guys know they're making a point here and there), but there's nothing dreadfully overbearing going on.

And then, once in a while, the songs burst into joyful noise. The sound is still rather controlled (there isn't a whole lot of spontaneous playing going on), but that attention to detail provides pleasures other than the visceral.

Of course, I'm talking about a more intellectual appreciation. Garageland's arrangements give its songs a deep focus, with plenty of small points to latch on to at any give moment.

And, of course, the more calculated approach can also bring some real polished gems. Garageland knows its craft. These songs are well-written and tightly produced. But the result doesn't sound artificial. Just planned. And that's not a bad thing here. One final note: Foodchain is selling this disc at a highly discounted price (until January 30) on its web site (http://www.foodchainrecords.com), so if you're intrigued, take a chance.

Terry Garland plays the blues the way it started: With a guitar on his knee. When needed, Mark Wenner (of the Nighthawks) throws in his glorious harp blowing. But even such a wondrous sound as that is window dressing next to Garland's playing and wailing.

Garland sticks mostly to the classics. Indeed, many of these songs will be recognizable to even the most passing of blues fans. But instead of trying to outdo the originals with bombast, Garland instead offers stark, spartan arrangements.

And this simple approach helps to show why these songs are, indeed, classics. They don't need bombastic arrangements or shiny production jobs. They speak for themselves. as do the two Garland originals, which fit right in with the rest.

One of the best expressions of the blues I've heard in a long time. Garland has a terrific feel for the songs, and he puts everything he's got into his playing. This is a most impressive disc.

This would be John Hughes the younger, son of John Hughes the film director. This John Hughes also runs Hefty Records. But no matter. Here he's scored an Italian film. That's what we're here to talk about.

Not being one to hog the spotlight, Hughes contacted a number of friends, including Phil Ranelin (founder of Tribe Records), John McEntire (Tortoise, The Sea & Cake) and Scott Herren. The breadth of the collaboration here led to some wonderfully eclectic sounds.

This is a soundtrack, but it also works as an album. The songs sound like songs (don't make fun of me yet) rather than abstract accompaniment for visuals. Now, the structure of the songs is eclectic and non-traditional. The pieces tend to form around the contributions of the outside collaborators (particularly McEntire's electronic percussion work). Which makes them all the more interesting.

The most impressive feat here is that Hughes managed to pull all of these sounds together into a cohesive album (and soundtrack). A lot of "art movie" soundtracks are wonderful explorations but don't quite make sense as albums. This one does. Hughes sure knows how to craft his music.

Martial electronic noise. Which is a variant I've not heard before. IRM utilizes the usual distortion and sampling techniques, but arranges the songs in what I can only describe as a military style. Then, of course, there's also the distorted vocals, which add just another level of pain.

Pain seems to be the order of the day. Pain, regimented and pure. There isn't anything soothing or healing going on here. But the strict structure of the songs does provide a few points of entry. This stuff isn't off the charts or anything.

Just more than a little extreme. Not in a careless way, of course, but in a manner most careful. Even the sound is carefully prepared, the vocals not quite so distorted that they're unrecognizable and the music blistered but still melodic.

Well-conceived and performed. If you like your noise constrained just a little bit, IRM has a sound for you.

Flitting about the lightweight-yet-sophisticated pop universe, the Januaries weave delicate songs, served up by a coquettish sex bomb. Which is, I guess, the only way to do it.

It's almost like this is a joke, the pieces are so transparent. Not that they're unattractive or anything; the melodies are pretty and the arrangements are spot on. But it's just that. There's too much of a by-the-numbers thing going on.

The banal lyrics don't help. But even those would be effective (and maybe even appropriate) if the music had a bit more creativity to it. It's fine. Don't get me wrong. But there's nothing new here, no new ideas to explore.

So in the end you've got a retro band playing stuff we've all heard before. No matter how well it's played (and the Januaries do it well, believe me), this is still traveling in stagnant waters.

Right on the edge between extreme hardcore and metal. The dull edge on the guitar sound keeps this marginally on the hardcore side, I guess, though in reality it just doesn't make much difference.

No, what matters is how well it works. Jaww keeps swinging, no matter if it makes contact with its target or not. Most of the time, the boys score a direct hit. But even when they don't, by keeping the sound active they just move on to the next, more satisfying blast.

Not a bad theory, really, to just keep blasting. Jaww does that well. Better than most. These guys have the attitude and skills to really tear things up. This disc smokes.

Just another Chicago power pop band. Reminds me a lot of Judge Nothing, except that these guys are way too young to have been a part of that. No matter. I'll just have to describe my wonderment in other ways.

The vocals shimmer. Just like a transcendent guitar lick. When the hooks hit the right moment, the vocals take on a sparkly quality. You know what that does for a power pop song? It's like chocolate chip pancakes (with lots of whipped cream) at the IHOP.

In case you were wondering, that is a good thing. Anyway, Mil Mulliganos can not only craft hooks that would make a confectioner drool, the boys have a enough wherewithal to drag in a few eclectic pop influences, reminding me at times of (let me cross myself first) the Wrens.

In all, a rather stunning record. As this puppy keeps spinning, my amazement mounts. It's really not fair that such young guys should have this much of a handle on music like this. Oh well. I won't complain further. I'll just turn up the volume and lock down the repeat button.

Okay, I admit it: I thought this was going to be another Sab ripoff. I mean, the band's name is Mob Rules! But I was wrong, and I'll take my licks like a man. No, Mob Rules is a latter-day Eurometal band along the lines of Gamma Ray. Thick and tight guitar lines, heavy use of keyboards (melodic, not drenching) and soaring vocals.

Indeed, if I have a criticism it's that these boys are just a bit over the top. Everything is played to almost mechanical precision. There just isn't much room for that added bit of emotion to really drive the sound into overdrive.

But that sort of shiny sound is part of what makes Eurometal such a fun endeavor. Craft is of high importance, and Mob Rules has put together a solid and satisfying sound. The production might be a bit heavy-handed, but not enough to piss me off.

Nope, this is just a lot of fun. No other way to put it. Solidly written and played, Mob Rules has a great grasp on this sound. Soar with the eagles, my friends.

Jangly power pop, the sort of sound that breeds sing-along anthems like rabbits. The Montgomery Cliffs have figured out how to take advantage of that natural coincidence, and these songs are definitely addictive.

Definitely a step up for the boys, who sound a lot more comfortable playing these songs. That ease of delivery simply spins the sugar finer. Pop can never sound like a chore.

And it sure isn't here. The slightly ragged production sound (emphasizing the jangly quality of the songs by giving the cymbals just that much more rattle) lends these songs a bit of an intimate quality, which only pulls me in tighter.

Altogether a wonderful experience. It's always fun to hear a band hit a groove, and the Montgomery Cliffs are right down the middle of one now. Three chords and a dream rarely sounds this good.

I reviewed Moths' first album a couple years back, and I've been getting e-mails from the guys ever since. They play in NY almost exclusively, and the one time they trekked out to where I live, I was out of town. These sort of things seem to happen to me a lot.

In any case, Moths play a layered, vaguely garage style of pop. I say vaguely, because while the boys really bash things out, the arrangements are fairly sophisticated. So they're trying to sound more ragged than they are.

Which is not a bad intention. And when songs have the depth and power of the ones here, well, dirtying them up a bit simply helps to smooth their acceptance. The energy stays high, and the songs sound great.

The thing I like best about these guys is the conversational tone of the music and the lyrics. Both, really. Listening to this disc is like talking to a good friend. You fall into a familiar rhythm and tone, and the afternoon goes by like in no time. A pretty good way to pass some time.

Songs written by Dan Bejar (Destroyer) and Carl Newman (Zumpano) and sung by the varied and sundry members of the group (which also includes Blaine Thurier, John Collins, Kurt Dahle and Neko Case). The songs themselves were written and recorded over a relatively long period of time (the notes and press are cagey on the subject), but the sound is effervescently pure.

There are elements of new wave, but more along the lines of Elvis Costello or Marshall Crenshaw. There's a big wad of 60s pop wandering through these pieces. Just a big load of fun waiting to explode.

The album itself is built around "Letter from an Occupant," which is a utterly buoyant Blondie-style blast that has been earning raves since appearing on a Mint compilation. It is, unquestionably, a great song. But there's so much more where that came from.

An easy album to love. These folks know how to kick out tight, blistering pop tunes that are simply impossible to forget. Required listening. And I mean it.

Why is it that bands with one member have these long names? Is there an insecurity or something? I guess so. I've always wanted to record under the name "My Teenage Throbbing Desire." Talk about pretentious and stupid. Makes Panic Strikes a Chord sound scintillatingly concise.

Jeremy Brightbill doesn't feel the need to stick to any prepared script. Rather, he bounces around and around, building songs on whatever foundation lay nearby. So there's little cohesion to the sound, though the ideas behind the music stay fairly constant.

What I mean is that Brightbill, like most who work in unitary bands, is horribly obsessive about every detail. The record sounds immaculately crafted because it was. And yet, once again because this is Brightbill's baby only, the songs have an almost creepy intimacy as well.

Brightbill would fit in well with many of the midwestern minimalist singer/songwriters who release stuff on Drag City or Secretly Canadian. He's that good. And, of course, he's that unusual. This is a real find.

What is new grows old once again. The whole "alt country" thing, kick-started back in the late 80s by such bands as Uncle Tupelo and the Jayhawks, generally gets back to the first major country rock movement of the late 60s and early 70s.

So it goes with Paved Country, which makes little pretense at making "modern" music and simply blasts away at the foundation laid down by the Byrds. Gorgeous harmonies, wry and insightful lyrics and the wonderful sound lead guitar supported by an organ.

The trick, then, lies in the writing. And here Paved Country comes through in a most winning way. These are songs of wistful memories, wrenching heartbreak and the occasional serendipitous surprise. All delivered with the voices of wisdom earned the hard way.

This album has timeless written all over it. Marjie Alonso and Sarah Mendelsohn have put together one of the best country rock bands I've heard. There's nothing shiny or ostentatious here. Just honest, hard-working tunes. Can't ask for more.

If you're in search of something a bit more simple and meditative, come on in. Now, if you want this to be pleasant and kind, you'll have to leave. The Pilot Ships are made up of members from Monroe Mustang, Stars of the Lid and the Angels. The songs often feature piano or organ, but sometimes revolve around guitar or bass instead. There are vocals most of the time.

There is no rush to judgment here. The Pilot Ships takes its time as it wends its way through these decidedly low-key songs. Low-key in terms of sonic violence, I mean. The subject matter is another subject altogether.

You know, it's hard to call a song titled "You've Always Been a Dullard to Me (Part II)" pleasant or kind. There's a lot of pain in these songs, a lot of longing and unrequited desire. A lot of things people don't like to talk about. Which is one of the reasons this disc works so well.

Another is the simple and haunting way the songs are arranged. The Pilot Ships create a mood and stick to it. These are dark days, and once in the middle of this fog, you might become convinced the sun will never shine again. That's power, my friends.

Longtime S.F. session guitarist decided to strike out on his own. He decided to play the blues. Well, sort of. He takes some basic blues structures and decent guitar licks and then smooths the whole package out into something almost unrecognizable.

The writing and playing are dreadfully calculated. I don't think this is because of any insecurity on Robinson's part (his guitar playing is just about faultless), but more some kind of intentional choice.

Perhaps this controlled, somewhat stifled sound is what Robinson wanted. It does have a commercial sheen and may, indeed, play well with the AAA crowd. I mean, them's the folks who like smooth jazz as well.

But not me. The playing and even writing is competent, but these pieces have just been genericized into almost faceless sounds. This album sounds like a classic "session man goes solo" effort. Workmanlike and solid, but uninspired. I prefer my music to have a bit more personality.

Saint Kristopher is the project of songwriter Chris McCarty. Probably his most famous song is "Swingtown," a collaboration with Steve Miller. That song is here, as are three other pieces McCarty wrote with Miller. The other two are right in that same vein.

In other words, a set of breezy, bluesy country-rock songs that subtly make an impression. McCarty doesn't have much of an edge, but his songs are excellent illustrations of the writing craft. He takes basic forms and then shifts them just enough to put his own spin on an idea.

A bit too easy-going for me personally, I guess, but I have to admire McCarty's songwriting skills. He knows what he's doing, and on this disc he sells his pieces quite well.

A fine collection of songs recorded in the last decade (or so). Eddie Skuller has more than a hint of the Smiths in his songwriting style, but his songs are more punchy and confrontational. That new wave-meets-modern rock sound works quite well for him.

And at the center of it all are his songs. There are a few covers, and Skuller does well with them, but he really shines brightest delivering his own uniquely-styled material. That's the meat of this meal.

What saves these pieces from getting too morose or maudlin are both the bright sound and Skuller's keen sense of wit. Not so much as in humor, but just in using words to cleverly make a point. Skuller knows how to turn a casual phrase.

A fine set. Skuller has done a lot of quality work, and here's hoping more is on the way. Songs with grace such as these are uncommonly rare.

A collection of songs that didn't fit on any album. With an introduction like that, I was guessing the stuff might not be terribly cohesive. But it turns out that Kevin Slick doesn't really venture far out of his circle of comfort.

Which is somewhere in the acoustic guitar-driven singer-songwriter world. Slick is happy to dress up his songs with some harp or piano or the occasional electric guitar lead line, but generally he leaves the work to his low (but not quite gravely) voice and hollow guitar.

There's nothing spectacular here, but Slick does have a knack for creating quietly affecting material. This isn't dull, milquetoast folky fare. Well, it is somewhat folky, but Slick provides more than enough meat to flesh out his bare-bones approach.

A quiet charmer. Slick is soft-sell all the way, and that fits in perfectly with these (supposedly mismatched) songs. Just let the music soak in.

The first solo project for Arcana's Peter Pettersson, Sophia applies lush orchestration to martial themes. In fact, the bulk of this disc is taken up by the nine movements of "Sigillum Militum" (though since the last track is subtitled "Last Movement," perhaps the entire disc is made up of this piece).

Alternately brooding and galloping, the works have a definite battlefield flair. It's not hard to imagine standing out on some ancient meadow, feeling the hooves of an opposing cavalry careening down toward you.

What has not been changed is Pettersson's ability to use sound to paint astonishing visceral pictures. This is music with eyes and touch. Indeed, even scent and taste react. Once enveloped, it is hard to regain entry in the real world.

Sure, it was pretty easy to predict a quality showing from Pettersson. He's established his talent many times before. But now, in moving in new directions, he's also demonstrated his ability to shift gears without grinding. An enthralling work.

Taking prog to the extreme. Literally. Spaceboy combines the extended jams and technically demanding guitar and keyboard lines of prog and interpolates them into a death metal stew. That's an interesting idea.

And it works, if only at times. The problem Spaceboy has is that it plays both prog and death metal, and the fusion comes only in the transitions. That fusion is truly exciting. The opposite ends are merely average.

So, too, is the production quality, which seems to change even as the songs lurch from one side to another. The prog production is thick and reverb-laden, while the death metal sections are sharper and tinnier.

I'd rather hear the two sounds in a solution rather than a mixture, if my chemistry reference makes any sense. Spaceboy has something here, but it hasn't quite figured out what to do with it. Keep trying, guys.

Ragged and schizophrenic fare, way out on the edge of the crazed singer-songwriter sound. D. Leigh Blood is the mad genius behind these sounds, and he just doesn't hold a damned thing back.

Artistically, that's absolutely the right way to go. But while I sit here listening to the often disturbing lyrics and music, I wonder if he might have spared me just a bit. There's a stridency to Blood's singing and playing that slices straight to the bone.

But even as I want to turn away now and again, I'm drawn back in again by the wide range of sound and thought expressed. And, of course, the almost impossibly pure train of ideas churning down the rails. I can't get myself out of the way. I'm pretty sure I want to lie across the tracks.

Some albums shine a light directly into someone's soul. Blood has crafted an eight-lane highway into his innermost thoughts and desires. It's creepy sometimes, but always exhilarating. Got to take a breath before I lose it.

Ulan Bator is group of three Italians. Young God is, of course, M. Gira's record label. Draw your own conclusion. If you can't, let me mention the fact that the band has a penchant for avoiding the obvious. In other words, don't expect the folks to repeat themselves.

Except within the same song. Ulan Bator likes to construct its pieces around loops and repeated themes, particularly for its instrumentals. The ideas are intriguing and quickly addictive; once of them is in your head, you're done for.

The songs range in length from 1:40 to 16:10. The sounds run the gamut of music, with the caveat that the production has left an almost disturbingly clean sound. I could do with more than a hint of distortion, but the stuff here instead requires that attention be paid to the ideas.

Not a bad way to approach things. Ulan Bator doesn't make things easy on its listeners, but it does make the avant garde sound easy. In particular, fans of the abstract will just jizz. Zone out and let these guys clue you in.

Minimalist rock meets trip-hop. Seductive electronic beats bound beneath simple guitar lines and vocals than trend toward the ethereal. The sound, shall we say, works very well.

Underwater is in the spell-weaving business. The songs unfurl slowly, unhurriedly. By the time they make their full presence known, the total has exceeded the parts exponentially.

There are gothic elements as well, mostly coming in the way that Melissa Mileski lofts her vocals into play. Still, she fully supports her voice, just dropping off enough to give a hint of that ethereal echo. A fine compliment to the rest of the sound.

Indeed, all of this works together exceptionally well. Underwater falls into a groove at the start of this album and never lets go. The ride is smooth, but that doesn't mean it's dull. Indeed, there plenty of sights to experience.

Though some of my readers might not believe this, I do think that it's possible to overdo lush, symphonic metal. The easiest way to do this is with a heavy hand on the keyboards. American fans might refer to this as the "Europe effect" (referring to the band, not the continent). Vanishing Point dances all around that dangerous line.

Because these are grand songs with operatic (read: simple and big) themes. The guitar lines soar and swoop with ease, and the vocals also travel similarly predictable lines.

But all that might be alright if Vanishing Point didn't trick out the sound with all those keyboards. What is acceptable from a guitar (even a MIDI-ed guitar, from time to time) just sounds silly on a keyboards, particularly when they crank out drenching chords. I can't exactly explain why, except that it's all too true.

This is a case of more creating less. The songs are all decent, if workmanlike. It just that the production is just a bit too over-the-top. A little more guitar, a little less keyboard and I might have been moved more.

A sampler from Howlingbull. This gives me a better idea of what the label is all about. Strangely (or perhaps not so), a lot of these bands fall under the "prog death metal" or "prog extreme hardcore" sound, or at least somewhere along the continuum thereof.

Basically, these bands approach the extreme from a technically advanced standpoint. There isn't a lot of mess and fuss in these songs, but rather there's power and rage. The heaviness of the sound comes as much from the production as from the playing itself.

I really haven't heard that many bands ply these waters, and here Howlingbull has an entire lineup. Certainly worth a listen if the idea intrigues you.

Yes, Young God Records is a going concern, even without a big wad of Swans releases coming down the pike. This rather lengthy compilation proves that the sonic explorations are still proceeding apace.

Tracks from Angels of Light, Calla, Ulan Bator, Flux Information Services, David Coulter and Windsor for the Derby. Overseen (as always) by M. Gira. That's one way to ensure quality control.

A portrait of the label as an extension of the artist. Gira has never exactly shied away from unusual sounds, and his label is still the home of some of the most innovative bands around. Dig in.

I recently read an article that seriously posed the question "What is it that rockers see in porn stars?" Talk about missing the obvious. Anyway, when I heard this I asked myself why Megaforce was cranking out this silly pop metal rap act. I gave myself a dose of the obvious and tried again.

Wolfpac poses hard, but then the boys go and do something silly like cover the "Humpty Dance." With full disco groove. Even with titles like "Gravedigga" and "Someone's Going to Get Their Head Kicked In," there's no mistaking the fact that these boys are lightweights.

Incredibly appealing lightweights, despite their reliance on tired sexist rhymes. Let me rephrase that; you can be clever or you can be stupid. Wolfpac almost always goes for the easy, stupid rhyme. The catchy beats help make up for that, but still...

Fun? Yeah. But nothing spectacular. Wolfpac just doesn't have the edge or the wit of the cutting edge pop/rock rapsters (say, Eminem or Limp Bizkit), and in the end, that's why I just can't jump on the bandwagon.