I've been a fan for a while, listening to Alkaline Trio progress from merely a very good band with a decent ear for hooks to the pop juggernaut that is now tearing up the country. Seems a lot of folks have figured out that very few bands can come close to these guys.

To put it simply, the songs give me an incredible rush. This isn't sugary pop, though the hooks are impossibly sticky. This isn't straight-up three-chord pop punk, but the strident emo riffage simplifies the formula and tightens up the songs another notch. No one plays pop quite like Alkaline Trio. Which is a compliment all in itself.

I'm not sure anyone can play quite like these boys. There's an energy and ferment burbling through this album that is most addictive. The songs are simply gloriously brilliant. Even with its raucous punk-rock production sound (the one thing that Green Day lost when it went over to Atlantic), this album should sell millions.

It probably won't, of course, but you never know. I'm seeing more and more press on these guys, and mega-success couldn't happen to a better bunch of guys. Brilliant. Astonishing. Breathtaking. None of those words can even come close. Listen and behold the masters.

Full-throated and brimming with attitude, Antiseen churns out meaty punk anthems like Motorhead did some 20 years ago.

A throwback and yet, Antiseen might also be a vision of the future. After all, what goes around comes around. And anyway, these boys aren't retreads. They have their style of ripping off huge pieces of the riff.

That is, by the way, what's going on here. The band settles into a solid, heavy guitar line and then Jeff Clayton starts howling. Even on the brilliant cover of "Six Days on the Road," which features piano on the opening verse, the guitars eventually kick in.

Basic, very basic. But with a style and verve and simple crudeness that few can approach. Antiseen isn't trying to please anyone except the members of the band. Oftentimes, that's good enough to make a whole lot more people happy.

The combination of two EPs (titled Lucy and Ford), this hip-hop set focuses more on the rhymes than on the beats (as might be evidenced by the "organization" name).

In fact, the generic nature of the backing tracks helps to make the listener focus on the tight rhymes and dense raps. There's a whole lot of verbal bombast going on, and most of it is quite impressive.

Atmosphere has a lot to say, and the MCs say it quite quickly. The tricky tongue work is poetic, artful and often funny--with some truly impressive cultural references ("Bigger than Jesus/Bigger than wrestling/Bigger than the Beatles/And bigger than breast implants"--from "Guns and Cigarettes" and a song titled "Party for the Fight to Write"). The style is laid back, despite the intense rapping, and that's also a great draw.

Commercial enough to attract mainstream fans, and good enough to appeal to the denizens of the underground, Atmosphere sure knows how to put together some great hip-hop. If you need more than that, go somewhere else.

Azeem rhymes around the beats. Or, perhaps more correctly, the experimental beats lands between his rhymes. Something like that.

Dropping references to dance hall, dub, jungle, drum 'n' bass and about every other electronic style around, Azeem's beats get down and dirty, leaving an organic feel despite the careful crafting.

As for his rhyming, Azeem almost creates polyrhythms when he raps. Like I noted at the top, he's not always on the beat (even when the beats are consistent), but instead he plays off the beat, creating a third rhythm that rolls above the fray.

Oh, yeah, the lyrical content? Quality. Azeem has a sly sense of humor and a sharp sense for politics both personal and societal--something he might have honed his taste for during his days with Spearhead. I haven't heard the full package like this in quite a while. Azeem has all the tools and is only too happy to show off for the masses.

Blasting straight to the edge of the pop music universe, the Beach Machine gets off on a lot of reverb and distortion. Songs that sound like they might be constructed on loops, but I'm guessing they're simply played that way. It's a cool effect.

For me, anyway. I like to kinda get lost in music like this, feeling my way through the excess to find the center. There is a center, by the way. It lies in the rhythm section, which really doesn't muck about much. The lead guitar? There's a lot of wandering there. Not to mention a few electronic accouterments.

The reason these songs work is that center. This isn't simply noise; the Beach Machine plays songs. Somewhat excessively twisted songs sometimes, but songs nonetheless. Me? I wallow in that excess, because I know there are goodies lying at the bottom.

Twenty-four songs here, and each one is distinct from the other. The band's sound and philosophy run through each, however, making this a most fulfilling listen. The Beach Machine may be a tough sell to the masses, but these guys sure know how to explore some great musical ideas.

This disc has that obsessive "one-man" sound to it. All of the playing credits go to someone called "Shai, son of Eli," so I'm thinking my instincts are pretty solid.

Basically, The Capitol Years channels that thick, anthemic rock of the mid-to-late 60s. Stonesey, Whoish kinda stuff. And there's just not the give-and-take of a band. One hand seems to be controlling these songs, and that hand doesn't know when to ease off the pedal.

For better and worse. The idiosyncrasies (particularly in the use of strummed guitar) pile up quickly, and the way I hear this, either you're gonna dig it or just run away screaming. There's no middle ground. I like such bold statements. I like them better when they really hit home.

And the Capitol Years strikes me right between the eyes. Must be my kinda madness. I'll let this throttle my ears any day.

Citizen Fish has been playing this kinda stuff forever, almost. That British bouillabaisse of oi, ska and straight-up blue-collar punk first popularized by the Clash. The fact that this Bay Area band is made up of Brit transplants helps to make the sound authentic.

Somehow, after all these years, the boys still has things to say and new musical frontiers to test. This isn't the most adventurous album around, but relative to most punk bands Citizen Fish is a veritable mix tape operation.

I always wonder about Citizen Fish. The albums never quite blow me away, but I'm always surprised at how good they are when I hear them. I'm not sure whether that's a compliment or a slag, but it's just how I feel.

Same story here. I had a good time. I always do. There's always something interesting around every corner on a Citizen Fish album, and this one doesn't disappoint there. Solid as ever.

Perhaps the first album to be dedicated to the late Joey Ramone, this is just the latest "comeback" for the long-venerable Dickies. The hyper guitar work and clever songwriting is as sharp as ever. The sound is finely balanced between pop sheen and punk grit.

The Dickies were never that heavy, anyway. The focus has always been on fun, and that remains. There are some odd moments. "Howdy Doody in the Woodshed II" is a bit longer, but doesn't do a whole lot more than the original (found on the Short Music for Short People compilation), though it's as goofy as ever.

Maybe that's what happens when you spend five years putting together an album. There is a lot of craft here, from the odd mandolin to some overly-tight production jobs on a couple of songs. The idea of a keyboard-heavy punk band (even when used in astonishingly creative ways) went out about the time the Dickies first got started, and that does lend a dated sound to the songs.

But precisely what time would be right for the Dickies? I mean, this is loony, energetic fare played with almost Resident-like control. There's never been a band quite like the Dickies, and I think it's safe to say there never will be. This is a worthy addition to the canon. And that's about all that really needs to be said.

There's an umlaut over the u and the second o in Düreforsög, but I'm just not in the mood to look up the ASCII symbols (editor's note: I looked up the symbols 20 years later...). I think you get the idea, anyway. As for the music, it's some nicely warped Danish stuff.

I don't know if you've heard much music from Denmark or read many Danish novels, but the stuff tends to be gloomy. In a thoughtful sorta way. With more than a few twists. Düreforsög doesn't disappoint.

Almost orchestral doomy stuff, lurching from Nick Cave to Cold Meat Industry territory at will. The only constant is a sense of foreboding. There's not much cheer to be had here. Mostly snarls, rough sniffs and the odd space trip.

I'm not sure where beauty comes in, but Düreforsög certainly explores a number of ideas on this album. Nothing comes easily in Denmark, I guess (that's certainly been my experience), but from suffering can come some wonderful art. Worked that way here.

So I've listened to this album, and I still don't know what to write. El Greco is one guy, and he's got an Adam Sandler-esque way of meandering through the silly music of the last quarter century. Borrowing from a number of styles, including hip-hop, death metal and hipster rock (often in the same song), El Greco doesn't flinch from throwing a batch of crap into the mix.

His concepts seem better (and funnier) than the results. The bio in the press kit (which may or may not have been written by the man himself) is a scream. It's quite apparent that El Greco doesn't take himself or his music particularly seriously. This is a good thing.

Because for all of his efforts, the stuff doesn't sing. It's not terribly funny and I think it would be difficult to characterize any of his musical ramblings as "inspired" or even "particularly intriguing." In short, I got annoyed.

But I was curious enough to listen again, to hear if I missed anything. Couldn't find it if I did. El Greco isn't bad in the normal sense. He seems to be a creative guy with a lot of ideas to express. He's just expressing them in a way that I can't quite grasp. Maybe it's my fault. I always have to admit that possibility. There is, however, the other side of that coin. Maybe El Greco's admittedly far-ranging excursions just don't work so well.

Some 10 or 11 years ago a lot of folks took great pains to separate the genres of "grindcore" and "death metal." Never mind that grindcore stalwarts Napalm Death and Carcass ended up solidly in the death metal camp by the time they hung up their axes. Fall Silent pushes the extreme hardcore (which is, I guess, today's term for "grindcore") sound to the edge of the metal envelope. To the point where I'm not sure how or even why you'd make a distinction.

'Cause see, it's good. Good is good, and bad is bad. Doesn't matter what else you call it. Fall Silent can rage with the best of 'em (pun intended). Seventeen songs of unmitigated fury. Not short songs, either. There's more than an hour of vitriol on this disc.

Quantity and quality. An irresistible combination, to be sure. The guitars flash and scream, producing some wondrous riffage. A frenetic rhythm section keeps churning the songs to speedier and more frenetic heights. Lyrics? Um, I can hear vocals. Sometimes I can make out a phrase. There is a lyric sheet. The stuff is fairly standard antisocial fare. These guys are serious, and so are their songs.

Mostly, though, Fall Silent doesn't. The sonic disturbances produced by this disc are flat-out amazing. Straight ahead full throttle. Don't look back. Don't even look to the side. Peer straight ahead and view your rapidly-approaching demise.

The klezmer is gone. Dead. Buried. On this, his third Firewater expedition, Tod A digs deeply into his bag of hipster 60s lounge pop, rummaging through some Beach Boys, a little Donovan and a lot of the sorta stuff that's been getting released on Jetset lately and then revving all that up Firewater style. And while the first two outings could possibly be termed "loose" concept albums, Psychopharmacology sticks to its topic tighter than the Alan Parsons Project ever did.

Some of the meanest, most clever lyrics in music today are still the norm. Tod A likes contradiction (witness song titles like "Woke Up Down") and playing with contextuality. Unlike the off-kilter poetic perspective generally presented in the past, some songs here are astonishingly straight. The title track is a blistering attack on psychiatrists who prescribe pills without even considering talking to patients. There's no subterfuge and very little art to the lyrics. Just rage.

As usual, he's put together an ace band. The core of the group is much the same as it was for the Ponzi Scheme tour (my copy of that album is a promo that doesn't actually tell me who played on it), with the usual guest appearances. In particular, Jennifer Charles of Elysian Fields drops by for "Bad, Bad World." Bliss. Dark bliss, but still.

Not exactly the album Firewater fans may have been expecting. All the trademarks are here (except for the klezmer), but there's a feeling of manic desperation about many of these songs. Tod A doesn't play the cocksure cynic on this disc. Rather, he seems to recognize that the world is just as fucked up as he thought, but he can't do a damned thing about it. Fatalism is creeping in on the usual sneering misanthropy. Fit the concept, I guess.

Still shimmeringly brilliant. But consider this: Five years ago, a song like "She's the Mistake" would have sounded utterly out of place on a Firewater album. Here, it's the perfect capper. In fact, I doubt I'll hear a better song all year. Same goes for the entire album. I had high hopes; Firewater is one of my favorite bands, if not my favorite. Psychopharmacology leaves that anticipation in the dust. There is a glow of greatness here.

Flashing Red Airplane doesn't do anything easily. I mean, if you're gonna go to the trouble to name a song "It's a Long Way Down When You Know Your Way" while giving most of the rest of the pieces one or two word titles (this creates a serious graphic design problem, if you want to know why I'm mentioning something so trivial), you're probably gonna work very hard to write songs that don't always fit perfectly.

But, in fact, the songs do work. Jennifer Wilke is Flashing Red Airplane (with occasional help from friends) and her single-minded approach carries the day. These songs and this album are her statement. And she shines through.

For the most part, Wilke sets a meditative mood, even when she lets her songs get a little jangly. She's turning herself inside out with these songs, and that's never easy. There's some hesitancy, but that also colors the songs nicely. It's human.

And this album is something like a conversation. One-sided, I suppose, but I don't mind hearing Wilke tell me about herself and her ideas. Her singing and playing aren't perfect, and her songwriting isn't particularly crafted. There are moments where she doesn't follow form. That's where things get interesting. Sit down. Have a listen. Enjoy.

There's the country side of alt. country. There's the rock side of alt. country. And then there's the punk side of alt. country. Forever Goldrush isn't quite so ragged as Armchair Martian or early Uncle Tupelo, but the chords are just as thick.

And, indeed, the strict up-and-down two-step song construction does have its roots in "real" country music (or the blues, or mountain folk, or Irish reels, or...). But there's not a whole lot of craft on this album. Just a lot of thick chords and a kick-back 'tude.

Down-home anthems, if you will. Forever Goldrush isn't afraid to mess with the formula, and it isn't afraid to goof around a bit. The adventurous spirit (in a relative way; the guitars never really mellow out) is to be commended. In fact, the title track isn't far away from a grunge ballad--it sounds like something that would have been right at home on Temple of the Dog.

But that's kinda the joy of this sorta music. The rules are there are no rules. Make music that makes sense to you. Period. Don't worry about what other folks say. And if you happen to crank out a chunky little charmer like this disc, well, so much the better.

Hoes, weed and good times. Sometimes the stereotypes are just too true. The Freak Brothers vamp on old school soul grooves and kick out the brag raps. Got the roll, the ho, the blunt, everything you want, right?

Not me. I got bored quickly, and that doesn't happen everyday. The Freak Brothers just don't have a lot to say. At least, they don't have a lot to say that I haven't heard before.

Every once in a while there's some interesting beat work. But then the rhymin' starts, and boredom ensues. I hate to be so down on a disc, but this one just doesn't excite me in the slightest. I think I'll be like Thumper and exit now.

If there's such a thing as post-post-Clash (or, perhaps more correctly, post-Rancid), the Generators fit right in. These boys discard a lot of the extras (the ska, the slower numbers, the pop pop) and just pound out uptempo anthems.

When I say pop pop, I'm talking about stuff like "Train in Vain." Nothing like that here. This is all fiendishly fast and almost criminally hooky--in a loud and haggard sorta way.

Just the way I like it. There was a point where I thought it might be nice for a change of pace. That didn't happen. But then, I didn't really worry about it after that. A diet of rock candy isn't particularly healthy, but it's okay to snack on every once in a while.

And an album of speedy, guitar-driven punk anthems isn't a bad thing. Particularly when they're done this well. The Generators aren't the most versatile bands around, but they sure know how to do what they do.

There's a bit in the liners that says "There's one tune in here for everyone's tastes--radio and A&R people ... take note!" That sorta thing scares me. Sounds like the guys might be trying to make "hit" music.

But no. Ginger Moon plays a heavy version of jangle rock, occasionally venturing into straight-ahead rock and roll. The stuff's not bad when the guys just play. It's where they force things that the going gets dicey.

John Sullivan isn't a great singer. When his voice has to carry a song (say, on a slower piece like "New York Day"), it can't. But he sound good on the ravers. His gravelly voice is perfect for that kinda thing. In general, Ginger Moon seems to be happier (and certainly sounds better) with the faster and heavier material.

Even on the better songs, though, Ginger Moon doesn't particularly distinguish itself. There's a lot of bands playing stuff like this, and these guys are right in the middle of the pack. They need to figure out a way to bolt to the head of the line. Something distinctive. Then maybe those A&R guys might come calling.

Somewhere between dreamy English pop (say, Danny Wilson or something like that) and Elliot Smith lies Kevin Hannan. He's got that warbling voice and kinda twisted intensity that pretty much requires a listen or two.

Dramatic, almost anthemic fare. Hannan drenches his arrangements with all sorts of overlays, from synth strings to guitar washes to cascading electronic rhythms. Thing is, he's probably most effective when he keeps things simple, such as on "Riding Horses on the Moon."

But Hannan's grand ambitions preclude that. And sometimes, as on "Madman," the song that follows "Horses," Hannan gets it right, adding just the right amount of background to fully flesh out his ideas.

A lot of the time, though, the songs sound like extravagant muddled messes. Interesting messes, to be sure. Compelling and riveting, even in excess, Hannan sure knows how to write a song. He needs to have a steadier hand with his arrangements, but that oughta come with time.

Power pop most tasty. Inspection 12 uses an organ (upper range only, please) to kinda drill the melodies into the ground. Damn that's cool. In fact, while the members of Inspection 12 may be awful young, they sure know how their draft.

These songs are tight. Tight tight tight. Impossibly sticky hooks, songs that compel singing along on the first listen. The sorta thing that could drive a pophead to quick overdose.

The songwriting is just astonishing. The arrangements keep everything moving along quickly and the production has left a wonderfully punchy sound. Just about perfect, really. Inspection 12 doesn't really do anything unusual. These boys simply play brilliant pop music.

And that's enough to get me out of my chair for a few minutes of bouncing around the office. The fun factor is high and the quality needle is pinned in the red. If this isn't the pop record of the year, it's gonna have to be beat by one of the all-time greats.

Land of Chocolate would just like to say, "I'm more prog than you!" Prog to the point jazz fusion. Prog to the point of sounding more like Frank Zappa than King Crimson or Fates Warning. Prog in the extreme, really.

The focus is entirely on the playing. Nothing else. Not a lot of emotion comes through, even in the singing. Rather, a preeminence of musical thought, rationality over sentimentality. I've gotta admire the devotion to an ideal.

And all that energy is channeled into the sound. Land of Chocolate doesn't stint on effort. The sound is sharp, the playing expert and precise. It's very easy to hear exactly what these guys wanted to do.

Quite the abstract statement. This album is for prog fans, and really prog fans only. You've gotta really want to dig into some quality playing and offbeat (if intricate) musical theory to dig this. Luckily, there are plenty of folks like that out there. Land of Chocolate should have no trouble attracting attention.

Another Swedish take on emo pop. Last Days of April make no pretense toward playing any particular subgenre, as both emo and lush power pop are expressed in equal amounts. What a gorgeous sound these guys get.

I mean it. There's strings and keyboards and all the sorta stuff that's supposed to ruin a good record. Should cheese things out, soften the sound. But not here. All those little touches are like impressionist brush strokes. So much is going on all they do is add a splash of color.

The density of this recording is amazing. There's so much going on at any given minute that it's just about impossible to pick out each little piece. Rather, the elements clash and blend into a wild melange of sonic brilliance.

It occurs to me that I've liked a lot of the albums I've reviewed in this issue. All I can say is that each one has deserved a rave, as does Last Days of April. This album is simply a stunner. I got floored by each song in succession. As soon as I picked my butt up on the hardwood, another inspirational blast puts me down again. I'm breathless.

It's been a while since I checked in with Living Sacrifice. Last time I heard these guys, I thought they needed to focus on the music a bit more than the message. I guess they thought so, too, because this is a complete reworking of the band's sound.

Like labelmates Zao (reviewed in the last issue), Living Sacrifice borrows heavily from Fear Factory. Both in the use of technical riffage and in the willingness to try out new sounds and ideas. These boys have come a long way.

This is a solid album. It sounds good, and that should help the message to take hold that much better. While not the creative equal of Zao, Living Sacrifice acquits itself well here. The improvement is obvious and exciting.

You don't have to sacrifice your brain to get into this brand of extreme metal. Intelligence abounds, from the song construction to the quality of the lyrics. And, of course, it rocks. Just had to get that bit in.

Something of a Hispanic all-star punk outfit (I'll leave it to you to figure out who is who), Manic Hispanic has decided to rework a number of punk classics in its own, inimitable fashion.

So "Come Out and Play" becomes "We Gotta Get 'Em Immigrated" and "White Man in Hammersmith Palais" becomes "Brown Man in O.C. Jail." There are nods to Rancid, Bad Religion, Descendents, the Ramones, X and Decline, among others.

Um, if you take this seriously then you've gotta get your head examined. The boys can play (duh) and the new lyrics are a scream. It's silly, even if there is something of a serious point behind what's going on here. Even so, it's much easier to win folk over with honey than vinegar.

Like I said, lots and lotsa fun. The kinda disc that's good for kicking back with a brew or two. Let the worries of the world drain away.

Back when I was a skinny kid who knew little about music other than what I heard on the radio, I started working at my college radio station. Not long into my residence as the "loud music" director, an album by Faith No More crossed my desk. The Real Thing. Perhaps you've heard of it. Blew my fuckin' mind, it did.

Twelve years down the line, that album sounds tame. It's hard to believe how forward thinking it was at the time. Mushroomhead incorporates much of the same material--drenching keyboards, ultra-heavy guitars, a smooth singer who also raps--and adds more: techno keys, scratching and sampling (which later FNM did use), real death metal raging and a need for speed and synthesis that puts even the masters to shame.

This is what FNM should sound like today, if it was still an operative unit. The sonic shifts are brilliant, and the way it all fits together is awe-inspiring. I don't think these guys are really going anywhere new, but they're certainly pushing the envelope of some of today's finest ideas. Plus, you know, it sounds amazing.

I don't hear the breakout single that might make big waves on MTV (if MTV even showed videos any more). But bands like Static X have shown that there's still a market for genre-pushing material. Mushroomhead is way out in front of the pack, just waiting for the world to catch up. I'll be playing this one an awful lot this summer, of that you can be sure.

Just to make things clear: MxPx hasn't changed labels. This is just a one-off EP with Fat. So you know.

I haven't heard much from these boys in a while (their regular label hasn't been sending me stuff for a couple years; it happens), but this is much more impressive than the early albums I reviewed a while back. The songwriting is tighter, and yet the band retains the loosey-goosey feel that makes punk pop so inviting.

There also isn't adherence to any one style, so you get everything from 7 Seconds-style hardcore ravers to fairly stripped-down pop. Quite the selection for a 9-song disc. I'm impressed. Perhaps I'll even be moved to change my earlier opinion of these boys. There's definitely something going on here.

There should be a picture of No Innocent Victim next to the definition of "extreme hardcore." These boys tread the line, adding a bit of a metal edge to the guitars without letting that shrapnel cut through the rest of the band's sound.

That said, another reason why these guys should be near the definition is that they're cranking out a prototypical sound. Sounds a lot like a number of other bands. From time to time (say, on a great track like "Cast Down"), the stuff really soars. Other times it sounds like the guys got a little stuck in the songwriting department and simply did what everyone else does.

Which is not to say that No Innocent Victim is lacking in energy or attitude. Hardly. My only real complaint is an occasional lapse in writing. Sometimes the easiest path isn't the best one, and that's a lesson that needs to be learned here.

On the whole, though, these guys are above average. With some more attention paid to small matters (like making every piece of a song fit), they could be great. Just a step away.

Uptempo, blistering pop punk. These guys rain down ragged hooks and tasty sing-along choruses like you wouldn't believe. Great riffage and an always driving beat just burn these songs into overdrive.

Nothing too heavy or mean, but still a nice raucous mess. Pistol Grip is anything but refined. There's very little craft to the writing or the playing, simply and utterly infectious style that's hard to ignore.

It's that rough 'n' ready attitude that really drives this disc. The songs are basic basic, and when played with abandon such material kinda takes on a new life. It sounds grander, more exciting.

And really, really tasting. Think of the New Bomb Turks, with a little less bombast. Pistol Grip plays party punk (or maybe bar-band punk, take your pick) as well as anyone. Big, big smiles.

A band, not a person. The convoluted and somewhat silly title doesn't really give an idea as to the minimalist fare on the disc. Most songs have some vocals, a little guitar and/or banjo and (quietly) squalling electronic noise used for percussive effect.

Contemplative, but not particularly moody. The songs are constructed as much as played; pieces come and go as if they've been assembled. That doesn't detract from the smoothness of the arrangements. Rather, it simply makes the songs sound a bit more thoughtful.

Does that make any sense? I hope so. The songs are generally quiet, but they possess a strength that can't be shaken. Real ideas stand behind these songs, both in the lyrics and music.

And that's what makes this album a winner. Sometimes when the sound is all out in the open, not obscured by heavy-handed production or messy arrangements, it can make the strongest statement. That's what happened here.

There's a pretty heavy emphasis on the strident guitar style familiar to longtime emo fans. Red Animal War takes that insistent sound and melds it to a kinda proggy pop vision, creating something new and yet comfortingly familiar.

I get the prog feel from the way these guys play the tunes so precisely. The lead guitar and bass do trip around as well, but my reaction is mostly to the technical approach to the tunes.

The production sound is sharp, but not on edge. There's enough of a dullness, particularly in the rhythm guitar work, to keep the intricate playing from detracting from the humanity of the songs themselves. Which is good, considering the intimate nature of what's going on here.

An involved and demanding set of songs. Red Animal War doesn't make things particularly easy for the listener, but there are some obvious points of access. Like I noted earlier, there's a good mix of the old and the new, spun out into a fine synthesis. Intriguing.

Occasional songwriter for Blue Oyster Cult and longtime New York troubadour, David Roter has been around. He brings together many friends, including members of the Dictators and B.O.C.'s Donald "Buck Dharma" Roeser (that's how he's billed here). But the music is more of that old NYC hipster groove, a less (and yet more) twisted version of what Lou Reed's done for some 30 years.

The focus here is on ideas expressed verbally. The music is decent and certainly inventive from time to time, but Roter keeps the focus firmly on his unconventional lyric style. He's even got quite a few vaguely jokey spoken word bits. Which don't work on a basic level, and yet, kinda like Neil Hamburger, there's always an ulterior motive.

Roter references his biggest "hit" with B.O.C. on "Joan Crawford Revisited," and he riffs on impotence, his city, his family and, just to make sure he hasn't missed anything, a "Lesbian Midget Motorcycle Gang."

He touches all the bases, some more fully than others. Is it funny? Kinda, in an uncomfortable way. Is the music good? It's often interesting. This is sounding more and more like a Lou Reed review, isn't it? Damn. Roter really doesn't sound a damned thing like Reed, except that he uses the same personal observational perspective and likes to play games with music. Maddening and yet compelling.

A Brit emo band, Rydell sounds a little dated from time to time. But then the boys throw in a little Britpop and a strangely emphatic speak-sing style of vocals and the whole package changes color.

The thing is, the guitars are old school emo. Very Mineral. Dramatic and all that. Then the guys are liable to go off on a poppy kick, almost grinding gears or something.

The production has left this ringing sound in the guitars, a fuller and more lush feel than most traditional emo bands get. That sound does help ease the many transitions, though Rydell is generally solid enough to sell its varied moods without much help.

Solid's the word. This isn't the sort of album that makes me jump and scream, nor does it cause me to sit back and ponder. But there are moments where I felt like doing each of those things. Rydell hits its notes head on, and the result is a quality album.

Lotsa braggin', lotsa slaggin'. SC does have a few things to say, but he works his real ideas in between what he seems to think are the most important parts of a rap: boasts and disses.

I could forgive some of that if the flow had something going for it. But SC is just borrowing from all over the place without really making any sound his own. The production is cheap (sounds that way, anyway), which does shine a light on the rhymes.

And they may be the strong point of this album. Which is too bad. SC sounds like too many others, obsessed with everyone but himself. Where is he? Who is he? All I hear is static.

He does have a good sense of rhythm, and he delivers his rhymes with a very real sense of style. Just wish he had something original to say, that he put a little more of himself into the raps.

Kevin Seconds is one of the most prolific songwriters around. He just keeps cranking out album after album, be it solo stuff, 7 Seconds, whatever. And all of it is pretty good.

Pretty good being the operative word. There are usually one or two great songs, four or five very good pieces and a few mediocre ones on every album. This disc is no different. You gotta listen to the whole thing, though, because Seconds has a way of sequencing that doesn't allow too many average songs to cluster together. There's always something cool right around the corner.

Like his other solo stuff, this is acoustic and restrained electric guitar fare. No punk craziness, just solid pop songwriting and Seconds's unmistakable voice. I'm always in the mood to hear him croon.

Which probably doesn't make me the most objective reviewer for this disc. No matter. It's not a masterpiece. Seconds will likely never make even a great album. He's got too many songs and too many ideas. Tell you one thing, though: If you took just one song from each of his albums, you'd have one hell of a mix tape.

I'm always curious what makes bands go major. Money, of course, has something to do with it. But then, maybe things are easier. Someone at Republic obviously came up with the "diner" theme for the liners and cover. I suppose it's nice to have someone do that work for you.

As for the music (that's what's really important here, after all), same old Shades Apart. The production is sharper, punchier. The songs are shorter, tighter. The boys are no longer a grungy hardcore pop band but simply a pop band that deals in chunky chords and the odd grungy mood.

I remember hearing Urge Overkill's first album for Geffen. I liked it, even though I was an old fan. It was different, but good. I've often had issues with the old Shades Apart, but I think even the old fans might agree that these songs work better. They are less complex, but in the olden days, the guys had a tendency to get lost in complications for no good reason.

Will the kids buy it? Don't ask me such silly questions. I thought Saturation was a brilliant rock and roll record. The kids didn't exactly agree. Shades Apart has come through with a solid and often exciting disc. There isn't a breakout smash, though, at least to my ears. Have to wait and see if the Republic/Universal marketing geniuses can do something with a good album.

I think it's admirable to pop out a double-disc re-issue from a fine band like Sick on the Bus. Just one question: These two discs are short. Very short. You coulda almost fit them both twice on one disc. So why two?"

A couple reasons, I guess. For starters, one album, one disc makes people take each album on its own terms. The songs don't run all together, and so idiots like me have to pop in two discs to write a good review. Makes me think more, I'll tell you that.

And what I can tell you is that Sick on the Bus is one of those sloppy, haggard-sounding punk bands that somehow manages to wrap its less-than-tight songs up with enough attitude and energy to sell them effectively. There's no good reason to like these songs except that they'll probably make you feel like getting up and bouncing around for a couple of hours.

That's enough of a recommendation for me. Simplicity would've called for a single disc, but I think the double does serve a purpose. As for the music, well, it speaks for itself. Can't wipe the smile off my face.

The first Deep Elm release in some time that really has nothing to do with emo. David Singer plays "straight" trip pop. You know, stuff that lies somewhere in the continuum between the Beatles and the Flaming Lips.

Gorgeous songs, the kinda stuff that can melt snow when it's below zero outside. And not only is Singer adept at finding the absolute prettiest way of kicking out a melody, he knows how to fill in the rest of the parts. There's a fine balance between simple execution and complexity overload. This disc walks the line.

Indeed, just when I thought Singer might be heading into overkill territory, he pulls back, seemingly aware of the problem himself. The production is cluttered at times, but on the whole I'm impressed with the cleanness of the sound. Even when the sound gets dirty, the parts never obscure the whole.

Just about glorious, I think. The songs soar, swoop and glide in for a gentle landing. Hey, anyone who's not afraid to make a tough melody pretty is a winner in my book. David Singer not writes a good game; he puts his thoughts down on tape as well as anyone. This one'll make you laugh, scream and cry. It's impossible to listen to this album impassively.

I kinda have to take the album title with a grain of salt. This might've been "the latest" in 1976 or so, back when Tangerine Dream was a cool techno band (before they called it techno, of course) that played around with beats and melodies. Back when a sterile electronic sound generally meant something more serious or less human, in some sort of Kraftwerkian sorta way.

I don't know if you get my distinction (or if it's valid--I wasn't listening to either band back then, I was 7), but Slicker also plays with mechanical techno conventions in rather unconventional ways. There's a sense of fun and discovery here, like something new might be just around the corner.

And usually there is something. Slicker plays with fire. This sound isn't new, and an awful lot of bands (if that's the right term) have plied these fields before. But that's where some real satisfaction can be found, in reinvigorating old ideas. These songs do just that.

I'll note, for the record, that Slicker is Hefty honcho John Hughes. As might be expected, this album fits right in with what I perceive to be the Hefty style: Do something interesting, and do it well. Few albums go on explorations such and this and remain vital. Slicker does, and I'm quite impressed.

A short little outing from these Birmingham boys. Five new songs (even more raggedly tuneful and catchy than the stuff on Numb Nuts), two reworked pieces and a couple of live tracks. The sorta odds and ends package to keep fans happy for a while.

The thing is, Snuff impresses even in small doses. The range of just the five new songs is impressive, from the Traffic-style keyboard jam of the title track (I'm not kidding) to the straight-up power punk pop of "Slipt" to the speed machine screed of "Emperor." There really is something here for every punk band.

And that comes without sacrificing a cohesive band sound. Snuff is more than impressive. These guys are awe-inspiring. Play it loud. Smile a lot. Do it all over again.

The back cover states simply, "Therios does not sample the work of others." I think just about all of the others are saying "Thank God!"

This, of course, should not in any way be seen as a slag on Therios. These boys crank out some pile-driving, electronic distortion-burning, ear-shredding industrial metal. There's one hell of an unholy racket going on.

And damn if it doesn't sound fuckin' great. Yes, you do kinda have to be into this sorta extreme sound to really jam on it. This isn't music for the meek-hearted and the tender-eared. Not at all. Therios makes no concession to the mainstream. N'Sync girls will not be grabbing this disc in droves. Hell, Rage Against the Machine fans won't be coming near this thing, either, despite somewhat similar songwriting styles.

It's a question of execution. Therios refuses to stint on the brutality, and the result is an album of uncompromising aural assault. I really can't exaggerate that point. If Therios isn't the meanest band in the world, the boys are on speaking terms with whoever might be. Ever so lovely.

Been a while since I headed this deep into the electronic ambient. Miles Tilmann does the trance thing as well, orchestrating his moods and then dropping in some fine beats when the time calls for it.

Both pieces of his sound are impressive. Tilmann manages to be contemplative without getting sullen or dull. And like I noted, his beat work is great. Not terribly experimental, but it fits right in with what he's doing. He paints very pretty pictures.

And not in any pedestrian fashion. Tilmann offers a highway to his innermost thoughts. That sort of integrity should be rewarded, just as the sounds he creates reward any discerning listener.

Reminds me a lot of those early r&b/hip-hop groups. Like the Timex Social Club (remember "Rumors"?) or Oran "Juice" Jones ("The Rain). I suppose some of that comes from the barebones backing sound of drum-machine and synthesized bass (with some synth strings dropping by now and again).

You know, I liked those folks. Didn't like what came later, the New Edition/Bobby Brown/Boyz II Men overproduced stuff. Tunji seems to understand that "soul" comes from feeling, not wall after wall of sound.

The songs are simple. Easy beats, Tunji's singing and a few vocal overdubs. Not in an overdone sorta way, but tasteful. Soulful. The kinda sound that delivers an authentic emotional effect.

I don't think r&b has any intention of heading back down this road. But I'm glad Tunji did. Because he reminded me what it was I really don't like about may of today's big stars. Simple is better.

Remember the first Zeke album on Epitaph? Full-tilt buzzsaw riffage and no breaks between the songs? Two Man Advantage does, and this album races past at full speed.

The lyrics do concern things other than hockey, but ice time takes up the bulk of the material. Not quite as jokey as Nomeansno's Hanson Brothers, Two Man Advantage is a lot heavier as well.

Which is not to say that these songs get bogged down. On the contrary. The stuff just flies past, the pedal pinned to the floor. Indeed, there's just not much more to be said about the music. It's fast, it's loud and it'll leave just about anyone gasping for air.

My kinda disc. Don't ask questions, and you won't hear any stupid answers. Bite down on this wire and feed until you're sated. Feel the rush.

He didn't start the roots rock rebellion of the late 60s. He was a Monkee. But Michael Nesmith wrote some of the best country rock songs of that era, and since then he's been an innovator in movies, on television and yes, even music.

It takes a sorta masochism to really get into the career of a guy who made it big early doing something dumb and then kinda faded away into, well, greatness. If you never anything about Nesmith other than the Monkees, this disc might turn you on to something you weren't expecting.

The performances are heartfelt, and while most are fairly true to Nesmith's own renditions (of the songs that are his, in any case--this is a "loose" tribute), I don't have as much of a problem with that here as I do with tributes to better-known artists.

Indeed, most folks could listen to this album and say, "Hey, I know that song," a couple times. But again, most folks would think, "Hey, this is good shit," throughout. Nesmith's greatness can kinda sneak up on you. The quality, however, is undeniable.

These guys really do the deliberate emo style well. Kinda traditional, with that anthemic chorus trip really amped up. Yeah, it's kinda predictable, but I still get a rush at the climax. That's the key to a good song.

And there's two good songs here. The first fairly short and the second kinda long. Both settle into much the same groove. Something of a progression from the band's recent Deep Elm album, I'm detecting a bit more maturity here. Just a bit.

Mostly, though, I had a good time. Simple as that. There's nothing like settling down with a fine slab of vinyl and letting the songs flow forth. Worked to perfection here.

I've been hearing a lot of jangly roots rock lately, but no one has done it like Alex Woodard. Suffice it to say he knows exactly how to put these songs together.

It's a joy to hear music done this well. Not quite produced enough to sound slickly professional, Woodard nonetheless has put some nice polish on these songs. Easy-going and hooky without hitting folks over the head.

Sure, it helps that he knows a guys who've been around the Seattle pop and rock scene and that he talked them into his band. This music would've sounded pretty good if played by hacks. In the hands of such pros, the stuff takes flight quickly and never looks back.

This is the kinda album a major label would love to take, "clean up" and re-release. There are hits here. Big hits. But it would be a mistake to add that extra layer of shine. Woodard has just the right feel and a set of truly amazing songs. The kind of album that instantly appeals and then sticks in the mind for months afterward. The total package.