Old Friends (short reviews of previously-reviewed artists):

Another short set of thought from one of the more prolific and interesting artists in hip-hop today. Aesop Rock manages to combine the latest in beat theory and sound construction with modified old school rhymin'. The result is generally mindbending.

Verbal dexterity is the name of the game. There's no slurring or stumbling around the syllables here. Razor-sharp rhymes and striking ideas populate this post-911 set. But rather than dwelling on inhuman tragedy, Aesop Rock focuses people.

Not nearly enough music here to satisfy my needs. But I feel that way when I get a full set as well. So much talent. Such fine execution. Few can claim the total package like this man.

Part 7 of a 12-CD (we're talking 3-inch CDs at that) set, this tiny disc contains three tunes. The title track and a couple of instrumentals. To be quite honest, the sheer absurdity of the overall enterprise appeals greatly to me.

Of course, I have one of those CD jukeboxes (which makes playing CD3s very difficult), so I had to play this on my computer. Which didn't do the music justice. I can tell you that Alexandrakis's talent for creating nervy pop is intact.

And if you don't feel like shelling out the bucks for the pre-printed set, Alexandrakis is making most of the songs available for download (though legal difficulties have tied up "Have a William Shatner Christmas"). Some people are just too nice.

Sounds a lot like a treble-heavy My Bloody Valentine. Astroblast doesn't use quite so much post-production distortion, but the minimalist sense of melody is very similar. Doesn't hurt that Jenn Kellough has those wispy, ethereal vocals with steel underpinnings.

Further differentiating itself from other new age-psychedelics acts, Astroblast insists on pushing the tempo. The band revs up the ante and takes fuzz almost into a power pop realm.

And that's very good. Whenever a band is able to crank up such a dense, complex sound and whip it into a near-frenzy, musical chaos is bound to result. And inside the lines of that melange lies (dare I say it?) art.

I shouldn't get so giddy, but this disc really blistered my ears. The songs come on with a deceptive simplicity and then worm their way in as succeeding layers become apparent. Nicely done.

There's something about using a sax as a lead melodic instrument that really appeals to me. Iceburn did real well playing guitar and sax off each other, and Blue Meanies also use horns and guitar counterplay to fine effect.

Check Engine moves in the noise fusion (my new term for the whole June of 44-Shipping News-Don Cab sorta sound) circles. And since there's already a heavy jazz influence in the song consttruction, the sax seems even more appropriate.

What it does, however, is bring an entirely new sonic level to the sound. I'm not used to hearing anything in that range, and now there's this piercing wail. Damn, but it pretties up the picture. These guys play off each other as well as anyone I've heard recently, and the songs spin together with centripetal force.

Okay, so some folks might say this is just more noodling around. I like that, myself. Not surprising when you consider this outfit contains remnants of Sweep the Leg Johnny and Big'N. In fact, when I think about it, I'd have been bummed if Check Engine didn't blow me away. As you can see, it has.

Astonishingly clean power pop. Unlike most of LunaSea's bands (which generally favor at least some messiness in their sounds), the Cogs have picked out a terminally sterile sound. Given that these are by-the-book pop tunes, the key rests on the sweetness of the hooks.

And those are generally impressive. The Cogs don't try to overpower. Rather, the intent seems to be churning out rhythmically-tight tunes (not unlike Magnapop, which also featured nice alto female vocals). And that attention to the center of the sound translates into addictive, if somewhat mechanical, hooks.

Interestingly, very few of these songs really take off. Just about everything lies in the mid-tempo range, which makes sense given the focus of the songwriting. Great care is taken to make sure the stuff doesn't get dull. There's plenty of punch here.

Punch, actually is what the Cogs do best. The energy level is in the rafters even though the songs themselves don't try to leave the ground very often. A nice live wire to chew on.

He was only kidding about hanging up the capo. This tape contains a few songs from his last outing, but they've been reworked (one even has a new title). Collins expands his instrumentation here with a song called "Untitled" which is played on some sort of an organ.

Same elegiac quality. This tape, more than most of his others, really digs into the darker side of the blues. Collins is less calculated and more emotive, which brings out the raw intensity of his writing.

While the low (and I mean low) quality of the recordings helps to lend an otherworldly feel to the songs, I'm hoping some folks out there recognize his talent and get him in a real studio. Nothing fancy. Just enough to make his guitar more than a two-dimensional rhythm instrument. A little resonance would be great.

If there's anyone I've heard in the last year who deserves a $500 (or more) advance for studio time, it's Collins. There's talent here that needs to be put down on good tape.

Some of the atonal, strident lines of emo imported into a clunky roots-pop style. All done up pretty-like. The Deathray Davies are much more ambitious than this fairly stripped-down style.

There are all sorts of little quality touches. The organ on the flip. A refusal to stay straight on tone. The barest hint of emotion. Subtlety rules.

And subtle pop is fine stuff, indeed. This puppy takes a couple spins to set its hook, but once ensnared, you'll find it hard to leave.

That would be Lahna Deering and the Rev. Neil Down. Deering sings and plays guitar. Down plays guitar. They split songwriting. And what songs they split.

Raucous blues-infused rockers. Lots of great guitar lines. Plenty of tasty licks to set yer foot a tappin'. The kinda songs that just keep on a rollin' off the disc. Like you don't want 'em to stop.

Deering has one of those airy-yet-husky voices. She can go from a purr to a growl in a split second. Intoxicating. She sells every song, and that's not difficult. The lyrics are clever and poignant (quite a feat), impressive without stealing thunder from the music.

A thoughtful good time. This disc just leaps off my machine. The production is first-rate, just enough of a ragged edge to keep the sound in line with the songs. Everything is done just so. And just right.

Recorded in 1986 while the late Archie Edwards was in Toronto for a concert, this album showcases some of the finest rural blues guitar picking I've heard in a long time.

Edwards hailed from Franklin County, Virginia (just south of Roanoke), and his style of the blues is indicative of that area (and, indeed, the area where I live right now, the Carolina Piedmont). He picked a single line--more expressively than quickly--and sang along in time.

This may sound simple, and in theory I suppose it is. But Edwards and other masters of the sound figured out how to make that basic style sing gloriously. Like many blues artists, Edwards spent most of his life working a day job. After retiring in 1981 he began to tour and teach.

Which is what this album does. The liners are copious and contain Edwards's own descriptions of the origin of the songs he played. Giving neophytes like me the opportunity to do a little musical sleuthing of our own. Quite the gift.

The description on the back reads "American made instrumental hip-hop." Couldn't have said it better myself. Fat Jon the Ample Soul Physician deals in beats smooth and funky, always laying down a most gracious table assortment.

I've always felt that the more creative the beatwork, the more innovative the rhymes are likely to be. And if more DJs had the creativity and skill of Fat Jon, well, the radio might sound a whole better.

Maybe not. Maybe the masses don't want complexity. Their loss. Complex music can be accessible, and this disc is proof. There are plenty of rhythmic byways for my mind to wander, but the basic grooves are simple and solid. Open access for all comers.

This is soul music in the deepest sense. In that this music actually has a soul and isn't afraid to show it. These beats have a depth and clarity that few achieve.

Alright, so there is a bit of a Pogues feel to this. I mean, most any Irish-inflected punk band (particularly one with a vaguely political agenda) is pretty well cursed with that association.

Filthy Thieving Bastards don't quite break free from those chains, but the guys are pretty damned impressive nonetheless. The songs are tuneful and punchy, with just the right lyrical kick.

Lighter and more melodic than the Pogues. These guys actually like to carry a tune. They aren't really Irish, either (near as a I can tell, the band hails from California), but no worries.

No, it's more important to enjoy the good times. And this album has the power cause an infectious outbreak of smiles. Can't complain about that one bit.

Vaguely arty rock and roll. Juliette Tworsey has a set of thick, powerful pipes. And she wields them as many would play a guitar. Strong and yet limber. That description fits the songs as well.

Something of a throb and boogie, with Tworsey adding a wail at appropriate moments. In its heavier moments, Firefly does indeed remind me of Hammerbox.

And that's high praise coming from me. Firefly isn't quite as forceful, not all the time, but the songwriting is certainly just as sharp and cutting. The band wanders down a few side roads (I did mention the arty thing, right?), but all loose ends get tied up.

Quite the package. And whether the songs ride the rails or soar into the heavens, Firefly has a handle on what it's doing. Versatile and talented. A deadly combination.

Guitars, basses, Moog and beatbox. That's what Eric Fox plays here. Introspective compositions that challenge even adventurous listeners. In a good way, I mean.

These aren't obtuse pieces. Not at all. Fox does utilize loops and repeated themes, but only as a way of better expressing himself. I mean challenging in that there's an awful lot of information here to process.

Musical ideas, I mean. Fox sometimes likes to hide the most interesting parts of his songs behind a false curtain. Not a wall, but just some scrim. Enough of a barrier to engage the mind as well as the heart.

The challenge is to merge the two. Fox facilitates this with some wonderfully evocative guitar-picking pieces (reminds me a bit of Jim O'Rourke) mixed in with the keyboard-dominated works. Yeah, you've gotta spend a little energy to really dig into this album, but it's most definitely worth the effort.

An acid-tinged 70s flashback. Frank Lenz turns Bacharachian lounge pop on its head, burning in beats of all flavors (disco, hip-hop, electronic and more) and then really taking off.

To the point where those 70s underpinnings are almost (but not quite) irrelevant. Lenz has a wonderfully complicated and inventive sense of musicality, and he's not afraid to unleash potentially dissonant forces into his tunes.

But even the most caustic of additions can't take away the blisteringly gorgeous sounds of this disc. Just when it seems Lenz is losing his grip, the songs snap together with an audible pop. He knows just how far to push the envelope without alienating the listener.

The definition of an artist at the top of his game. Lenz owns his medium. It bows to his will. And this album manifests his glory.

Some folks have the strange notion that jangle-pop can never rise above milquetoast. Makar's songs sound easy-going and free of worry, at least until the lyrics kick in.

I kinda like that dichotomy. The wonderfully intricate and involved lyrics work quite well with the rolling pop tunes to create a deep and moving picture. The band has crafted its sound quite carefully--to sound loose, of course.

The playing is tight yet spirited. Just one more set of seemingly oxymoronic qualities that cements the quality of this set. Thoughtful and breezy all at once.

Extraordinarily thick riffage played at breakneck speed. If yer gonna play spacey stoner rock, you might as well do it like this.

Thing is, the Medea Connection has so much energy, so much adrenaline, that it transcends its roots. The sound is almost punk at times (that is a complement), even recalling the fury of early Anthrax--though much more refined.

Fun music. Period. And sometimes a band can create that feeling simply by keeping the pedal to the metal. In this case, it's that energy combined with a precise ragged sense of melody that ties up the package most impressively.

Makes me want to pick up my air guitar and dance around the room. That infectious. That, um, rawkin. Sometimes there's nothing better.

Ooooh la la la! The disc starts off breathless, but this is no mere sonic rush of candy-coated pop. Rather, the Pasties have one hell of a come on, and they back that up with gorgeously-crafted pop gems. I shoulda known: The band thanks Jonathan Spottiswoode, one of the finest purveyors of twisted pop going these days.

The glitter on this disc is painted on by masters, not by some shaky Mary Kay representative. Garish at times, but that's the intent. I haven't heard a pop album this crafted--and this well-made, for that matter--in quite a while. The Pasties switch moods like Britney swaps Swatches, but there's always a reason. Every move makes sense.

And the real beauty is that I don't have to think about it. Sure, on an intellectual level I can appreciate the fine application of theory and hard work. But there's no need. This album succeeds admirably on an emotional level. It connects. Completely.

And when it comes right down to it, that's the final test for an album like this. Does it work? Does it elicit all of the feelings that it is calculated to produce? And does it create new tangents of thought?

Yes.

The sticker on the cover connects Red Level Eleven to Sonic Youth (early, I'm guessing) and the Pixies. Not hard to hear. There is a definite Surfer Rosa vibe here. I never complain about such things.

But I hear a sophistication here that rises above those specific influences. While adhering to the "maul and pop" theory, these folks also incorporate a few ideas from the Chicago noise workshop and then drape relatively intricate vocal work over the throb.

The overall concoction is intoxicating, a bare-bones rumble which can't quite hide some cool ideas lurking in the subconscious. Yeah, the stuff is noisy (it sounds great with the levels pinned), but don't let that fool you. There's some serious thought going on.

"Crafted yet unrestrained" is something of a theme of albums I've reviewed this time out. Red Level Eleven does it as well as anyone, and in its own style as well. Most impressive.

There are two surefire ways to prick up my ears. The first is to play music so strange that I can't quite explain what I'm hearing. That doesn't happen often. The second way is to play uptempo tunes with crashing cymbals. I'm a sucker for that.

Slowride does the emo thing a la power pop. There are a few nods to the old school (particularly in the vocals), but for the most part this is new theory. One that I've been hearing more and more lately. One that really makes me smile.

The most important change is the quickening of the tempo. These songs would sound dreary and maudlin if played at a middling speed. But they soar with the punch the band provides. My brain is producing all of those happy chemicals.

The kinda thing that makes me giggle and bounce around and reconsider my theory that the world is full of assholes and idiots. This euphoria never lasts, but if I can get a good fix now and again my wife can safely take me out to parties. As for Slowride, well, the stuff is damned good. Blisteringly beautiful.

Back in the olden days (say, the early 90s), I got an album by a band called Ff. Don't ask me how to pronounce it (if you insist, I always say "ef ef"). The stuff was hardcore pop with particularly hoarsely-sung vocal harmonies. Throbbing and insistent, it was.

As is 32 forty. The vocals remind me of Ff more than the music, though there are guitar breaks here that surely do spur the firing of a few memory synapses. 32forty also borrows a bit from emo theory, though the entire sound is funneled into this great power tool pop sound.

The tunes just keep bubbling up, breaking out into astonishingly pretty baubles. Considering the rough edges, it's really amazing that any of these songs can achieve beauty.

I thought the same thing about Ff. We're full circle here. I'm not saying 32forty is ripping anyone off. I'm just saying these boys elicit the same response in me. It's a good reaction. A real good reaction.

The organ (or, these days, the keyboard masquerading as organ) has always had a place in pop music. The ringing quality, the ability to add depth (not to mention obscure minor flaws) and just that cool sound work so well with three chords and a dream.

Turnerjoy relies on keyboards (sometimes keyboards masquerading as organ) to craft its dark pop vision. These lurching, dreamy songs immediately set the mood and then expand upon it. It's all too easy to drop into the dank world of Turnerjoy and wonder whose reality is, um, real.

This isn't dark in a goth sense, but rather dark in a cold, rainy night sense. There's some glorious experimentation (within a pretty pop song, natch) and plenty of despair swooping in from the shadows. Rarely have four songs said so much.

So few bands take advantage of the opportunity to use male and female vocals as co-leads. Singing at the same time. Playing melody and harmony off each other, even in the verse. Without Face does, and it gives the band's heavy goth sound an added dimension.

This is not to say that the vocals are joined at the hip. At times Juliette's vocals are layered, as are Sasza's. There's no need to be doctrinaire, and indeed, Without Face changes its sound up impressively.

Wending from pretty goth melodies to gritty extreme bridges (and back again), the band's approach to song construction is as much prog as it is pop. There is an emphasis on technical skill and ability, though not at the expense of emotional impact. Plenty of that left.

I've always thought that the best goth stuff was dramatic and excessive without getting silly. Without Face allows itself to wander over the edge now and again, but never does it become a parody. That line is almost indefinable, except when it is crossed. Not here. Some of the finest, most creative dark musings I've heard in quite a spell.

Old Friends: