The main elements of every Foo Fighters performance are more or less unimpeachable. They’ve got their sound down pat, Dave Grohl’s a consistently good songwriter, singer and guitarist with enough flashes of great per album to keep things interesting. The rhythm section is tight and powerful to match. And they plow through recording with straight ahead rock music every time they come out with new music.

I know I'm just rambling, don't worry

So I was listening to Wasting Light, their newest release, when I realized why I like this band: there’s just something peaceful about it all. I mean, the whole thing. Maybe that’s weird to say about one of the loudest live bands I’ve personally seen, but they’re basically a 90s band scrubbed of a definitive “identity”, unlike fellow 90s survivors Pearl Jam, whose political facade makes them more interesting to think about but no better or worse to actually listen to. They’re not on a comeback or reunion streak (Jane’s Addiction) or ever -ever- trying to find a new, “freaky” sound (Red Hot Chili Peppers). Nope, it’s just straightforward pop rock with ever-so-slightly metal gloss under the pop surface.

And so with each Foo Fighters release, it feels like just a matter of fate and chance that Dave Grohl’s brain hasn’t stumbled upon these riffs and words before. Next time out? More or less the same results. I’m not trying to minimize how much work goes into any album by any band, but there is something beautiful about how I’m pretty sure I know how good the next Foo Fighters album will be. Or at least what it will sound like.

I swear I don’t mean any of this as a backhanded compliment.

*In this analogy, In Your Honor was a car with all the speakers up front and all the AC vents in the rear.

The Ridges’ 2011 self-title debut album (which is really more of an EP, but I won’t nitpick on what their presskit wants to call an “album”) features a band that seems to be timidly poking around its musical habitation – in this case, folk-pop – and finding its voice. The set kicks off with “The Insomniac’s Song”, a track that throbs with relaxed cello at a midtempo pace, which is a pretty good indicator for The Ridges’ approach to things on this set. This isn’t a band with a particularly strong wide breadth of sounds, but they are extremely sure of the sound they know how to do.

The “pop” part of the band’s folk-pop designation takes a backseat to their folky aspirations. The music is beautiful, but often blandly so. There aren’t any strong hooks on this album, but in a lot of ways they’ve mastered this slow crawl where the rhythmic power. There’s a certain amount of stomp to every track. That is, these songs kick in their own way.

Lead singer Victor Rasgaitis deserves credit for having a great voice for this band’s sound. It syncs up well with cellist Talor Smith’s backing and never overpowers the melodic ideas present in each song (if anything, I’d argue they could stand to bring him up a little in the mix). He brings a sweetness, a gentleness that matches the prettiness of these songs well.

The five songs The Ridges have here steadfastly follow this strummed acoustic guitar over cello with plinking percussion sound. It’d be interesting to see them broaden their sounds, though, as the songs feel somewhat similar to one another by the time the close “War Bonds” shows up. They’re charming, though. There’s potential here, which is the most important thing for a debut to accomplish.

Lookit this shit. Jesus.

I’m thinking of Limp Bizkit. Not naturally; not too many people think of Limp Bizkit for more than a couple seconds anymore. I assume the audience is there, in a sense – in the same way Nickelback sells millions of records while I’ve never met someone who’d call themselves a fan. We travel in different circles. But Oswald got an email from a publicist, then forwarded it to me, then here waiting for Gold Cobra by a reunited Limp Bizkit to download.

I promise not to pan this album for the sake of a pan.

While I wait, I’m staring at the cover. In the email sent with the link to the album, it’s blown up to nearly my whole screen. I’m nauseous. Unable to tell if the nausea is related, but that fucking cover is ugly. Grotesque. What the fuck is this shit? Its color palette seems to be based on gradients of diarrhea colors. There’s an iguana on the tree to the right – why? The bikini-clad women are misshapen, melted-looking. Why? There’s a… bald midget bigfoot in the background? I’m relieved the Cobra pictured isn’t actually gold.

Limp Bizkit’s never had a great track record with album art. Always appearing nasty and ugly as its music, absurdly literal (see: Chocolate Starfish and the Hot Dog Flavored Water). If nothing else, Limp Bizkit are masters at consistency. Maybe not musically (though, if we’re being honest, they really are, give or take the effects of a lineup change or two). Other than their confounding minimalist greatest hits collection’s cover, that’s always been the aesthetic: gaudy, ugly, strangely drab, without the absurdness of a great metal album cover.

Now that the album’s downloaded and I’ve listened to Gold Cobra, I can say that still pretty much describes the music Limp Bizkit makes and has made since their formation. Lead guitarist Wes Borland et. al’s bludgeoning attack to making music. There’s a great sense of metallic texture on, say, the bridge to “Get a Life” or the chorus on “Douche Bag.” if music can be made to express nothing but unchecked aggression, then, Limp Bizkit are, as their press material repeats at every opportunity, “the undisputed kings of rap-rock.”

It’s unfortunate, then, that Limp Bizkit are Mötley Crüe of rap-rock*.

It’s only coincidence that each band is only a couple hundred thousand fans apart on Facebook (and considering the amount of derision they attract, that either, let alone both, surpass a million fans is amazing). Essentially, though, both are bands perpetually hamstrung by their lead singers. The thing setting them apart is that Fred Durst is undisputably the face and director of Limp Bizkit, while Vince Neil is just a guy who sings (ostensibly). Borland’s use of textures undoubtedly keep their songs structured but aren’t a particularly distinctive sound. The combination of DJ scratches, though, gives them a sound that is their own.

Durst’s lyrics and voice, though, are as inextricable from Bizkit as Vince Neil’s whine. This is a way bigger problem for Bizkit, as Durst is an execrable lyricist. He leans towards the most simplistic rhymes (from the opening “Bring It Back”: “No hell, no way, I’m gonna chop this rock like blocks of clay./I’m’ gonna sink your ship so fast, one blast, don’t ask, your ass is grass.”) without really putting things together into hooks. This is a problem because at its heart, Bizkit’s always been about testosterone-fueled party music. In theory, they would meld the aggression and riffage of metal with the posturing and fun of rap music.

In theory. Except Durst derails it with lyrics about everyone on his block having a shotgun. Or their scene having a ratio of “90 2 10.” (That is, 90 women for every ten men, something I’ve only seen in the Backstreet Boys video for “The One”.) Even by the lax standards of reality afforded popular music, there’s something aggressively overcompensating about Durst’s persona throughout Gold Cobra.

Which is kind of why Limp Bizkit is also the Black Eyed Peas.

Wisely, they stick to big, dumb party rock songs, which is perfect for anyone who wants something on the intellectual level of a Black Eyed Peas album but meant for moshing. (Though nothing here is as memorable as BEP’s best singles, for better and worse**.) Just as wisely, they slap the two slower tracks together in the back half of the disc for anyone who wanted a more contemplative mood from Limp Bizkit(!!!??!). These songs, “Walking Away” and “Loser,” are the most successful at evoking some real emotion and most resemble actual songs, rather than slabs to pound another concertgoer to. (To each (90 her to every 10) his own!)

But then of course “Loser” is appended with a skit about autotune (I guess if you haven’t done an album since 2005, you’re entitled) as a transition into a song called “Autotunage.” it’s worth noting that Durst’s voice does not sound all that different on this track than any other, despite its entire premise being “Haha we are using autotune.” If anything, his voice sounds more processed and strangely nasal on the opening “Bring It Back.” Just a thought.

But you know what? When it comes down to it, this album is probably more successful than most comeback albums (including but not limited to Crüe’s post-John Corabi material). Bizkit do exactly what they do best with the right lineup involved, and I can’t imagine it disappointing anyone who was holding out for a new album by Limp Bizkit. It’s all probably redundant, given that it’s a comeback album for a band who fronted a genre that has fallen off the popular landscape (give or take nearly 2 million “likes” on Facebook). As far as excuses to reunite and tour go, though, Gold Cobra probably means ere’s some longevity in it for them.

*When I say “Fall Out Boy are the Mötley Crüe of pop emo,” it’s a compliment. When I say “Limp Bizkit are Mötley Crüe of rap-rock,” it’s a diss. Such is the duality of the Mötley Crüe thing.

**Now that I think about it, the lyrics to “Rollin” are about roughly the same level of “so stupid you can’t forget it” as “Boom Boom Pow.” Think about that.

TV on the Radio’s third album, Dear Science, ends with a memorable transition: after ten songs describing individuals struggling to engage with a corrupting society on the brink of collapse, album-closer “Lover’s Day” admonished listeners to retreat from the cares of the world into personal sexual ecstasy. We may be at “the dawn of the luz of forever,” but that doesn’t mean we should turn our backs to all that’s still beautiful in life. The band’s fourth album, Nine Types of Light, challenges listeners to merge these two impulses, to rise to a state of epiphanic clarity in order to bring about a new era in human history.

The theme of social engagement is introduced in the first lines of album opener “Second Song”: “Confidence and ignorance approve me,/ Define my day today./ I’ve tried so hard to shut it down,/ Lock it up, and gently walk away.” Tunde Adebimpe sings these lines with the clarity of address of a master orator, backed by minimal accompaniment. But the subsequent lines describe a growing sense of spiritual engagement with “the light,” and the arrangement grows in urgency along with the lyrics. The chorus explodes with the joyous disco funk of Dear Science’s “Golden Age” as Adebimpe describes communal ecstasy: “Every lover on a mission,/ Shift your known position/ Into the light!/ Every diamond elemental,/ You are instrumental/ To the light!” The song’s joy is infectious, and its lyrics are Adebimpe’s strongest yet.

Kyp Malone’s “Keep Your Heart” finds him in the same heart-swollen mood as did his previous masterpieces “Lover’s Day” and “Province.” He soulfully implores his lover to “drop all your clothes and lies,” and pledges in his remarkable baritone that “If the world all falls apart,/ I’m gonna keep your heart.” “Keep Your Heart”’s vision of high romance against a backdrop of chaos recalls David Bowie’s brilliant “Heroes,” but replaces that song’s camp melodrama with plangent sincerity. It’s the band’s best romantic ballad, a song made for slow-dancing in a collapsing skyscraper or reciting before running through a minefield.

Adebimpe matches Malone’s amorous spirit on the electrojanglepop ballad “You,” and the outstanding, Depeche Mode-esque “Will Do.” In “You,” he pursues his mental projection of an ex through the haze of his memories; the song’s arrangement realizes this haze as the ideal of fog-enshrouded, laser-lit dancefloors.”Will Do” is sung to a more present romantic interest; its sonic landscape, though equally synthetic, is much more distinctly drawn. Synthesizer peals cry over anxious guitar riffs. Adebimpe sings, “Oh, my reddest rose, Caldera, set it off!/ How your fire grows amongst the caldera, glistening…” and his lover becomes a material manifestation of the light of the album’s title. “Will Do” is as direct a song as the band has ever produced, and belongs beside “Keep Your Heart” and “Province” as one of the band’s very best love songs.

The album’s second visionary song, “Killer Crane,” is the warmest, most organic thing the band has ever recorded. Adebimpe describes a vision of a bird emerging from a rainbow and spreading revelation across the surface of the world over echoing plucked strings, organ, and woodwinds. The effect is mystical; though the orchestration belongs to classical European music, the sound recalls George Harrison’s psychedelic experiments with Indian song forms. This avatar of the light proclaims on the wind, “Leave it behind:/ Your restless mind,/ Your jealousies./ An oscillation demands your patience.” Adebimpe is reborn as he follows the creature; he declares in ecstasy that he “can leave,/ Suddenly, unafraid.” “Killer Crane” has no precedent in TV on the Radio’s catalog. It belongs loosely to a triptych with “Second Song” and “Caffeinated Consciousness” that provides the album’s thematic through-line, but it sounds nothing like any of the band’s previous work. It’s a style the band should consider pursuing further.

Adebimpe’s love songs are matched by two furious Kyp Malone jeremiads, “No Future Shock” and “New Cannonball Run.” With its blaring horns and Talking Heads guitar, “No Future Shock” recalls Dear Science’s “Red Dress,” but where that song was grim, this one is glib; Malone sarcastically imagines life in post-recession America as an apocalyptic dance craze. “After the war broke your piggy bank,/ Ah, the bastards broke the world this time./ So we sleep with our guns…” he sings, before commanding listeners to “Dance! Don’t stop!/ Do the ‘No Future’!” “New Cannonball Run” is composed of contrasting electronic and mechanical instrumentation as Malone urges listeners to turn away from mechanistic mainstream culture and imagine whole cloth a new social order. This isn’t the first time electronic music has been used to decry the modern age- Radiohead have made a career of it- but the song’s militant urgency and Malone’s facility with language and melody make it compelling.

“To arrive ahead of its time/ Is the fate of the fish washed up on shore,/ But you know that he just won’t feel right/ ‘Til he’s swallowed up by the tide./ Thought he might know better this time,” Adebimpe sings at the opening of the brilliant “Repetition.” The song uses the minimalist sonic language of postpunk to evoke the feeling of being trapped in a cycle of self-destructive behavior. But Adebimpe finally owns his subject’s dysfunction, shouting “My repetition! My repetition is this!” to suggest self-realization. “Repetition” is followed by “Forgotten,” a mournful ballad about celebrity culture. The subject of “Forgotten” is the least illuminated on the album, but by the song’s end, (s)he has chosen to have his/her plastic surgeries reversed and “fade away into the night./ It’s paradise.” The song ends in a cacophony of anguished horns and distant, portentous fireworks.

“Caffeinated Consciousness,” the album’s last and best song, completes the visionary triptych that begins with “Second Song” and responds directly to every song that precedes it. Adebimpe here plays the role of the “Killer Crane,” the mystic presence compelling listeners into the light. Synthesized horn blasts accompany a devastating power chord riff as Adebimpe commands, “Now drop your self/ With no concern/ On how to breathe/ When your mind is burned!” His command is undeniable. This is body-grabbing, soul-rattling, ecstatic, unbelievable music. We are with Adebimpe “On optimistic!/ On overload!” When he shouts “Suffused are we/ To the cause of light!” it’s nearly impossible not to shout along. This song could start a religion!

“Caffeinated Consciousness” is every bit the equal of the band’s previous highs, “Lover’s Day” and “I Was a Lover.” It’s the best song Tunde Adebimpe has ever written by a comfortable distance, and this is the guy who wrote “Wolf Like Me.” But “Lover’s Day” and “I Was a Lover” were both written by Kyp Malone, who has a reduced presence here, only contributing three songs. Nine Types of Light is TV on the Radio’s first Adebimpe-centric record, and he earns it. While there are fewer stand-out songs here than on the band’s last two records, Nine Types of Light has an incredible cumulative power. And while the band still hasn’t returned to the glorious Wall of Wailing Guitars sound of Return to Cookie Mountain, they have far outdone that record in qualitative consistency. TV on the Radio has long been one of the most openly intellectual bands of their age, but they have never delivered their ideas as fluently as they do here. Nine Types of Light may be TV on the Radio’s definitive statement. Whether it’s their best album or not is entirely a matter of personal taste.

What if Beach House rocked? What if instead of inspiring fits of narcolepsy their music made you nod your head along to it and comment, “Fuck yeah?” The answer to that question is that they would then be Wye Oak. With their third full-length release, Civilian, the duo of Jenn Wasner and Andy Stack have created the most epic-sounding music of any two-person band this side of Japandroids.

I don’t know how they translate all this stuff to a live performance. I’m really looking forward to finding out when I see them open for The Decemberists next month. Until then, I’m listening to this album and I’m hearing at least a four-piece band. Yes, there’s some obvious studio trickery, such as Wasner’s vocals being backed by more of Wasner’s vocals. Much of the big sound can be attributed to the band’s versatility, though, such as Stack’s ability to rock out the drums with one hand and the keyboards with another.

Another key element of Wye Oak’s sound is Wasner’s fuzzy, almost ‘90s-sounding guitar. They sound a little less grunge here than on the band’s previous album, The Knot, but no less big. When combined with her ethereal vocals, they have a startling emotional resonance. Nowhere is this used to better effect than on Civilian’s title track. “I still keep my baby teeth by the bedside table with the jewelry” she sings as her guitar-playing is split into distinct left and right channel halves of one dizzying whole. She is accompanied by Stack’s mournful organ-playing and simplistic, almost Meg White-esque drumming and the result is a song that wastes little time building to a swell and staying there.

Other tracks, like the album-closing “Doubt,” take a more subtle, subdued approach, and that’s where the similarity to Beach House is really apparent. They offer a nice break from the noisier tracks without lulling the listener into a coma, and that’s the sort of balance that is missing from a lot of recent indie rock albums, especially ones tagged with the label of “dream pop.” Wye Oak know how to walk the line between tension and catharsis and when to leave that line far behind, and the result is an album that is never not compelling.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=i2VNG8yMI8w

Whenever a new Radiohead album is announced, the question is never whether or not the album is going to be any good. The question is whether the album will be good or great. Radiohead didn’t give us much time to ask ourselves that question this time around, announcing The King of Limbs only a few days before its downloadable release. What’s the answer to the question, though? Is the album good or great? Unfortunately, the verdict on this one is that it is merely very good. For most bands that would be a high compliment; for Radiohead it is faint praise.

For starters, the album’s brevity somewhat dulls its impact. At eight tracks and roughly 37 minutes long, it seems more like a generously-sized EP than a full-length album. That wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing if the songs themselves had a little more impact, but this also is arguably the most sedate album Radiohead has put out as a band. It’s not quite as minimalistic as Thom Yorke’s solo effort, The Eraser, but it is does seem like a close cousin of that album. It’s a very enjoyable listen, of course, but it lacks any real standout tracks like its predecessor In Rainbows had with “15 Steps.”

That’s not to say that any of the tracks are weak. There’s not a bad song in the bunch. The album  starts off strong with a shimmering, echo-laden piano loop that is soon accompanied by jabs of synthesizer and an off-kilter drum loop. By the time Yorke’s lyrics kick in, the mood has been set. “Open your mouth wide,” he joins in. “The universe will sigh.” In a way, the song sounds like the universe sighing, and we’re right there along with it catching our collective breath. Once Yorke and company put us into that relaxed state, though, they do precious little to take us back out of it. The whole album has a patina of sleepiness to it, and although it’s certainly likable enough it’s hard to ever get too excited about it.

Lyrically, the album follows in the footsteps of In Rainbows. The lyrics are at once both abstract and personal-sounding. “There’s an empty space inside my heart,” Yorke sings on “Lotus Flower,” “where the weeds take root, so now I set you free.” Clearly success and fame have not dulled his sense of melancholy, although the video for “Lotus Flower” shows that at least he’s gotten a bit more funky over the years. The doleful sentiments are comfortingly familiar, including a reference to “a job that’s killing you” in “Little by Little,” but they’re twisted and refracted back through the lens of experience and make Yorke sound a bit more world-weary than before. The fire of youth has burned out, and what remains in the smoldering ashes is The King of Limbs.

So should you pay the $9 to download The King of Limbs? The answer, unequivocally, is yes. If you have any appreciation of Radiohead, you will enjoy this album. It may not knock your socks off, but it’s a solid effort from arguably the best band of the last few decades. It’s a little on the short side and more mellow than you might have expected, but it is also unmistakably the album of a seasoned band who knows what they’re doing and is more than comfortable doing it.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfOa1a8hYP8

For a young band, Lost in the Trees have pretty thoroughly mastered their style on All Alone in an Empty House. Led by guitarist and songwriter Ari Picker, their album delivers the sadness implied by its title, with the kind of drama that is inherent in announcing your intentions so literally. This is orchestrated singer-songwriter music, intimate but with the muscle to force itself into your consciousness. That it is so direct is both a strength and a weakness, but its boldness is an unqualified advantage.

Picker is a wailer, his voice is a ghostly moaning that fills his songs’ space with a haunting mood. That’s ironic, given that the band is fairly large with a supple string section that gives the songs a theatricality that most sad-faced songwriter-driven bands lack. On a song like “Fireplace,” the upright bass and violin parts amp up the drama, making a three and a half minute song sound like a tumultuous epic of the heart. These moments create an affecting listen that elevate Picker’s songs feel fresh.

Picker probably knows this, as he gives the rest of the band plenty of chances to shine. Lost in the Trees’ “Mvt. 1 Sketch” and “Mvt. 2 Sketch” shade the album as a whole with instrumental interludes that feel like cousins to the mood created by the lyrical pieces. There’s a kinship in their collected drama that gives everything a somber coating.

While that is a good thing, it sometimes works against this album, Alone in an Empty Room is a somber record, and maybe it is too serious at times. The sadness inherent in the style bleeds together from song to song, each lyric being about a generalized loneliness. The arrangements are powerful and dynamic enough to overcome this somewhat, but the songs taken together become less enticing in one sitting.

Overall, Lost in the Trees are a pleasing band of melancholy yearners. There’s a distinct staidness and willingness to dramatize the loneliness Picker has chosen as his subject. Sometimes, it’s too literal; this album sometimes feels like it is exclusively about being all alone in an empty room. Thankfully, though, Picker is not alone. The band backing him gives audacious power to evocative songs. They may be mood pieces, but they perfectly capture the mood when they hit.

With Zonoscope, Cut Copy have released a fittingly romantic sequel to their highly-praised breakthrough* In Ghost Colors. Here they have accomplished an album lush and romantic, yet relaxed; there’s no sense that they are trying too hard to dazzle listeners. Unfortunately, this leads to a trade-off where the increase in ambition leads to slightly less memorable individual songs. Instead, Cut Copy has provided a ride to cruise along with.

Lead singer Dan Whitman’s sonorous voice permeates the songs, giving them a smoothness that can be hard to resist. He gives a passionate performance on opening track “Need You Now,” which throbs while sweet harmonies add to his vocals. The song – like many of the others here – is almost too busy, with layers of instruments stacked atop one another to create a lush atmosphere, but the songs generally handle them well.

Notably, there’s a little more of an island lilt to their sound, and they expand their pallette in subtle ways. “Take Me Over,” for example, is a multi-textured, polyrhythmic dance track. It moves from sound to sound effortlessly but noticeably, gradually morphing from verse to chorus. It’s more jaunty than their previous work, lighter than In Ghost Colors, which was already a festive dance-pop album. It smoothly goes into “Where I’m Going,” a song where thunderous drums stomp under early Blur “Woos” whistle. This kind of dramatic shift from song to song is typical of Zonoscope; much like its cover depicting New York engulfed by a waterfall, it sets out to juxtapose sounds against one another.

So, there are a number of competing sounds on this album. “Blink and You’ll Miss the Revolution” is loose and synth-heavy. Tonally, it’s joyous and romantic. Later highlight “Alisa” soars. “Hanging on to Every Heartbeat” is a calm track, very relaxing. Its production is so polished, it would glisten if it were visible. Despite the variations they use, Cut Copy keep a distinctive sound: bouncy synthesizer melodies, multiple competing rhythms, a standard 4/4 dance beat. The downside is that even the strongest hooks on this album get crowded quickly; it gets hard to pick out a favorite track after awhile.

Like a lot of dance music – maybe most closely like last year’s One Life Stand by Hot Chip – the lyrics take a romantic streak. Unfortunately, they aren’t particularly memorable, keeping the songs from shining individually.

Still, the ambition of the set – the final track is a breathtaking 15-minute suite – makes it a worthwhile listen. After its predecessor was highly acclaimed, Cut Copy had a lot to live up to. In a lot of ways, they expanded their art to new and exciting places. So, maybe it’s not a killer album, but an occasionally breathtaking one.

*This article previously erroneously claimed that In Ghost Colors was Cut Copy’s debut. I apologize. Have your heard their first album, Bright Like Neon Love? How does it compare to their later ones? I ask because I haven’t heard it (clearly) and will probably be at a record store sooner rather than later.

Sagely, Jay-Z once rapped “If skills sold, truth be told/I’d probably be lyrically Talib Kweli.” In his book Decoded (see the Assault review), he elucidates: “[Kweli and Common are] great technical MCs, but there is a difference between being a great technician and a great songwriter.” This probably sums up the key flaw in Talib Kweli’s discography, and Gutter Rainbows is no exception. He’s always stunning verbally, but musically he lacks the direction to keep things interesting.

Gutter Rainbows is a good album; Kweli is too skilled to do something un-listenable. At the same time, there isn’t much new here. He’s as lyrically dexterous as ever, but Kweli feels like he’s on autopilot. He can still pack more words into a line more smoothly than many, but it always comes off as a tumble of ideas. The ideas are in a focused sort of tumble, but that makes it hard to pick a individual lyrics as highlights. Maybe that sounds like I’m complaining that it’s too much of a good thing, but Kweli’s albums sometimes feel less like a collection of songs and more like a series of verbal feats.

That would be fine in and of itself, if Kweli didn’t pad his albums with radio-friendly beats that bog down the music. So Gutter Rainbows gets songs like “Mr. International,” a sort of touring song that doesn’t sound nearly as convincing as his less pop material. Elsewhere, “Ain’t Waiting” sounds like a poor man’s Late Registration beat. These kinds of songs are slightly out of sync with Kweli’s natural ability. They make the album feel as though he’s stuck in 2001, trying to keep up with 2005.

In a lot of ways, Kweli’s style is a throwback to the early ’00s conscious rap. “Wait for You” feels like something that could’ve been on Quality. It’s one of the few pop concessions that works despite not being forward-thinking, musically. It’s a song that could easily boast Worldwide Underground-era Erykah Badu on its hook without being any better or worse. Another highlight, “I’m on One,” begins with a skit complaining about rappers who aren’t “Real MCs.” Who does that anymore, in a world where a guy like Lil B can be viewed as a legitimate rapper? Thankfully, the song itself comes hard over a Beastie Boys sample, giving Kweli room to flex his skills at boasting.

Songs like “I’m on One” form the backbone of Gutter Rainbows. The title track, in particular, overflows with wordplay and ideas (“You say you blast a .44 you don’t shoot/More like you shot me an email but forgot to attach the vocals/Call ‘em a bastard like their dad a no show”), ferociously establishing that Kweli is still formidable on the mic. His highlights aren’t just limited to battle raps; “Tater Tot” is a high-tension narrative about a down and out war vet that adroitly uses the rhythm to wind up the suspense as the tale unfolds.

Unfortunately, these moments don’t happen throughout the duration of Gutter Rainbows. This album catches Kweli halfway between coasting and trying too hard to be something he’s not – in short, in the same position he’s inhabited since The Beautiful Struggle, arguably since Quality. Even when he’s in his wheelhouse, a song like the dour “Cold Rain” sounds like water-treading preaching. At the same time, the same skills that made him one of the hottest conscious rap emcees can still light some sparks. It’s no better or worse than any of his music since The Beautiful Struggle, which means it’s a confident, passable rap album unlikely to win new converts.

Casual.

That’s one of the most astounding things about Neko Case’s talent: there is something casual about the way she uses her voice. There’s no strain to her belting; it’s just a natural, relaxed singing that happens to a powerful, soulful tool for expressing the emotions within the song it’s singing. It’s notable in an age where American Idol hopefuls are still belting “At Last” with every last bit of power they can muster, breaking any semblance of a tasteful use of melisma to prove how “good” they are at singing. So, it’s both astounding and refreshing that Case gets her point across while always sounding like she could, conceivably, tear down counties if she went at full blast.

But she never does, letting the songs shine just as much as their singer. it’s fitting, then, that Case’s concert at the Calvin Theatre in Northampton on Friday was casual, like a group of musicians who happened upon the venue and decided to play the set. She and backup singer Kelly Hogan joked and riffed off each other’s personalities while Case and the rest of her band struggled against the cold weather to keep the instruments in tune. Still, it was a professional show, from the opening note of “Things that Scare Me,” not embellishing on studio versions but offering a rundown of some of the finest American roots rock of the past ten years. The proceedings had a relaxed vibe throughout the show; there’s not much showmanship from the band. Just standing and playing – but they played great music well.

The set leaned heavily on Case’s last album, 2009’s Middle Cyclone, culling nine of the fourteen songs on that album. Otherwise, the band evenly distributed songs from Case’s other efforts (not counting The New Pornographers). This worked out in the show’s favor, as much of the Middle Cyclone material is Case’s most propulsive, giving things a natural momentum by the time the main set ended with “This Tornado Loves You.” That still left plenty of room for slow-burners like “Margaret vs. Pauline” and “I Wish I Was the Moon,” each given beautiful renditions. The encore hit a high point with the Gospel rave “John Saw That Number” before the show faded out gorgeously on “Star Witness,” showcasing Case and Hogan’s beautiful interplay.

Case’s Anti- labelmates Lost in the Trees opened the show with a set that echoed the staid forlornness of Arcade Fire’s quieter moments. Their strings-and-roots-rock approach felt like a shyer, but more bombastically orchestrated complement to Case’s set. Plus they danced out with a dinosaur skull puppet during their first song. And ribbons. But seriously, a dinosaur skull puppet.

When I first read that Conor Oberst was going to reunite Bright Eyes for a sci fi-themed concept album, my eyes rolled so far back into my head that I choked on them. I had grown less and less enamored with Oberst’s work after the uneven but occasionally brilliant double-whammy of I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning and Digital Ash in a Digital Urn and gave up on him altogether when he released his mostly underwhelming solo albums. I had little to no hope that Bright Eyes’ return would be anything other than completely disappointing.

I’m happy to say that I was wrong. The People’s Key is surprisingly enjoyable despite sounding in theory like something a teenager would have thought up while smoking weed and reading Dianetics. Oberst rocks harder than he has in quite a while, and Mike Mogis brings his production bells and whistles back to the table for an album at sounds every bit as ambitious, if not more so, than Digital Ash in a Digital Urn. In fact, The People’s Key sounds very much like a follow-up to that album, both in production style and lyrical content.

Oberst has never lost his panache for a catchy turn of the phrase, even when he was writing music I wasn’t particularly into. “I used to dream of time machines,” goes one line in the song “Approximate Sunlight.” “Now it’s been said we’re post-everything.” Hearing lines like that, I’m reminded of why I liked his music so much in the first place. It wasn’t just that he was a sad sack, which I could totally relate to; he was a sad sack who was more adept than anyone this side of Elliott Smith at singing about his sadness. He was putting my own feelings into words that expressed them better than I ever could.

Elsewhere on the album, though, Oberst’s pretention once again reminds me of why I started growing weary of him after Lifted. As his lyrics grew more obtuse, I found I could no longer relate to them as much. “Little Hitler sat in his giant’s chair and dreamed of nowhere,” he sings in the laboriously titled “A Machine Spiritual (In The People’s Key).” It’s kind of hard to take a line like that seriously, and Oberst sings it without the merest hint of irony or playfulness.

In the end, The People’s Key doesn’t quite measure up to Bright Eyes’ earlier work, but on its own merits it is a pretty solid album. Oberst has matured as a songwriter since Cassadega, and the result is a collection of tracks that is more consistent even if it’s not any less pretentious and self-serious. Those hoping for a return to angst and introspection are going to be disappointed here, but with the right expectations The People’s Key is an entertaining listen.

Bright Eyes:

• MySpace
• Saddle Creek
• Last.fm
• Conor Oberst

Drive-By Truckers should be considered in the pantheon of the greatest bands of all time. The Dirty South was a wonder, and Decoration Day and Brighter Than Creation’s Dark both rank among the very best albums that I’ve ever heard. They’re a dark combination of Lynyrd Skynyrd and The Rolling Stones, and they’re better at storytelling than either. They followed 2008’s sprawling Brighter Than Creation’s Dark with The Big To-Do, a straightforward, rocking album that, while very good, failed to give much of a reason to listen to it over the three albums I’ve already mentioned. Lead Trucker Patterson Hood’s lyrics were captivating as always, but they lacked the magic and passion that I’ve come to expect. The Big To-Do was a very good album, but from a band that’s often phenomenal, being simply very good is frustrating.

Less than a year later, they’re releasing Go-Go Boots, which was written alongside The Big To-Do, but unlike that album, their patented triple guitar attack isn’t constantly used. In fact, it might not be used at all. I love that sound, but its absence is a blessing, really. It allows us to pay more attention to the songs themselves rather than just appreciating their loud, awesome rock.

Maybe that lack of intensity makes it less apparent that there’s a top tier Truckers track here, but dig deeper and you’ll find something special in Hood’s “Used To Be A Cop.” On Brighter Than Creation’s Dark’s big standout, “That Man I Shot,” Hood used an explosive, violent song to better portray the horror of an overseas soldier who kills an enemy combatant and later empathizes with his victim. Where you had characters that weren’t as gripping on The Big To-Do, “Used To Be A Cop” is maybe the finest characterization exhibited in a Drive-By Truckers song. Hood introduces a man who’s lost his job as a cop thanks to mental problems beyond his control, which isn’t an occupation you expect the Truckers to glorify. Then the entire thing constantly makes you feel more and more sorry for the guy, showing you how his lack of size denied him a chance to go to college football, showing his glee when he found the only thing he was ever good at thanks to the police academy, showing him losing everything along with his job, including his wife, and finally having the poor guy staring into his old house at his old wife, dreaming of more secure times.

The title track, like “Used To Be A Cop,” is a dark, Hood-written song built around a groove, and songs like that give the album a badass vibe. That would be a good identity for Go-Go Boots, but on the other end of things, we find Hood being enormously positive. He outright flirts with cheesiness on “Everybody Needs Love” (“like the sun and moon and stars up above”), opens optimistically with “I Do Believe,” and gives us a big, happy chorus on “The Thanksgiving Filter” (“Thanksgiving is over/And Christmas is soon”). It’s wonderful when he’s quiet, too, like on “Assholes,” an “us versus them” song that would fit right on The Dirty South.

Mike Cooley’s such a faultless songwriter that it’s almost not worth talking about. He kills it here as always, particularly on “Pulaski,” but what interests me is Shonna Tucker’s role in the band. Jason Isbell, ex-Trucker and her ex-husband, kept pace with and often even surpassed Hood and Cooley, but Shonna Tucker songs are wonderfully built melodies accompanied by less profound songwriting that work as breaths between breathtakers. Songs like “Home Field Advantage” and “Purgatory Line” helped pace Brighter Than Creation’s Dark, which is quite important when you’re dealing with a nineteen-song album, and they were utilized similarly on The Big To-Do. Tucker’s given more room to breathe than, say, George Harrison, but it’s always seemed like she’ll forever be the third man, so to speak. Until her final song on Go-Go Boots, it feels like she’s being kept that way, but the chorus of “Where’s Eddie?” has her gaily shouting the title in a way that signals that she wants to be heard, damn it. Shonna Tucker isn’t Mike Cooley or Patterson Hood, and my guess is that she never will be, but it’s becoming increasingly more fun to watch her try.

Go-Go Boots is definitely not as good as Decoration Day, The Dirty South, or Brighter Than Creation’s Dark, but I would say that it’s their next best, and considering the quality of their second tier albums, that’s saying quite a bit. When an album by a legendary band is less than phenomenal, the most important thing that it needs to do is give you something that the rest of their discography can’t, and Go-Go Boots does everything necessary to keep itself from being eclipsed.

James Blake is in a wonderful position heading into his full length debut. First of all, thanks to his three critically acclaimed EPs (The Bells Sketch, CMYK, and Klavierwerke), he’s got hype coming out of the wazoo. Seasoned veteran electronica artists Flying Lotus, Four Tet, and Caribou all came out with albums in 2010, and James Blake, a British newbie, got more attention than all of them. Secondly, he’s not going to rest on the laurels of his EPs. None of the eleven songs from his EPs make his self-titled debut. He doesn’t give into the temptation to include the heralded “I Only Know (What I Know Now)” or “CMYK,” my favorite track of his, to be certain that his album has a standout single.

Of course, that’s not the only way in which James Blake is daring. Often during his EPs, songs failed to entirely materialize, and that trend continues on the album. He opens “Unluck” with a simple chord progression done with electronic buzzes and a simple beat, and he barely adds anything. He makes songs, yeah, but it’s disarming to hear just how little he needs to do so, and he sometimes doesn’t do enough. Take “Lindisfarne I” and “Lindisfarne II,” each basically the same song, except the backing tracks on each could respectively be summarized as “almost nothing” and “barely something.” The contrast makes “Lindisfarne II” sound oddly grand despite there being little to support it. It’s a neat little trick, but you need to awkwardly sit through “Lindisfarne I” for it to work, and that’s dangerously close to listening to two minutes and forty three seconds of nothing at all.

He’s got all the tools for success. His soulful voice, which works very well for his cover of Feist’s “Limit To Your Love,” helps carry the album, and discovering in Klavierwerke that he liked to fiddle around on a piano helped expand his bag of tricks: Use very little electronics and use very little piano. The first half tends towards the former, and after centerpiece (and compromise between the two approaches) “Limit To Your Love,” it tends toward the latter. “Limit To Your Love” actually feels like a complete song, probably because it originated as one, but its buildup is expertly pulled off, and this song will probably no longer be remembered by history as a song by Feist.

Another spot of savvy is “The Wilhelm Scream,” whose descending “falling, falling, falling” (or whatever else) line is a brilliantly crafted melody, and what little backing there is helps to make the song sound more alone and sparse. That would probably be the greatest strength of Blake’s relentless minimalism. Each of his songs are so pained, so he makes it sound like he’s too shy to do anything more.

In mid 2009, The xx came out with a fully realized set of songs employing less as more. Now James Blake, who has explicitly drawn influence from his fellow Brits, is trying to do the same thing, but more radically. James Blake is nothing if it isn’t challenging (and it sometimes feels like almost nothing anyway), and its reckless minimalism isn’t something that he should stop. He’s got ambition. He’s taking chances and making mistakes, and I hope his vision isn’t compromised. James Blake leads me to believe that he might be the genius everyone thinks he is, but even the smartest still have a lot to learn.

That simplicity offers its own substantial rewards is the premise upon which The End Of America have built their debut album, Steep Bay. Three musicians sick of the road and modern life, the band decamped to a cabin in the Adirondack Mountains and used a battery-powered recorder to capture the mellow folk jams they wrote there. The result is twenty minutes of fairly pretty, but ultimately inconsequential, mood music that would be a lot more impressive if so many other good bands hadn’t gotten their first.

The majority of these nine tracks feel like Fleet Foxes’ first drafts, filled with delicate finger-picked guitar and smooth harmonizing. It’s not at all unpleasant, and far be it from me to discourage bands from stripping down the veneer and letting their songs breathe. It’s just that these songs are awfully slight – musically, they’re sketches, and it would take lyrics a good deal more insightful than what’s offered here to make them truly compelling.

Still, though: Steep Bay isn’t worthless. It’s a noble effort, and tracks like “Running” and “The Hardest Thing” offer refreshingly honest takes on growing up and attempting to engage with a confusing world. Going out into the wilderness and communing musically with nature was probably good for The End Of America, and they’ve created a solid foundation for future releases to build upon. Steep Bay, for all it’s good intentions, just isn’t captivating enough to make listeners ignore the underlying lack of real substance.

The End Of America:

• Bandcamp
• Facebook
• Reverb Nation

Jay-Z’s (Shawn Carter’s) life story, an American rags-to-riches story, is so well-known, one must wonder why he decided to write Decoded (with Dream Hampton ghost-writing), but the effort is surprisingly worth it. Speaking from a personal perspective, I expected to be bored by the events I knew about (selling drugs as a youth) or subjects covered by his music (actively cultivating a commercial style). The main draw, then, would be the annotated lyrics printed between biographical chapters. Surprisingly, this was not the case; all of it adds up as an enlightening read. Decoded works as a gateway drug to Jay-Z’s world, but more importantly it has arguably more to say about hip-hop in general.

Of course, the book is rooted in Jay-Z’s life. It’s divided into sections that follow roughly chronologically -- emphasis on “roughly” -- mixing Jay-Z’s life with his reflections on an event or time period’s effect on his art, then following up with an examination of his lyrics. The biographical bits are the most worthwhile. Namely, the times when he delves into how various hip-hop artists influenced him give insight to his approach. Maybe the sections about Run DMC’s toughness are nothing new, but the descriptions of early Big Daddy Kane shows that leave their mark on Carter’s live shows to this day are fascinating. It’s the introspection that really gives this book a boost. You don’t expect that from a rapper whose singles tend to lean on braggadocious tones. Of course, there are reflective sides to Jay-Z’s music, but not nearly as plainspoken as you find here.

Some of that rumination comes out while he explains the lyrics to several of this songs. Unfortunately, the annotated lyrics feel dry sometimes. When a line in “Can I Live” is explained with a note saying “In this line I turn a noun, bread (meaning ‘money’), into a verb, toast (meaning ‘shoot’), which draws out the relationship between money and danger,” it’s professorial. The ghostwriting comes through, even if it is instructive. Later there are a series of footnotes on “Moment of Clarity” that explain the details of his complicated relationship with his father and how the first verse tries to make sense of his death. These notes have a personal edge that outshines mere explanation of details. When they do that, the lyrics complement the biographical chapters. His stated goal is to illustrate how hip-hop lyrics are storytelling and poetry, and the overall approach is successful. Otherwise, it bogs down an otherwise compulsive read.

Success is a predominant theme throughout Decoded, and it lends the book a smirking tone that is actually kind of winning. Of course, if you married Beyonce, you’d be allowed to get a bit cocky, too. Even when telling his side of his assault charges, he drops info about how much sales of the jacket he wore when he was arrested spiked. There’s even an entire (unexpected, but interesting and welcome) chapter about his relationship with Bono. It’s these detours that give Decoded the kind of strong personalization that can be both endearing and grating, depending on where a reader stands on the subject of Jay-Z.

Decoded is strong enough to convert some people who might not be Jay-Z fans initially, though. The scattershot approach to chronology lets things organize into themes that fit the lyrics that get highlighted. It’s when someone else’s voice comes through that problems arise, and unfortunately these points are glaring. As just a thing to look at, though, it is wonderful -- filled with pictures and art in the margins and background. It feels like a textbook, and in a sense, it is. Ultimately, Decoded is one of the better intellectual cases for hip-hop as an art form.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=zxtn6-XQupM

Talons, a six-piece instrumental outfit from Heresford, UK, play a mish-mash of post- and math-rock that’s entirely more satisfying than it has a right to be. The ingredients here are not new: heavy riffs, complex poly-rhythms, an air of compositional self-seriousness that would be grating were it not properly earned. But the band has a secret weapon in their arsenal that separates Hollow Realm, their debut album, from all the other noodley clatter out there: shamelessness.

Instead of retreating from bombastic cock-rock signifiers, Talons openly embrace them. The way the eight tracks here surge ever forward, scaling heights of orchestral majesty that would make weaker bands whimper, is pure power metal – this is instrumental music that you don’t have to be an egghead to enjoy. There is nothing abstract or over-thought to Hollow Realm‘s appeal; you can bang your head and air guitar along. While most instrumental post-rock stays parked on the proggier side of the rock ‘n’ roll parking lot, shooting twelve-sided dice, Talons have set up camp a little closer to where it smells like weed and the cars don’t have exhaust pipes.

That’s not to say this is stupid music; it must’ve been incredibly difficult to write and perform. It’s just that, instead of playing complicated stuff for the sake of impressing the two guys in the room with music degrees, Talons have found a way to make their material viscerally exciting. There are real emotions percolating here, drawn out by mournful violins and then obliterated with guitar solos that would make Dave Mustaine lose his faith in Jesus. Hollow Realm requires no “…for a first album” qualifiers – it’s just plain awesome, in the most literal sense of the word.

Talons:

• Official Site
• MySpace
• Top Shelf Records
• Big Scary Monsters
• Purchase on iTunes

There’s not a lot of info to be found on Secret Knives on the Internet. There’s a MySpace page, a Band Camp page, and the band’s website, but they all focus on one thing: the music. On one hand, that’s kind of refreshing in a post-Twitter environment where everyone feels the need to overshare everything. On the other hand, it makes it kind of hard for an amateur music journalist such as myself to get some background on the band. Luckily, my intrepid editor Oswald Hobbes used his New Zealand connections to dig up some info.

The “band,” at least in recorded form, is actually just one guy: Wellington-based Ash Smith. Affection is entirely a labor of his love, from the Conor Oberst-esque vocals to the echo-laden guitars, piercing synths and jarring loops. The sum of all these parts is tremendously moving music that takes elements of shoegaze, post-rock, and bedroom electronica and forms them into something unique and exciting. Smith has a tremendous amount of talent, and it’s a joy to hear all the different ways it manifests itself on just a single track. Album stand-outs “Black Hole” and “The Garden” have such a full sound, brimming with all the aforementioned elements, that it’s difficult to believe that it’s just one guy making all of them. It might all be overwhelming if it weren’t for the occasional palate cleanser, like the “Treefingers”-esque “Future Wave.”

Some of the tracks cut out a little early, almost as if Smith went so big that he wasn’t quite sure how to close the deal. That can make the album seem at times as if it didn’t quite come out fully-formed. As a whole, though, it’s such an enjoyable album to listen to that it’s easy to overlook that one flaw. Smith occasionally performs his material live with a backing band, although apparently that’s not a frequent occurrence. It would be interesting to see what he could do with that band for future recordings if he goes that route, but in the meantime his current material is available for free at any of the three sites mentioned above. If you find yourself liking it as much as I did, you can donate some money and get some swag in return.

Lungs wins 2010’s “Most Fitting Title” award, as Florence & The Machine wisely focuses on lead singer Florence Welch’s singing, a blast of soul-inflected power bombarding your ears in the most pleasant way possible. It’s a positively enviable trait, one that on its own would probably set her apart from various other female singers to come out of England in the past decade or so, like Amy Winehouse, Duffy, Adele, etc. etc. Thankfully, she developed a sound that is significantly less derivative of classical soul, giving her an instant leg-up over the competition.

That voice is a gift, enough to have instantly taken breaths away when they played “Dog Days Are Over” at MTV’s VMAs. That’s the big hit. showing up on all sorts of soundtracks and film trailers and whatnot. Unfortunately, it’s the most bracing song present on the album, but their first single, “Kiss With a Fist,” shows another side of Florence’s approach. “Kiss” owes something to garage rock. It’s scrubbed of the grime, but paired with Florence’s vocals makes for an effective mix.

Generally -- on “Dog Days,” for example --  the album leans towards gently ornate rock music. The instrumentation is highly detailed, plunking pianos, strings fill every song at about the halfway point, compared to their generally quiet beginnings. “Rabbit Heart (Raise It Up)” uses this approach to become a galloping anthem each time the chorus hits, creating a sparse juxtaposition next to the chorus. The track basically begs for an electronic remix thanks entirely to its energy.

Arguably the greatest drawback of Florence & The Machine’s approach is that the performances are powerful, but they feel mannered. Never do the quiet moments feel moving, and the louder parts aren’t cathartic. There’s a very studied air about much of the music when it tries to feel tortured, such as on “Girl with One Eye,” a story eye whose emotionality is obscured by bombast. It tries to build up angrily, but Welch delivers a dry performance that’s more like an imitation of indignation rather than an expression of real defiance.

But overall, this is an agreeable collection of songs. I just can’t get invested in it as more than background music. “Dog Days” and “Kiss with a Fist” are more than worthwhile and show that there’s plenty of potential here for the band to stretch out into various directions. Toward the back end things get a little same-sounding, as the band tries to pulverize you into caring about songs that don’t have the effortless pull of “Dog Days,” but the first half is the sound of a band with some kick to it.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWOyfLBYtuU

Florence & The Machines:

• Official Site
• MySpace
• Last.fm

Smith Westerns’ self-titled 2009 album was full of good songwriting buried deep in distracting lo-fi, and the T. Rex comparisons were even stronger back then. Their singer and songwriting already sounded like Marc Bolan, but on “Girl In Love” their guitars did, too. The problem with Smith Westerns is that no matter how good of an album they make, I’ll be comparing it to Electric Warrior and The Slider. Fortunately, with Dye It Blonde, Smith Westerns have made a very good album. They’ve polished it up and made it sound dreamier and more anthemic (so basically they got…even closer to T. Rex). It’s frustrating that Smith Westerns’ formula is rooted almost solely in the sensibilities of other bands, especially because they’re so talented, but they don’t help themselves in that respect.

Dye It Blonde kicks off with a phenomenal track, “Weekend,” built around an adorable central thought: “Weekends are never fun unless you’re around here too.” With the way that last word rings out, it’s the first huge chorus of many on the album. Smith Westerns have no problem making themselves endearing, creating the image of a boy longingly looking into his girl’s eyes and telling her to stick around more. With that playful opening riff, the cutesy “na na na na na, a girl like you,” and those glammy guitar flourishes, “Weekend” echoes The Beach Boys along with T. Rex, and it highlights all of the album’s strengths.

The album would feel slight if this was their only approach, though. They boldly title a song “Imagine Pt. 3” and earn it, and they end two songs with titular, arms-in-the-air chants. “All Die Young” is particularly brilliant, and its “All die young/When love is love and when you are young” marks the album’s climax.

It’s hard to think of Dye It Blonde as particularly substantial, because Smith Westerns borrow their sound from so many places: T. Rex, Mott the Hoople, The Beach Boys, The Beatles, Electric Light Orchestra, and on and on. However, they’ve put together ten grand songs, each backed by sweet sentiment. Listening to Dye It Blonde along with Electric Warrior and The Slider, the album is a success in that while Smith Westerns might follow their early glam idols too closely, they live up to T. Rex’s golden years. It’s a musical direction that you might wish Bolan had taken.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=roUxwXHHW3A

Smith Westerns:

• MySpace
• Twitter
• Last.fm

You’d be forgiven for thinking that Tapes ‘n Tapes died years ago in a semi-tragic bus crash -- victims not just of the typical blogosphere backlash that claims 75% of all buzz bands but also (and more importantly) a wholesale flipping of the cultural script, they’ve been keeping an extremely low profile. No longer are Pavement sprawl and Pixies energy viable selling points or reasons for any particular excitement. In the wake of both bands’ repulsive cash grab reunions, such affectations feel depressingly old hat.

But Tapes ‘n Tapes are not dead, and they’ve just released a new album. With Outside, the band rejects the bigger sound and spacier arrangements of their previous effort (the unfairly maligned Walk It Off) and instead begin slowly evolving the dynamics of their earlier, better-loved work. It’s a lateral move, but not necessarily a bad one. Outside sounds resigned in a distinctly non-sad way -- a solid indie-pop band, basically as good as their hooks, Tapes ‘n Tapes play a distinctly low-stakes game. But the hooks here range from competent-to-inspired, and that’s enough to make the endeavor mostly successful.

The record begins with “Badaboom,” an arresting rhythmic work-out that thrillingly erupts, at semi-regular intervals, into super-melodic blasts of guitar and hollering. It’s a promising tease of suspense and drama to come, but the following songs are hurdles: seventeen long minutes until you reach the first single. That song, “Freak Out,” might be the group’s best yet -- threading the dulcet melodies of their mid-tempo material with the skittish muscle of their dedicated bangers. But first you must wallow through the drowsy Tex-Mex horns of “Nightfall,” the forced whimsy of “One In The World,” etc. All of the material is spirited, but little of it is genuinely exciting.

However: the back half of Outside offers considerable pleasures -- the playfulness is dialed down, the emotion ratcheted up. In “The Saddest Of Keys,” frontman Josh Grier sounds like he’s howling at the moon. “People You Know” is ear-worm catchy without grating. And “On And On” throws wind-chimes into the mix, because that’s what kinda party this is. Outside hews closely to the sound of the band’s super-winning debut (The Loon) but it’s similar in a much more important way: these are perfect tunes for sitting on your balcony and drinking wine. There is absolutely nothing to think about once the music stops. And while that may be a dealbreaker for the more cerebral among us, analysis and depth have absolutely nothing to do with the success of Tapes ‘n Tapes. They always have been, and always will be, a fun band occasionally capable of striking powerful emotional chords.

Outside won’t change anybody’s mind about Tapes ‘n Tapes. But for those who never hopped off the bandwagon, it’s an exceedingly welcome treat.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=RBv82B6bF4k

Tapes ‘n Tapes:

• Official Site
• MySpace
• Last.fm