Deerhunter: Halcyon Digest (2010)

(4AD)

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

So I'll tell you right off, cover art's not something we'll be discussing much around here because that's what design blogs are for. But take a good long look at that album cover above. See it enlarged here. Bizarre as it sounds, the image defines this recording almost frighteningly well. Its classicist, very old and ghostly atmosphere; its deceptive mystery; its infinite distance from our or any reality; but its tangible sampling of something that was once an actual moment. The viewer is compelled to consider all of the record's themes before s/he even hears it -- memory, loss, unrequited want, and the dreamlike haze of passed years -- or knows the title. Take the song "Basement Scene" as a theis statement; sounding like a great, scratchy old record heard from many rooms away somewhere deep inside another apartment or room, it effortlessly beckons those introspections. That night, that look in his or her eyes, the reason we didn't do this or that, and then the real reason we didn't do it.

When you look at that picture, you're seeing a man named Dennis Dinion dressed in drag for a 1982 pageant at an Atlanta venue called the Star Lite Lounge, which closed the following day. According to this (the source for all of what I'm telling you, so I hope it's accurate), Dinion was a substitute teacher by daylight. Years later, the Star Lite became a sign shop that once employed a man named Bradford Cox. Around two decades after this photo was taken, Bradford Cox formed a band called Deerhunter.

Deerhunter is a rock band that plays rock music, not "ambient punk," the term they seem to prefer, at least not anything that can be pared down to "ambient punk," or "ambient," or "punk." The only word that isn't overly reductive for them is "rock." Their stock in trade, depending on your perspective, is either a grasping at classic, emotive pop form from within a fuzzed-out bubble or a grasping at abrasive heat and release from within the framework of classic, emotive pop songs. I say the latter, because the feather-touch pop hook on "Memory Boy" sounds not the least bit labored, nor does the straightforward and reflective garage sound of "Coronado," but does it really make a difference? Halcyon Digest sounds like night time. It has the mystery and intensity of actions taken, hedonistic or desperate, that will result in who knows what after sunrise. The key to its enigma is surprisingly simple: Deerhunter is hardly emotionally aloof, it's just that the feeling is all in the music, not the vocals, which are cool and disaffected, unfazed by the enchanting kicks of joy from a room full of guitar persuasion. But there's beauty in the casual. Witness the way it tempers the high punk rock drama of "Desire Lines" until it begins swimming in circa-Bunnymen college jangle pop; the song ends up teeming with life, demanding to be revisited.

Although the band's chosen to open with their strangest offering here, the dynamic stop/start slow burn "Earthquake," this isn't experimental music; it's an experimental recontextualization. Even "Earthquake" ultimately is a warm bath. If you buy the notion, which isn't entirely unbelievable, that all the core ideas of rock & roll were explored by 1969 and most of them by 1959, and that we've just been refining and delving deeper in those same ideas ever since, then Halcyon Digest won't persuade you otherwise. Like the Walkmen's Lisbon and Hot Chip's "Slush," it is 2010 recorded music that is built from 1950s ideas. Plainspoken expression, sure, but to be more specific, Deerhunter here tackles not just doo wop, like both the Walkmen and Hot Chip, or Sun Records, like the Walkmen, but lush mainstream pop and country, even a shade of lounge and Beautiful Music, somehow a symbol of all of the faraway importances and expired sensibilities that seem so gently acknowledged and lampooned by the gentleman on our LP cover, in turn an artifact of a now equally vanished time and place.

If there is a dot to connect here from some dusty pile of 78s to now, it is Television's first two albums, Marquee Moon and Adventure. Indeed, "Fountain Stairs" could nearly pass for early Television, offering Verlainesque lyrics, apathetic collegiate vocals, earnest chiming, and those aural city lights, while "Sailing" sounds like a missing link between Adventure and the band's calm, beautiful 1992 comeback album: the minimalistic and focused intensity, the oceanic sound, the infinite restraint cast off by a subtle heaviness of thought. Television's followers insisted they were a punk rock band; leader Tom Verlaine insisted he was a poet. But the theoretically harsh, angular noises they made that fell so sweetly on neo-street corner songs like "Prove It" and "Careful," as though they had always been there, presented the idea of rock not as a continually evolving singular beast but as a vernacular in which to operate, a forever-renewable resource. It is for this reason that Deerhunter is not retreading, they are revisiting, and with a heavier heart and more beautiful baggage than ever before. "Don't Cry" could be a sequel to "Prove It," but in every heavily reverbed note is a gorgeously expressed sadness. The chamber-intricacy and John Lennon vocals of "Revival," with its persuasive but easy Brit-Invasion or Motown beat, could have existed at any point in the last fifty years and is thus provided with a feeling of an infinite life.

That Hot Chip song is an interesting comparison because of the odd emotional solidarity it suggests between doo wop and adult-contemporary soft pop. The way Deerhunter pushes Television's instincts is by conjuring up memories of a subgenre that didn't yet really exist at the time of Marquee Moon: dream pop. Electronics and ancient pop collide with the Smiths and the Jesus & Mary Chain on "Helicopter," in many ways the emotional climax of the record. The closing "He Would Have Laughed," a dedication to recently deceased friend Jay Reatard, is an wailing epic of sad elation that belongs in some classic Truffaut film, or rather in the Walkman of a film appreciation student circa 1987 who loves Truffaut. Deerhunter has historically carried elements of shoegaze, but this album uniquely casts two forms of long-past decades as a mutually reliant life soundtrack, a rationalizating, categorizing of the past -- a wistful and pressing desire to comprehend and cope with it. Perhaps the reason that Halcyon Digest feels so universally magic is that not one of us isn't familiar with that feeling. Moreover, the album begs to become an ingredient in that cataloging. I can't think of a higher compliment to pay than that when I hear this music, I flash back and re-score my life with it. It couldn't feel more right, and I bet an armload of 45s that the same is true for you.

Twin Shadow: Forget (2010)

(4AD)

RECOMMENDED

Call it chillwave if you like, but we appear to be in the middle of an '80s revival. Although this record remains obscure enough that it lacks even a Wikipedia entry, it shares with the more celebrated Before Today by Ariel Pink (reviewed below) a firm foothold in a sound that ten years ago seemed entirely passé but has now established itself as a mark of indie bands at all levels of popularity. The question of when this began is somewhat interesting and merits a brief tangent.

No pun intended. Most folks will probably remember a band of pseudo-goth poseurs called Orgy who made chart hay out of a ponderous cover of New Order's "Blue Monday." That was 1998. Three years before that, an independently released record called Get Lost by the Magnetic Fields self-consciously aimed for a fusion of the '80s ironicists Pet Shop Boys and ABC with classicist pretensions toward Cole Porter and the Brill Building. The Fields' preceding record, their first with wide distribution, was a brilliant synth-country experiment called The Charm of the Highway Strip which must have sounded at the time like a deliberately incongruous revival of out-of-date keyboard noise. In fact, Strip was recorded in 1988. It sounded like a tribute, but it was really the genuine article, in a similar universe to the seldom-acknowledged fact that the first version of the Beatles formed in 1956.

By the 2000s, the Magnetic Fields were celebrated as a national treasure and signed to a major label. Near-mainstream bands like We Are Scientists were scoring hits with backward-looking singles aping the mid-'80s production style of music that was in its heyday considered too "pop" for the underground scene. Dance and club music, never far from the '80s spiritually (Depeche Mode and Pet Shop Boys have remained peerless hitmakers in that genre long after the peak of their mainstream popularity), began to consciously, unguility revisit the feeling and spark of two-decade-old synthpop hits. Hot Chip and LCD Soundsystem's hip revision of PSB and OMD was followed by the still-massive Madonna's direct acknowledgement with singles like "Hung Up." The four biggest bands in indiedom owe debts obvious (Arcade Fire reincarnates Depeche Mode and U2; Death Cab for Cutie's biggest hit is arguably a rewrite of DM's "Enjoy the Silence") and subtle (Vampire Weekend stakes its career on their audience's memories of Paul Simon's Graceland, whether they will admit it or not; the Shins emerged from three-year shadows this year with an able cover of Squeeze's "Goodbye Girl").

The point being: the music of the 1980s, particularly synthpop and alternative, is well-mined territory. But it is unusual for it to be approached with the sort of lyricism and vocal capabilitiy of someone like Brooklyn's Twin Shadow, real name George Lewis Jr., a Dominican Republic-born singer-songwriter with a tentative, sweetly lilting voice and a major burgeoning talent of the new, non-lo-fi lo-fi -- think of it as minimalistically created music with aims for high-level pop impact, the idea put across by Stephin Merritt on Highway Strip all those years ago. Twin Shadow's debut album, produced by Chris Taylor from Grizzly Bear, is essentially a sophisticated variant on New Romantic synthpop, with extra production shades of New Order, Suicide, Tears for Fears, the Go-Betweens, Josef K, the Cure, and of course PSB and DM. His sweetly sad dabblings in the field are quite appealing, but the reason to hear this record is its more warm-blooded qualities: the singing and the lyrics are what to watch for here.

On the very indie opening track, "Tyrant Destroyed," equipped with a slow ominous build, the words reveal an unexpected fragility: "As if it wasn't enough just to hear you speak / They had to give you lips like that / Like all of your sadness reduced to a color / Then painted upon... / How could I forget you / And who was I to think that on a Saturday night / That you would really bike home alone / And the way that I left you / Just hanging on Sundays / Let fair skin boy take you home." On the soft rock drone "When We're Dancing": "I am trying to remember all the things that I've known / They all shine soft and stand alone / Like I picture you waiting at the end of a bridge / But it's hard for me to render all the things that we did." The outwardly confident, cyclical "Yellow Balloon" reveals a gorgeous aching: "In the pines we learn to speak / Bend your knees, forget to breathe / If you hear your mama calling, get away from me... / Secret handshakes, the swimming hole / Keep awake, and we will not grow old."

None of these have music to match the depth of emotions in the words, even though Lewis sings them beautifully. They are buried under nostalgia that may or may not be part of the story but doesn't feel nearly so necessary as he probably thinks. He could get away with far less embellishment, and his songs would benefit for it. The sepia tone that the throwback sound adds only really clicks on two songs. "Shooting Holes at the Moon" is a masterful big-beat evocation of choppy 1986 production, vocally and melodically suggesting Echo & the Bunnymen or the Smiths. The persuasive melody of "Castles in the Snow" is enhanced by perfect self harmonies; its period-piece echo cacophony is entirely in service of emotion. The same can't really be said of something like the new wave retread "I Can't Wait"; the Talking Heads/Information Society pseudopop of "At My Heels," driven by what sounds like a toy drum machine; the shimmering 1980s wall of sound of "For Now." These come off like retro trips burying ideas that are far more interesting.

Part of the reason I can't fully buy the final product, as enamored as I am of some of its elements, is that I think this sort of pop production was built for hook-filled pop singles; Lewis reveals himself, sure, to be a master of the pop sound... but not so much of the pop hook. "Tether Band" has the sound of a buried Depeche Mode album track but feels at times like a semi-shapeless meander through synth noise; yet again, the intimate vocals feel completely out of place, hovering above and beyond what surrounds them. "Slow" convincingly suggests Hot Chip, "Forget" is a singsong Prince slo-jam with requisite college rock lite-droning in the manner of Beach House, but neither song matches its window dressing particularly well. This is fun to a point as a sort of exercise, but it's also distracting.

My diagnosis is this is too goddamned polite. Twin Shadow has the potential to be a giant if he just lets himself go a little bit. He has a powerful, sensual voice with ample emotional capability. I firmly believe he has some brilliant music in him and that we'll be hearing a lot about him in the next few years. And I'm willing to bet that'll be because he lets go of some of his attachment to the admittedly wonderful music he and I both listened to and loved growing up and strips this material down to its core. It is more than worth the effort. Take away the gimmicry and you have eleven outstanding songs here. Ariel Pink may have worked up genuine magic from a regeneration of the past, but that's his gift. Twin Shadow's gift is writing subtle, sorrowful songs about loss, memory, and regret. Forget seems inexplicably determined to divert us from noticing that. Fear of embarrassment might be the one thing holding this possible future master back from transcendence; I can't wait to find out.

The-Dream: Love King (2010)

(Def Jam)

RECOMMENDED

There is a moment on this record that almost made me spit my cereal all over the poor drywall: It's a song called "Yamaha" on which the young R&B master writer/producer The-Dream embodies the Purple Rain era so perfectly, emulating not just the sound and vocal inflections (note fucking perfect) but the songwriting -- if not the lyrics -- of a classic Prince album cut to such an extent that I was sure I'd pressed the wrong button. You can chalk this up as cheap or crass, but anyone who wishes Prince's '80s output was a bottomless well -- in other words, most anyone with any damn sense -- will find it hard to deny that their pulse starts to rush for a minute there. Holy shit, it's 1984 and there's new motherfucking Prince. If I had nothing else to thank The-Dream for (and I do), I thank him for that feeling.

The-Dream is on his way to being a Quincy Jones figure, having cowritten and coproduced some of the most earthshaking crossover hits of the last half-decade, chief among them Rihanna's propulsive "Umbrella" and Beyoncé Knowles' universal "Single Ladies." Either of those is enough to place him firmly in world consciousness, but The-Dream is also a solo artist who sings silky-smooth, frankly sexual slo-jams with an unusual depth and a mild avant garde bent that places him in underground sympathies. The-Dream probably doesn't take himself as seriously as peak-period Prince did; he's more likable and guarded. But he's also less honest, and is more fond of calculated risks than the unfiltered kind. The human cracks of this enjoyable, occasionally brilliant LP are hidden under a haze of trickery and at times even routine.

Which isn't to say you won't dig Love King; its weaknesses are nearly invisible if you take it a bit at a time (it runs 54 minutes). Listen to tracks one through four, or five to nine, or ten to twelve, and you'll have hearts floating above your head. If you're alienated by modern R&B, I'm unaware of any writer and performer who can make an easier time of converting you, convincing you that soul expression has never lost its sophistication and delicacy. Let's pretend Love King is three extended-play records and see how it goes:

EP #1 is the most dubious, opening with a song that spells out its title in the chorus and namedrops "T-mobile" while introducing an insanely annoying gimmick of a throaty, slowed-down Dream vocal reiterating or rambling along across both channels. T.I. provides the record's major cameo on the extremely silly, musically generic "Make Up Bag," a not-at-all-sexist lecture of sorts explaining that the best way to win a lady back after you've fucked her over is to simply buy her very expensive foundation. It reminds me vaguely of the Contours' "First I Look at the Purse" and does employ the classic image of a woman swearing at The-Dream while wearing only panties. The highlight of these four cuts is easily "F.I.L.A.," a remarkable layering of menacing synth wall and syrupy R&B with a "pursue her / do her" rhyme and the hook-filled elated feeling missing from lots of romantic jams. "Sex Intelligent" comes harder; its choppy, robotic grind and light Parliament suggestion are agreeable but feel too studied.

That's one of the problems with Love-King -- its many good ideas are spread too thin. A song like "F.I.L.A." or "Abyss" or "Yamaha" or "Turnt Out" is overflowing with tricks and mad tinkering, while other songs and moments fade into nothingness. One thing undeniable: The-Dream's way with a hook is staggering. Even the weakest songs here will break the will of the most resistant sooner or later. One only wishes he was always working at the level of which he's capable and was less easily seduced by superficial gimmicry. I also have to object to the widespread declaration of The-Dream's music as raunchy or somehow notably explicit. The guy revolves a whole song around not wanting to say "fuck"; this is tame as shit mostly, and I think it would be stronger if it weren't. The-Dream often doesn't seem to be going quite as far as he wants to. He says he'll never be a pop star, he's too raw, but nothing here feels raw enough to start or end a career to me. His lyrics are clever, sure, often ingeniously minimal ("I'll never be the face of a magazine"), self-effacingly funny ("I know this may sound stalkerish..."), and, okay, sexy ("Are you one of those girls that mean 'go' when they say 'stop?'") but he's generally singing politely about vanilla sex, which doesn't strike me as the subversive act that's been depicted.

EP #2, as we're calling it, opens with the baffling retread "Sex Intelligent Remix," best ignored. After we fire into overdrive with "Yamaha," "Nikki, Pt 2" is one of those "ideas" songs; it lives up to Eno's old notion of vague music with its lilting string/synth backdrop and a sort of shapeless vocal with its share of absurdities ("You fuckin' with you fuckin' with you fuckin' with my house"). "Abyss" does a better job of carrying the momentum with a trance or house layer over some fuck music, a kissoff venting session with a powerful chorus. And "Panties to the Side"... well, let's wait a second to talk about this one.

Why do I think The-Dream sounds like a faker even though he explicitly states otherwise? ("If you get tired of fakin' it, call me.") Because he sounds defensive, for one thing; there's less love and romancing here than conquering, and conquering indeed based on an outdated girl-in-every-port romanticism. He's all about the pursuit, like Leisure Suit Larry. The-Dream's love life has also been plastered on tabloid covers enough that we know he's not exactly the "love king," not that it would matter except his estranged wife is Christina Milian. Can I admit here I had kind of a crush on her? He shouldn't do her wrong, man, and if he's so smart about love and shit -- which is all this fucking record is about -- well, what the fuck, dude? Why am I talking about this here? Where are my notes? Oh, here we go...

The final EP catapults us onto 1997 urban radio as envisioned by David Lynch. "Turnt Out" brings us The-Dream's killer falsetto and offers a near-guarantee of involuntary movement. The bangerness of it all is aided by the crazy production which features dense detail and much ticklish, subtle and unsubtle aural tooling. "February Love" we'll address in a moment. Closing track "Florida University" is more than dumb -- it's dumm. Cee-Lo does this kind of thing better and he doesn't have the shirtless golden boy voice that makes the whole enterprise inexplicably disturbing.

Regarding "Panties to the Side" and "Febraury Love" and disregarding the feeling of joy transmitted on contact by "Yamaha," what we have here are two brilliant songs, brilliant so far beyond everything else on the album that the rest of the party gets overshadowed. "Panties" opens with a sample of the MGM logo and bursts into a unique fat-synth dance with whispering fucktalk and apocalyptic autotune; a million ideas from almost as many eras of pop music fire at the bystander, and for once, Dream taps it all with lyrics worth the explicit tag. But "February Love," with its jazzy movements, its perfect integration and dismantling of current trad R&B production, its opening city wastescape by piano, its otherworldly haze, its adorable degenerate harmonies, its sheer unmistaken liquidity... this is the stuff The-Dream is made of, and I want more of this unbridled invention. Possessed with the ability to work within a chosen idiom while shoving the outside-imposed limits aside without so much as a shrug is the mark of some serious fucking artistry. I bet there's more to back it up; can't wait to hear it.

Midnight Juggernauts: The Crystal Axis (2010)

(Siberia)

[2019 note: Who knew I still had so much growing up to do nine years ago? Cheerfully pulling this out for an end-of-decade revisit, I found that my taste for its particular schlockiness has faded away. I can still hear the disco charm in some of it so I'm not putting it below RECOMMENDED status, but all the same, it's not something that's likely to be a big part of my life going forward. However, I'm letting the enthusiastic old review stand in case others who agree with it may come into contact, in which case I hope they won't be disheartened by my revision.]

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

A pretty big part of me assumed that 2007's excellent Dystopia was the furthest this Melbourne space-synth collective could ever go, and honestly, the very existence of the followup fell completely under my radar -- not because I wasn't interested but because their North American following (and distribution) is next to nonexistent; I accidentally discovered the record was out during a Wikipedia binge. So three months after its release, I put this on expecting the same sort of quirky, operatic, trashy electro stuff we got the first time around. Instead, I get what can only be termed dance-prog, an album of shuffling beats, giddy pretensions, and mammoth largeness that counts as one of the most persuasive, addictive throwbacks of the year (next to fellow Aussies Tame Impala). The record is surprising, sure, but the operative word is "fun." For all the melodramatic underpinnings the Juggernauts may share with Muse or the Killers, their music has a levity their U.S. and U.K. peers lack -- you can sense them grinning through their most over-the-top numbers -- and the busy, cataclysmic result is simply a blast to listen to.

It had been a while, so in order to compose an informative review of Crystal Axis I returned to the Juggernauts' full-length debut to verify that my suspicion was correct: this new album is far more varied, and though it contains fewer guaranteed dance-club enliveners, it comes across as more fully realized and consistent. Most songs on Dystopia were cut from a (most agreeable) cloth, and the record strung the listener along on a quest to find which slight variant on the formula worked best. The Crystal Axis makes some essential case for itself as a full-fledged, no-skipping, no-shuffle, surrender-completely LP. It also reveals a distinctive identity, one that could sit well with most, falling halfway between the proto-alternative soundscape of synthpop and the ambitious goofiness of progressive; that probably sounds terrible, but it's not. The record only loses my patience for a few seconds during "Virago"; virtually everything it presents is enjoyable at its core, and most of it comes equipped with a post-modern cheekiness that packs the space between the beats and reinforces the ultimate indie-rock idealism of regular, literate guys making nutty noises 'cause they wanna.

Indeed, "The New Technology" by itself has more variance and texture than the entirety of Dystopia, and it's one of the least impressive tracks, a telling detail because it's great: engaging drum hook, bleeping keyboards that would make 2010 Sufjan Stevens jealous, expressive and enthusiastic vocals by Andrew Szekeres, and a menacing but pleasingly harmonic breakdown. Szekeres is a major asset to the Juggernauts' unorthodox sonics, a mixture of analogue and digital creation that lends all of their output a certain gurgling fog, with his able, low-key warmbloodedness that occasionally suggests Matt Berninger fronting a Depeche Mode tribute.

The straightforward but joyous technoplay of that cut and "Cannibal Freeway" are as routine as this record gets: Disregarding two appropriately disorienting bits of linking material, we have ten tracks arranged in one of the smarter sequences I've heard lately. The album is arranged to build up to, between, and from two obvious peak points. The first is the four-alarm, balls-to-the-wall single "Lara vs. the Savage Pack," an instant classic that might take the mantle of Nastiest Dance Song of the Year from Crystal Castles' "Empathy." Nothing on Dystopia, not even the psychotic "Nine Lives," pulls out all the stops like this for pounding disco that retains a confident rock bent; the band's performance is batshit off the rails, but Szekeres makes it: his casual surfer-dude vocals offset the heaviness to hottest, tightest perfection; all he gets in return is to brush the magic pop bliss button.

The other peak also showcases the Juggernauts moving completely beyond their prior work; "Wheels of Fortune" feels a bit like a lost Ian Broudie song. It's bouncy mass-appeal pop, and although the band filters it through their typical Cure-gothic textures, they are unafraid of the songcraft and of putting all their energy into selling the "reach up, touch the sky" chorus as an unironic celebration. It's so unexpected that the excellent composition itself is nearly beside the point.

The Crystal Axis doesn't attempt to match these two strokes of near-perfection, it just crafts a sort of aural narrative to lead to, from, around them. This works in the record's favor as a listening experience by giving it a three-act structure of sorts. The Juggs introduce themselves as a baggage-free and less self-absorbed Interpol with the heroic disco-bent opener "Vital Signs" then begin to sweeten the new wave sound and concede a total banger with "Lifeblood Flow." Later on, when "Lara" has just left the speakers shaking, "The Great Beyond" feels like a minor letdown, but its smirking tension and moody, heavy groove fall into place quickly enough. The easing of intensity is necessary to lead into the more playful second half.

"Virago" is the kind of contradiction post-punk fans used to live by. It's a dread song, a drug song, but it's textured, playful, funhouse-mirror glam. And what I can make out of the lyrics is some shit about zombies, so... By "Dynasty," when the band's winding down for the night, they're just goofing around, but their goofoffs are more than merely charming. They feel like other bands' standouts; the track's almost Goldfrapp-esque '80s nod and hook-filled chorus are entirely convincing, and "Fade to Red" offers the '80s as filthy and hyperemotional as they are in your head. Ingeniously recorded, it's teenage angst on wax, the finest and longest-lived of all rock & roll traditions.

This is the way I wish it always worked -- the fun album you carried around with you three years back blossoms into something that convinces you that its progenitors have more to say and you'll still be there to hear it. This record's testy, shaky vibe comes off feeling mostly like a celebration of testy, shaky vibes. And that's the kind of art I want in my music.

Wavves: King of the Beach (2010)

(Fat Possum)

RECOMMENDED

I really didn't want to enjoy this stupid record. Is that a terrible thing to say? Wavves' primary personality, Nathan Williams, comes off as a lifeless, unoriginal fucktard -- the kind of slacker that mainstream press was agog over in 1992 or so -- to the point that I wrote off his music before I even heard it. But as with peers and pals Best Coast, Wavves work in a vernacular that I'm sorry to say is dear to my heart. If anything, they're even more explicit about it, going so far as to sample the Crystals. King of the Beach, the most high-fidelity Wavves LP thus far, is too much of a pleasure for my cynicism to win out.

Back in January when someone told me surf-rock, perhaps the most antiquated of all subgenres (and one of my most beloved), was making a comeback, I scoffed; between this, Best Coast, and Surfer Blood, I'm starting to see their point. And not just because of the warped pothead "Wipeout" quote that opens "Idiot." These young bands don't operate in the surf music language as originally understood; Wavves really owes more to Blink 182 and Weezer than to Dick Dale, but the indie-surf acts have a command of rock & roll legacy as emotional vehicle that would have once doomed them to the power pop bargain bin ghetto. In a world of blog promotion, that isn't so, and a band like Wavves with a unique bent on established ideas can go much farther.

Of course, the reverse is also inevitable -- the populism of the internet allows some true wank to push its way into our consciousness. Wavves and Williams give us a representative slice of online-made rock stars at their best and worst. Worst because the vocals are tired and uncharmingly lazy, the songwriting lacks bite and a creative voice, and the celebration of apathy -- lots of lines about not giving a shit (seriously, not one but two songs with that as the chorus) about anything except, of course, weed -- is dullsville straight out of a shitty gen-X marketing campaign. Best because, goddammit, this is fun as all hell to listen to.

The first couple of tracks come bursting out like some cartoonish hits from modern rock radio circa 1999; I lived through that once and don't really want to again, so King of the Beach doesn't really win me over until the Ronettes and/or Jesus & Mary Chain ripoff that opens the restrained, echo-drenched, minimalistic "When Will You Come," which sounds like someone's having a field day in the best popworld -- it sounds like youth, the beach, all that wonderful stuff. The weird stereophonic spaced-out surf craziness continues with "Baseball Cards," which sounds like nothing else, and "Convertible Balloon" which sounds like Blondie but is still spectactularly executed. Even the Pixies-lite "Linus Spacehead," ELO-heavy "Baby Say Goodbye," and Green Day-cloning "Green Eyes" are solid tunes, well and fully produced. But it's the remarkable "Mickey Mouse" that suggests Nathan Williams might actually have something to teach if he ever wakes up fully. Built entirely on a sample of the first couple of seconds of "Da Doo Ron Ron" and boasting one of the wettest, most body-bursting drum sounds I've heard on record, it is the groove to beat here and is easily the best reason to hear this album.

Summer's over now, so this can't soundtrack yours unless you're in the southern hemisphere, in which case have at it. The rest of us can give in to the undeniably seductive popcraft and hookery in play here. Or we can get persnickety about how if Nathan Williams doesn't seem to care about the music, why should we? Or we can listen to Surfer Blood, who add a surrealistic bent and some genuine lyricism to the neo-surf trend, more Pavement than Blink. Or we can shut up and let this dunderheaded pop music beat us over the head. It feels good. Just leave before it does any permanent damage.

Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti: Before Today (2010)

(4AD)

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

We think of lo-fi as a crucially uncommercial music. But why? So many of us have been drawn to, say, Daniel Johnston because of his skill with a melody much more than the tape hiss screaming across his recordings. Avant garde wunderkind Ariel Pink has taken this a step further with the ambitious studio recording Before Today, a dreamlike hybrid of radio songs and private eccentricities that acquires the immediacy, the familiarity, the New of the finest rock albums through its defiant preoccupation with sounds.

Sounds that we recognize and unite with are captured here with what almost seems like an attempt to encapsulate the idea of alternative rock music in a skewed, theatrical rundown of its various tangents since the mid-'60s. Nearly every track sounds like the almost-forgotten radio soundtrack of someone's emotionally aching high school nights, but all from different years, and yet all with perversely the same underdog sensibility. But lo-fi it remains, yet the intention now seems to be quite specifically to make aged music, sounding distant enough in time to become explicitly surreal. The result is gripping and often surprisingly (gorgeously) sad, conjuring up memory and loss.

We're not made of stone around here, so let's play Connect the Dots with alt-rock and Ariel Pink's LP: The roots lie in '60s garage-rock, represented here by a magnificent cover of the Rockin' Ramrods' "Bright Lit Blue Skies." Skip forward to the years of disco and '70s power pop and we receive the Fleetwood Mac-esque "Round and Round," the record's highlight, which is saying a lot. A jazz-fusion / funk / reggae interlude allows the instrumental "Reminiscences," while UK and NYC punk get their due with "Revolution's a Lie" and the insanely accurate "Little Wig" (a dead ringer for Richard Hell and his original collaborators, Television) respectively. Opening track "Hot Body Rub" suggests disorienting, throes-of-death ska. The completely convincing "Fright Night (Nevermore)" absolutely nails new wave circa Orange Juice and Gary Numan. The lite-funk synthpop of "Beverly Kills" successfully mixes '70s Talking Heads with '80s pop excess, captured even more expertly with the brilliant soft rock burlesque "Can't Hear My Eyes." After that, take your pick: tricky underground post-punk ("L'estat"), mid-'80s college-indie ("Butt-House Blondies"), ingenious goth rock ("Menopause Man").

Quite a voyage. It's difficult to even point to standouts, the record is so consistent, except to mention that "Hot Body Rub" is dubious, "Round and Round" is one of the loveliest, most arms-raised feeling-infinite celebratory songs I've heard in a long time, and "Fright Night" will endanger the lives of anyone hearing it with a temporary and violent urge to be a teenager during the 1980s. All of these historical notes and ideas are filtered through a busy, hazy soundscape, evocative of a four-track tape partially copied over, that gives them crucial idiosyncracy. It's also obvious that the record was enormously fun to record and create -- you can't hear the attention to detail in "Can't Hear My Eyes" without smiling -- but that wouldn't be possible without Ariel Pink's careful, restrained songcraft and cleverly casual lyrics. He's composed these songs not for the intellectual thrill of a trip down sonic memory lane but to form the soundtrack to a heightened life we'd all like to live. The album is about the secret associations that come with all music; because it sounds like a forgotten mixtape, it presents the urge to peel away layers of mystery to find the life underneath.

For someone who grew up on the same music and attitudes as Ariel Pink, it is bound to be a surprisingly moving experience -- it's not derivative beacuse the songs are so good, the approach so singular -- and I'd wager you can plant a given song from a mixtape of actual period music corresponding to its conceit without even a slight suggestion that it doesn't belong. The winding melodies and affectionate singing (plus those lush, powerful backing vocals) could work without the context Ariel Pink lays down, but why resist the world he's invented and cribbed when it feels so good to live in it for forty-five minutes? For someone who didn't grow up on Joy Division and Love & Rockets, the result might be even more profound: this isn't our music, as much as we might have longed for it to be at times, but in this setting it suddenly is ours, all the late nights and subtle connections and fading laughter that "Round and Round" might've soundtracked in 1982 can unequivocally belong to those who weren't born in time. What's more, as hard as this music hits you instantly, this emotional depth unfolds over repeated listens; you'll find yourself growing ever more attached to this as you spend time with it, which is saying a lot for something that requires no great leap to begin with.

The music Ariel Pink makes here may not be the most original you've heard in 2010, but it is among the most heartfelt and impressive. And the guts from whence these noises arise, the breathlessly excited manner in which they're presented, these are what makes Before Today one of the most rewarding releases of the year. Do whatever you gotta do to hear it and immediately equip your vehicle with it for the next night drive in your life.

Curren$y: Pilot Talk (2010)

(Def Jam)

HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

A relatively overlooked New Orleans MC who's meandered around from label to label for the better part of the last decade releases possibly the best hip hop record of 2010? I can get behind that narrative. But Curren$y's own ample skills aren't the bulk of what knocks this one out of the park. Pilot Talk owes much of its instant impact and feel of just-above-underground innovation to producer Ski Beatz, known for placing a sonic stamp on Jay-Z's first few albums; as smart and fast-paced as Curren$y's rhymes are, the virtuosity Ski Beatz brings places this record a cut above with his bent-backward live-band noise but allows it to retain the modest, low-key feel of a mixtape.

Those who doubt that rap has anyplace new to go as it enters its fourth decade would do well to start with the breathlessly vibrant "Breakfast," one of the top jams of the year for sure. Originally produced by Mos Def (who guests elsewhere) for a mixtape, the track is fleshed out now by Ski Beatz with a full-band arrangement that presents jazz-rap as never before, fusing a lonely trumpet with an undeniable beat and an onslaught of clever Curren$y lyrics ("illegible letters in my ledger they can't read 'em"). It moves so fast and cuts out so early (less than three minutes) it will leave you spinning around with a total-WTF expression. As often as this territory has been mined, "Breakfast" somehow comes off as a new angle. And that's merely the tip of the iceberg, the opening of the curtain to everything that will follow.

What initially won Curren$y a cult following, going all the way back to his Young Money days, was his pot-stoked, laid-back flow; his preoccupations are weed and airplanes, and the metaphorical collision of both (note "Skybourne," which is like an airline commercial for smoking up). But what will expand that cult here and hopefully on the sequel (out in two weeks) is the backdropping of his obsessions with expansive, intricate live band work. Most of the songs are still built from loops, but Ski Beatz brings in lush enhancements that suggest all manner of emotions but still persist in pounding with "the potency of the beat." Once you give the record a chance and hit the seventh cut, Pilot Talk does not relent until the end, offering a superb seven-track run probably unmatched by anyone else in any genre this year.

That's not to say the first half doesn't have its keen offerings: "Audio Dope II" is uber-trippy grind and chaos like a video game from hell, as offbeat and fascinating as anything on the album. The others can't match up to that but you'll hardly object to the 1980s neo-soul feel and fiery electric guitar of "Example," the nifty electro-backed but overly plodding "King Kong," and the misterioso kaleidoscopic (with cool guitar loop) "Seat Change," which makes perhaps the most of the pilot metaphors of anything here, dragged down only by a routine Snoop Dogg cameo. "Roasted" is the lone actual dud, and it may be victim of sequencing; its flute dirge is a letdown after "Breakfast," plus it wasn't produced by Ski Beatz and it shows, although the anti-Minute Maid diatribe in Curren$y's verse is significant: "I'm enjoying a lemon press, not that Minute Maid crap / They squeeze the lemons they selves."

All the cuts I haven't mentioned yet? All fucking dope. The most conventional, commercial-sounding track you'll find here is "Prioritize," which proves Curren$y's star power; his calm delivery makes it shine. Everything else is left-field and nutso, from the stoner-techno of "Life Under the Scope" to the intense, over-the-top choral disco of "Address," but exemplified best by the 1-2 punch of "Skybourne" and "The Hangover," both smooth funk/lite-jazz jams with tight-as-fuck grooves and relentless drums that stand up to circa-'96 Roots, both about getting high ("Gotta have eight lungs to come puff with me"); "Hangover" even has an Alfred Hitchcock namedrop. If these don't get you moving even a little bit, attend the nearest UrgentCare. Melodic basslines and intelligent, unassuming lyrics are the only consistency; everything else is up in the air, so you can land on the fucking alien ship of "Chilled Coughphee," driven by a wickedly wrong piano line into a classic disorineting late-'60s rock & soul sound (think an even more warped Betty Davis) as easily as the anthemic hip hop celebration "The Day," with brilliant guest turns by Jay Electronica and Mos Def, bringing it back to the fresh old school and alternative rap at its absolute best.

The guest verses in general are impressive, but part of the reason Pilot Talk is such a massive success is its minimalism -- the songs are mostly short and unencumbered with skits and club pretensions; only three songs exceed four minutes. This is precisely why I find myself responding to Pilot Talk the way I wanted to respond to Big Boi's album, which was often delightful but was fattened up with too much sagging nonsense and went on forever. Immediacy, charm, intelligence, and some of the truly new killer sounds of our time will make Curren$y's Pilot Talk a classic star turn. People are missing out if they haven't gotten around to it.

And finally, confidential note to Island/Def Jam: Release this motherfucker on vinyl, please. Thanks!