Welcome to the newest edition of The Underdog, Way Too Indie’s monthly exploration of great, under-the-radar releases not receiving that much coverage elsewhere. This month’s selections are all exciting in their own special ways, and if these words aren’t enough to convince you, feel free to check out the clips below each album!

If you’re on Spotify, you can follow along all year as we add to The Underdog’s playlist to constantly be sampling some of 2015’s best indie music.

Ava Luna – Infinite House

“Do you appreciate my company?” This is the first question posed on Infinite House, the third album from Brooklyn five-piece Ava Luna. Over the course of the album, the band’s frayed, spastic fusion of post-punk, R&B, doo wop, and Dirty Projectors-esque experimentation ensures that the answer to this question is a strong, unequivocal “yes.” Its eleven tracks display a tighter, less erratic version of the “nervous soul” Ava Luna advanced on 2012’s Ice Level and 2014’s Electric Balloon without sacrificing the quirks and idiosyncrasies that earned this group their small but intensely devoted fan base. Carlos Hernandez can still wail and yelp like few others, as is clear on “Tenderize” and “Best Hexagon”, but on Infinite House, he spends more time crooning soulfully and delicately, as on “Black Dog” and “Roses and Cherries.” Likewise, Felicia Douglass’ creamy, romantic vocals carry over to “Coat of Shellac” from Electric Balloon highlight “PRPL,” and Becca Kaufman’s words continue to be oddly memorable, anchoring trippy adventure “Steve Polyester” quite nicely. Infinite House may be more streamlined than the two albums preceding it, but it’s still a grand experiment, one that answers another question it poses. “Does that resonate with you?” Hernandez shrieks on “Tenderize,” and once again, the response is an enthusiastic “yes.” (You can read our review of Infinite House here.)

Avid Dancer – 1st Bath

Jacob Summers wants you to dance and to stop playing with his heart. He thinks all your words are gone and wonders why he left you behind. On 1st Bath, his debut as Avid Dancer, he weaves stories of universal familiarity with music that’s just as widely appealing. Standard instrumentation, tempos, time signatures, and melodies comprise this album, but the music interests at a level above this normal line. It’s a collection of pop songs at heart, but more than that, it’s a gathering of poignant memories set to endearing sounds. The intertwined vocal harmonies and springing acoustic guitars of “Whatever’s On Your Mind,” for example, don’t invent any new tricks, instead employing all the old ones to create a genuine piece of music. Elsewhere, the African percussion and milky flow of “I Told You So” entices fragrantly within previously established musical confines. Songwriters’ desires, let alone Summers’, have rarely sounded so reasonable.

American Wrestlers – American Wrestlers

Familiarity can curse or bless a piece of music. For Gary McClure, who records lo-fi psychedelic pop as American Wrestlers, the fact that his songs sound like you’ve heard them before ensures their power. The static hiss of his self-titled debut recalls all manner of other acts, and his voice sounds like someone whose name you can’t remember despite knowing him well. The intimacy of his songs further enables them to strike a chord, and their finer details take second fiddle to a general state of tranquility and delight. “I Can Do No Wrong” wrings resonance out of a deceptively simple arrangement, and “Cheapshot” buries shoegaze classics underwater to surprisingly wonderful effect. Traveling all this well-trodden territory may not bring any explicitly new discoveries to light, but being happy with what you’ve got is easy when it’s presented so dearly.

Boosegumps – : )

Among twee pop’s strongest charms are it’s incredibly brief songs and adorably minimal arrangements. : ), Heeyoon Won’s newest release as Boosegumps, uses these two qualities splendidly. It compresses eight songs into twenty-two minutes without sacrificing wit (a song here is titled “March Sadness”), and its bedroom recording ensures its friendly familiarity. The album sounds like it’s emitting from small speakers in the opposite corner of the same room in which it was recorded, and allows listeners to feel privy to the recording process. This intimacy endows beautifully dim songs such as “Fade Away” and “Art of Losing” with a bright glimmer that guarantees their resonance, and further emphasizes the already peppy tones of “Forever” and “Disappear” with greater sunshine. : )‘s vocals only rarely dictate the mood and direction of its songs, but the smile of the album’s title bestows upon it a welcoming feeling throughout.

Jessie Baylin – Dark Place

It wouldn’t be too gross an exaggeration to claim that Jessie Baylin’s voice distantly echoes the deepest parts of Christine McVie’s vocal register. This compliment is indeed a grand one, and the folk and jazz influences of Baylin’s ghastly, moody, spacious tunes on Dark Place ensure that the impressive Fleetwood Mac comparisons don’t end there. “White Noise,” for instance, might be Rumours‘ “Oh Daddy” if it were conceived with today’s recording technology. Beyond this one reference point, though, Baylin’s third album emulates the most downcast of all 1970s music; specifically, it possesses warm and lush, yet ominous, soundscapes and husky, crestfallen vocals. These qualities might allow it to be mistaken for a lost document of that era, but that’s not to say that Dark Place is only valuable for novelty and nostalgia purposes. The songwriting here is plainly affecting, turning phrases like “You are my light, you are my everything/I die in your arms, yeah, that feels nice” (“Lungs”) into arrows to the heart. Baylin may have needed to travel to a Dark Place to get her message across, but her journey was clearly quite worth it.

Losergroove – Bananacrusis//Euphoriac//Rodent Noise//Fleur

NYC’s Losergroove released four EPs in the summer of 2014, and re-released them all as one remastered collection this month. The diversity of the music contained within this collection isn’t a mistake; it’s a gathering of four distinct releases living under the same roof. Every three songs, a new EP begins. Bananacrusis is arguably the most country-leaning one; Euphoriac seems to revere shoegaze and dream pop idols; Rodent Noise expands Euphoriac‘s reach into the freak-folk realm that acts such as Grizzly Bear have traversed excellently; Fleur finishes the journey with a fuzzier take on Euphoriac‘s goals. The second EP, then can be seen as the album’s cornerstone, but each has its merits, and gathered into one nicely flowing album, they all take on new lives, allowing for wonderful listening as one cohesive whole.

The Muscadettes – Side A

The possibilities of what one can do with a reverb-drenched electric guitar may be endless. Faced with this statement, two options are available: experiment like hell, or stick with what you know. Montreal five-piece The Muscadettes, led by a pair of twin sisters, choose the latter option to great success; operating in the same surf rock vein that’s guaranteed listeners for acts ranging from the Beach Boys to Best Coast to The Drums, they craft innately appealing, insanely catchy songs that require genuine effort to dislike. Without innovating or bearing any sort of pretense, they sonically channel clear blue skies and crisp, crashing waves on Side A‘s five tracks. Centerpiece and single “Pearl and Oyster” serves as the best example of this craft: its opening guitars attack with layers of echo and overdrive without sounding cheesy or overdone, and its vocals sound seductive without appearing insincere. “I’m a ripple on your subconscious,” begins the song’s second verse; after only a short time, so too becomes Side A. (You can read our review of Side A here.)

Pale Blue – The Past We Leave Behind

Mike Simonetti left his role as a top player at record label Italians Do It Better to found both new label 2MR and IDIB-sounding outfit Pale Blue. The Past We Leave Behind thus seems like a very deliberate album title, although musically, it’s incredibly retro-gazing too. As with much of Italians Do It Better’s output, it borrows from the Italo disco trends of kraut-like synth loops and ominous bass lines so popular in the 1970s. “Dusk in Paris” steadies itself on the push and shove of a repetitive, thick, digital undertow, and hosts Lower Dens’ Jana Hunter as a guest vocalist attempting her take on the genre’s frequent female lead vocals. “Distance to the Waves” features a more immediately engaging synthetic pattern that recalls Simonetti’s former labelmates Glass Candy, and “The Eye” sounds like it was accidentally left off one of Atari’s first video game scores. Although Simonetti has left parts of his previous life behind, he’s still fully wrapped in other aspects of music’s past.

Shana Falana – Set Your Lightning Fire Free

A few too many critics have complained that there isn’t anything left with which to experiment in shoegaze, but Shana Falana is proving them wrong. Set Your Lightning Fire Free, her newest album, splices roaring guitar work with drums so reverberant that they might be influenced by African and tribal rhythms. The album shifts the weight of the psychedelic experience to the percussion, a rare technique in a genre so reliant on the guitar to bear its emotional heft. “Anything,” arguably the most distinctly shining song present, pounds away with percussive precision; “Second Skin” breezes by on thunderous drums. But when snares and cymbals aren’t doing the job, Falana’s guitar is growling just as potently; it defines the steady murk of “Go” and the blissful surges of “There’s A Way.” Falana often stages a battle between guitar and drums, and the loud rallying cries of each team imparts a blaring strength to Set Your Lightning Fire Free that makes the album undeniable.

Weed – Running Back

They’re not named after the drug. Rather, this Weed refers to weeding people out of your life, and removing all negative influences from your existence. Given that they write music in a shoegaze vein so frequently trodden these days, it’s great that they put extra effort into excising the haters. Yet they really needn’t do so; there’s a spark and a charm to their approach that distinguishes their songs from the countless other artists citing similar influences. Opening track “Muscles” is aptly named; its guitars cascade with a force and potency not that often felt in this genre, and its vocals sound far weightier than many of its’ competitors words. This strength continues throughout Running Back, an album that suggests that imitation can be just as captivating as innovation, and pulls off the uncommon feat of exciting from within previously established stylistic confines.

Music journalists (myself included) could learn a thing or two from The Muscadettes. This Montreal five-piece, led by twin sisters Chantal and Kathleen Ambridge, displays a full understanding of a classic but forgotten philosophy: Keep It Simple, Stupid. Their songs are straightforward and brief, qualities that assure a similar analysis from typically verbose, long-winded, pretentious music critics. Side A, the first of two EPs that The Muscadettes will release this year (hence its title – one can assume the second EP will be titled Side B), is incredibly bright, catchy, and uptempo, ensuring that its appeal is undeniable except to the most difficult of listeners.

The Muscadettes describe themselves as “raised on 60s surf and 90s grunge”, and these influences immediately manifest on Side A. The glorious crashing of warm waves on a humid, skin-scalding summer day instantly comes to mind when hearing the reverb-laden, explosive guitars that open “I’m in Love”, and thereby the whole EP. This song’s title suggests the youthful, buoyant romance its lyrics depict, a subject universal to early Beach Boys tunes in particular. That The Muscadettes so confidently and quickly echo arguably the most influential surf rock group of all time testifies to their hookiness and craft, a trait that continues into second track “Growing Pains.” Traveling even deeper into sunlit bliss is “Like a Wave”, a song that jumps out from the pack due to its slower tempo. This relaxation allows a more mature, romantic, and idealistic aspect of the Ambridge twins’ voices, musicianship, and lyrical themes to come into play. “Everything is clear”, the two harmonize during the song’s chorus. “Don’t wanna live in fear/of what we are feeling here”, they conclude wisely.

“Like a Wave” is quite obviously a metaphorical title, but figurative language only rears its head this blatantly once again on Side A. On key track and second single “Pearl and Oyster”, the album’s most memorable song, metaphors include “I’m a seashell living in your ocean” and “I’m a white pearl trapped inside your oyster.” The imagery works: the track is the album’s most memorable not merely because of its incredibly catchy melody, but also because of these words. That said, its sound does bear the band’s self-described 90s grunge influences more obviously than on most of the EP: its pounding guitars and bashing percussive groove reminisce far more clearly of bands like Jane’s Addiction and The Pixies than they do Dick Dale or, again, The Beach Boys. “Honey Let Go” is the other track here that makes evident The Muscadettes’ debt to the sounds of two decades ago: its guitars rip with even more overdrive and reverb than the rest of these tracks, a technique initially advanced as the 1980s gave way to a decade of Nirvana and a second wave of punk.

Some might complain that the lack of innovation on Side A frustrates or disappoints, but those listeners are missing the point entirely. The Muscadettes let the past inform their approach rather than merely duplicating the sonic template of their favorite acts. They were raised on melodic, catchy, guitar-based pop, and that’s exactly what they deliver on Side A. Let your guard down and go for a swim; The Muscadettes will enchant you from the shore.

Since their 2012 debut, the fascinating but not fully developed Ice Level, Ava Luna have pegged their eclectic, experimental, ineffable sound as “nervous soul.” This moniker proved quite adept in describing 2014’s jagged, frenetic Electric Balloon (one of last year’s best-hidden gems), but on follow-up Infinite House, anxiety makes its presence less known than ever before in Ava Luna’s career. Each of the band’s three vocalists spends less time in the manic, shrill sections of their vocal ranges, areas into which past releases dipped heavily; furthermore, these new songs’ rhythms, melodies, and harmonies tend to cut back on the complexities of previous works’ arrangements without sacrificing them completely. Nevertheless, Ava Luna haven’t ditched every one of their hallmarks: even though Infinite House may be Ava Luna’s most mature album yet, the zany, somewhat inscrutable lyricism that’s defined them to date still appears in spades here.

Where older Ava Luna songs such as “Sears Roebuck M&M’s” or “Calculus” thrill with jagged, agitated rhythms, vocals, and multi-vocalist harmonies, Infinite House‘s tunes tend to resonate via smoother, more linear rhythms and vocals. “Roses and Cherries”, for example, recalls the relatively muted Electric Balloon number “Aqaurium”, albeit with vocalist Carlos Hernandez exhibiting more restraint and control of his shaky, hissing vibrato and fretful expression. A pillowy acoustic guitar riff underpins Hernandez’ newly stable voice; when an electric guitar fill emerges later, it continues the song’s simple flow rather than pushing it in a more spastic direction as might happen on older Ava Luna tracks. Follow-up track “Coat of Shellac” also quite boldly rides a wave of sensual moderation, its spiny guitar parts playing second fiddle to the song’s soul-imbued bass line and not concealing it. Electric Balloon highlight “PRPL” seems in retrospect to have previewed this song, one on which vocalist Felicia Douglass displays what might be her most comfortable performance to date.

In general, Infinite House shows Ava Luna retreating into comfort, a move that might signal death for most bands, but instead ensures a more interestingly subtle third album for this five-piece. For instance, “Steve Polyester” bubbles past the ears without any sort of exaggerated features; the occasional doo-wop harmony or faintly whistling ambient noise, rather than an earth-shattering guitar blast, arhythmic groove, or piercing vocal wail, proves the most startling thing about this track. Final track “Carbon” also breezes by without intrusion while remaining gorgeous; its woozy piano foundation and harnessed vocal take indicate relaxation rather than angst. The title track wins in this category, though, as its low-key rumble feels like a lazy river against the backdrop of even this album’s loosest tunes.

Even when Ava Luna attempt to write in the fractured, pounding states they’re familiar with, they wind up with a distilled, less abrasive sketch of their old selves. “Tenderize” demonstrates that Hernandez hasn’t lost his ability to absolutely holler if he needs to, but far more often finds him resting at the midpoint of his impressive vocal range; furthermore, although its guitars bear that same past tendency to sound like an object slowly falling down a long set of stairs, they also don’t possess nearly as deep a barbed, frayed edge as Ava Luna is known for. “Black Dog” too attempts to reconcile the old Ava Luna with the new one, trading in a soft shroud of crooning and timid finger-picking for a window-shattering, overdrive-blasting guitar attack at its halfway point. As Infinite House songs go, it ranks among the most idiosyncratically Ava Luna songs present, yet it still feels impressively well controlled. “Best Hexagon” follows in sequence on the album, and this song’s steady rhythm, easily traceable harmonies and flow bear merely a sliver of past intricacies while impacting just as strongly.

The track that comes next, “Billz”, represents the most extreme moment on Infinite House, one that most vividly reminds the listener of Ava Luna’s background, explaining its role as the album’s first single. The pummeling roar of its introductory guitar riff gives way to a woozy verse of—you guessed it—nervous soul, which then leads to a melodically and rhythmically elusive chorus. The repetition of this song’s fiery introduction as its post-chorus relieves the tension of the chorus, a trick employed to great success many times in Ava Luna’s previous highlights. Its lyrics are no more decipherable; even reading its lyrics on Infinite House‘s Bandcamp page never fully elucidates the song’s meaning, although guessing it’s a statement about the worthlessness of a college degree in this day and age might not be a bad start.

The lyricism of Infinite House provides the most obvious link between the album and Ava Luna’s previous two collections. If the words on songs such as “Sears Roebuck M&Ms” and “Electric Balloon” felt completely arbitrary and stream-of-consciousness, then the tale of “Steve Polyester” is the dialogue of a comic book acid trip (“Shaped like a cockroach/he smells good”). Even on “Coat of Shellac”, arguably Infinite House‘s most tender moment, the lyricism delves into the abstract: “No not like the TV, whittle it away/sorta novel to stay largest and heavy, mountain full of clay”, hums Felicia Douglass in what’s otherwise an enjoyably standard love song. It’s likely that this approach has grown into an Ava Luna trademark to impart some sort of humor to their work, as evidenced in “Victoria”‘s graduation of the phrase “you’re no good, baby” to “you’re a no good, baby”; both statements alternate with the notion that “you’re everything I want you to be.”

Although Ava Luna’s lyrics remain weird and funny, their music is now the farthest it has felt from these descriptors thus far in their career. That’s not to say a song like “Company” isn’t odd and that its stuttered chorus doesn’t impart a slightly comical tone to its words; rather, Ava Luna employ greater moderation on Infinite House, a technique that portrays the band as newly level-headed without betraying their most exciting aspects. Soulful though they may still be, nervousness has become a thing of their past.

The first five minutes of Katie Crutchfield’s third album as Waxahatchee pass without the presence of any percussion at all. An initial reaction to this fact might be to declare Ivy Tripp extreme, but this neglects that Crutchfield’s previous album, 2013’s masterful Cerulean Salt, opened with two drumless minutes. Rather, this observation serves to emphasize that Crutchfield’s newest collection sees her expanding. It contains her two longest songs to date as well as her most uptempo tune yet, and introduces the occasional synth for the first time in her career. More notably, it displays Crutchfield transforming her already robust lyricism from an introverted, self-contained diary of heartache into a more hopeful and confident stance on life and love. In writing this sturdier, more wholesome poetry, Crutchfield has also given her voice a platform to drastically broaden its range from its formerly emotive but restrained state into a much more commanding, emphatic instrument. Indeed, Crutchfield has improved on all of Cerulean Salt‘s very small handful of flaws on Ivy Tripp, resulting in an effortless, vivacious album that still manages to feel as personal as her quieter past efforts.

Ivy Tripp opens with the guitar-and-vocals take “Breathless”, a five-minute song that, despite employing an instrumental setup in which Crutchfield is well versed, feels newly immersive for Waxahatchee, immediately suggesting the strength that Ivy Tripp enjoys over its thirty-eight minutes. “Under a Rock” follows, and wastes no time in showcasing how vastly Crutchfield’s voice has grown. “Maybe/you got/your head/caught in a ditch last night” beckons Crutchfield with a rugged vibrato previously unheard in her music. This song segues seamlessly into “Poison”, an album highlight infused with waves of sailing, shoegaze-like guitar work and tugging vocal self-harmonization. But these songs prove to be mere warm-up laps for “La Loose”, the first Waxahatchee song that might reasonably be described as dance-worthy , or even a summer song. Sure, the most basic of drum machine beats drives it, but the groove laid down here is undeniable, and the peripheral synthetic hum underlying Crutchfield’s potent vocalizations makes this the first time a Waxahatchee song is bound to incite listeners out of their seats rather than sinking them further into stillness.

“Stale By Noon” thereafter provides a necessary comedown from “La Loose”, its early-morning beads of —is that a xylophone?—allowing Crutchfield’s newfound optimism to properly shine through. Sandwiched between this song and similarly tranquil ditty “Blue” is the fuzzed-out stomp of “The Dirt”, one of the sunniest songs Crutchfield’s written to date. After this three-song stretch comes aptly-chosen lead single “Air”, likely the album’s best song and one of the year’s most poignant tunes thus far. Like the rest of Ivy Tripp, this song uses Crutchfield’s greater vocal range, confidence, and vibrato to great success and tells a boldly objective tale of a love lost; where it stands out from the pack, though, is in how deeply its sadness cuts. Its chorus is utterly crushing and heartbreaking, almost on the level of career highlight “Swan Dive”, and its placement on this album provides an incessantly replayable contrast to the otherwise more bullish tone of this album.

The melancholy of “Air” continues into the desolation of “<“, a song whose title derives from its chorus: “You’re less than me/I am nothing.” Back to back, “Air” and “<” represent the most explicitly glum stretch of Ivy Tripp, a fact that becomes immediately obvious when the sprightly “Grey Hair” follows. “Sugar, soda pop/songs play on the radio” may be the most jovial lyric Katie Crutchfield has committed to record, and the surprisingly merry piano line and gleeful vocal take outlining the song indicate that her joy isn’t accidental. “Grey Hair” leads to another shockingly sunny tune, one that recalls Crutchfield’s incredibly intimate debut, the acoustic lo-fi 2012 album American Weekend. This song, “Summer of Love”, may be the album’s weakest, which is acceptable given its resemblance to Waxahatchee’s earliest work. Its smiling acoustic guitar, the only element present other than some ambient haze, doesn’t properly support the hefty weight of her vocals. “Half Moon” appears next, and this song likewise refuses to regain the drums that “Summer of Love” ditched, but its pianos do manage to successfully reinforce Crutchfield’s voice.

Ending Ivy Tripp is “Bonfire”, a song whose lurching, haunting crawl of fuzz-laced guitar drone, looping bass drums, and softly muttered vocals doesn’t impact as immediately as the remainder of the album does. But this initially faint impression may be in part due to this song’s relation to Cerulean Salt; the restraint Crutchfield places on her voice here recalls the heart-on-sleeve familiarity of that album, a trait which is mostly eliminated here. But she hasn’t forgone this approach because it’s an invalid one; rather, that approach earned her the majority of her current fan base. With this context in mind, “Bonfire” grows, over time, into one of Ivy Tripp‘s finest moments, and its placement at the end of the album feels like a nod to listeners who have willingly gone with her new direction.

Not that doing so is in any way difficult. What Crutchfield hasn’t sacrificed in moving forward from her musical past is the specificity and emotional depth of her lyrics, and the jolt of her words feels like icing on the already delectable cake of this album’s sound. Rather than the past themes of complete hopelessness (“Swan Dive”), unsatisfying revenge (“Peace and Quiet”), and love-driven obsession (“Blue Pt. II”), Ivy Tripp details more mature outlooks on Waxahatchee’s oft-explored subjects. “I could stop praying for everybody/I’m just wasting my time/I’ll read your philosophy and get a new lease on life”, she decides on “Stale By Noon”; the confidence and thorough consideration of this statement is echoed in “La Loose”‘s understanding that “I get why you would long for your past.” Even more impressively adult is Crutchfield admitting to herself on “Grey Hair” that a certain lover may not be “the only one”, later following with the admission that her excitement has her “out of breath/I can’t slow down.” Just as her music is quite often newly optimistic, on Ivy Tripp, so too are her words.

From what Crutchfield has told the press, Ivy Tripp‘s shift in a more grown-up direction makes sense. “[Ivy Tripp] was the first record that I made as an adult, on my own,” she told The Le Sigh recently, a change that’s quite evident throughout the album. She also mentioned to The Le Sigh that writing this album took her much longer than her previous work (American Weekend was created, recorded, and mastered within one week): “It’ll take me hours to write like one verse,” she admitted. “I’ll just scrutinize every single word, and then I’ll go back and I’ll edit it, and a song will take me like weeks or months to finish, because I’ll want every single word to be perfect.” The effort shows: Ivy Tripp is not only Waxahatchee’s strongest work to date, but it’s also one of the past few years’ most comforting, affecting, and assertive analyses of love, life, people, and their problems. Growing up may be hard to do, but Ivy Tripp demonstrates how worthwhile the transformation is.

The past couple of Underdog features have begun with some sort of mini-rant about the lack of music that’s typically released from December through February, while also presenting the positive outlook that March tends to be a return to the normal, rapid-fire pace of album releases. This March proved no exception; whereas the past couple of Underdogs each had less than ten albums featured, since there just weren’t enough to find, for this edition, it was tough to narrow the crop down. It’s a complete reversal within The Underdog, one that should compel you to search for music beyond what’ll be written about here. Aside from the releases we’ll focus on this month, March has played host to many excellent off-the-radar releases; however, here are the ten that, to our ears, are the best.

If you’re on Spotify, you can follow along all year as we add to The Underdog’s playlist to constantly be sampling some of 2015’s best indie music. 

EULA – Wool Sucking

You probably didn’t know that “wool sucking” is a thing that cats do (Google it), which is exactly the point. EULA turn ordinary things into unsettling images, making some of the most eerie music in recent memory from just guitars, bass, drums, and whatever instruments or computers are responsible for the noise and creaking ambience surrounding their songs. These songs sound like they were recorded in a basement with barely any light, using just the most basic of technology, and this sense of dread pervades these minimal, encapsulating songs. “Like No Other” is a restrained post-punk yelp that reminds listeners why everyone used to love the Yeah Yeah Yeahs; the punchy unease and doom-laced bass of “Aplomb” compares nicely to similar contemporaries The Wytches; “Orderly”, previously released as a 7″, features unsettling percussive stomp, poisoned guitar lines, and hauntingly off-pitch vocal delivery reminiscent of Milk Man-era Deerhoof. Sure, EULA have precedents, but their music is some of the most refreshingly and experimentally demonic post-punk to come around in a while.

Fluoride – Material

If your newly founded record label’s first three releases (which, in this case, were all released on the same day) are each tough to classify by genre, you’re probably doing a good job. Fluoride, the industrial-noise-hardcore-dance-who-knows-what side project of Beach Fossils’ Dustin Payseur, is one of the flagship bands of newly founded Bayonet Records, which Payseur owns and operates with his wife. There’s no one descriptor that can confine Fluoride’s sound, and any that might apply to one song on their debut, Material, isn’t all that likely to apply to another. The blurry, monstrous chug and scathing scream of “Glass Bricks”, for example, stands in remarkable contrast to the thrust and groove of the snowy, static-heavy dance tune “Clay.” Likewise, the pulsing glitches and buried shouting of “Mass Mind” stand starkly opposite the loopy industrialism of “Who Loves Me – Who Loves You.” Although we’re only blessed with 23 minutes of Fluoride’s difficult, intense music at the moment, it’s nice to see a new record label starting so strongly.

Ghost Camp – Tamal

When trying to describe Ghost Camp’s music, look to their self-written Bandcamp biography for help: “witch pop” and “witch punk” rank among their tags. These terms fit pretty well: there’s a moody underbelly to these songs, accounting for the “witch” part of things. The energy, tempo, and intentionally horrendous recording quality of Tamal, this New Brunswick quarter’s debut, falls directly in line with the punk aesthetic; the sunny melodies (which, yes, quite effectively contrast the witching darkness that lies beneath) share similarities with dream pop or surf pop, depending on the moment. It’s hauntingly blurry throughout as well: the individual elements of “Body Language” are tough to discern through its six-string drone, and the rhythm guitar line on “Soft Eyes” bleeds directly into the percussion. But “Soft Eyes” indicates the sharp future Ghost Camp may have ahead of them: the lead guitar melody outlining the chorus remains Tamal‘s most memorable moment. Although all eight of the album’s songs are great, the melody of “Soft Eyes” leaps forward, and its vocals aren’t buried as deeply into the mix. Avoiding clarity may be what makes Tamal a worthwhile listen, but when Ghost Camp embrace it instead, the results are truly spectacular.

Happyness – Weird Little Birthday

Hudson County, NJ record label Bar/None can seem to do no wrong. Best known as the springboard for The Front Bottoms’ now hugely successful career, the label also includes lesser known greats such as DRGN KING, Breakfast in Fur, and, most recently, Happyness. This British trio is the newest signing to the label, and their reverence for the soft, warm warble of early 1990s lo-fi rock compares to fellow England blokes Yuck (for more Yuck comparisons, check out Lost Boy ? below). Their sound is familiar and friendly; despite its rock rhythms and instrumentation, it’s so quietly recorded and full of slow-moving reverb that it feels like it’s being broadcast from underwater. These songs sound like basic tape recordings, and their simultaneous intimacy and oddball charm ensure that they’ll leave lasting impressions on a variety of listeners. Things are never quite right on Weird Little Birthday, their debut; these songs seem very well thought out and complete, yet an element nevertheless feels missing on many songs. Might more volume on “Monkey in the City” be helpful? Is “Anything I Do Is All Right” strangely lacking in percussion? Should there be another vocal overdub on “Naked Patients”? There’s a notable feeling of absence in Happyness’ psychedelic minimalism and love of Pavement-like guitar lines, but you know what they say: absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Lady Lamb – After

Lady Lamb’s ability to blend many approaches to a melodically distorted take on folk rock across the length of one album might draw comparisons to one of last year’s biggest names: Angel Olsen. In fact, Olsen has already become a standard, if not overused, comparison point for other artists in just over a year, but Lady Lamb’s sturdy, diverse sophomore effort, After, can’t escape the similarities. The parallels arise in part because Olsen was the first artist in recent memory to successfully impart an individual trademark to pounding noise anthems, harrowing Western ballads, and folk intimacy, among other disparate styles, on one album; After demonstrates that Lady Lamb is second-best at this art. Lead single “Billions of Eyes” is a stomping pop treasure; “Sunday Shoes” is a tranquil, heartfelt folk blanket; “Dear Arkansas Daughter” travels between a midtempo whirl of Western and twee to a surfing blast of endorphins; “Batter” employs an almost krautrock-like pathway towards cowgirl assertiveness. Sure, After runs a bit long at 56 minutes, but this much space ensures that most, if not all, listeners will find at least one song that sticks for a while. Whether one seeks folk, country, pop, or even punk, disappointment is lacking on After, a surprisingly overlooked release.

Lost Boy ? – Canned

This band’s name is a question. Or a fragment thereof – no one knows if the lost boy in question is a subject or an object here. What’s more obvious is that Canned, the first Lost Boy ? album for which songwriter Davy Jones recruits a full band, indeed offers plenty to get lost in. Although it’s easy to complain about how similar these songs can sound both to each other and to the work of other musicians, they’re quite charming even before the content of their lyrics becomes apparent. It may take a few listens before the words of these tunes creep forward from the fuzz-driven, lo-fi mess of the instrumentation, but the effort to discern these lyrics is worth it, especially since they often clash hilariously with the music. “USA” is an overblown, grinning power pop tune that details the much more upsetting matter of drinking oneself to death; “Revenge Song” employs ebullient garage stomp to cast sunshine on a shadowy tale of standard childhood bullying; “Fuck This Century” is, lyrically, exactly the slacker mantra it sounds like, yet it’s cast as an upbeat, almost surf-like anthem. Laugh along with Lost Boy ?; once you’re in on the joke, this album will open its doors right up.

Pile – You’re Better Than This

Like friends and fellow Boston DIY music kings/Exploding in Sound labelmates Krill, Pile drill their anxiety, tension, and nerves into listeners’ skulls using merely the standard rock band setup. The two bands are quite often compared, which may prove helpful for Underdog frequenters, since Krill was featured in the last edition; Pile might be what Krill would sound like in an alternate reality where Krill is endowed with two guitars rather than just one. Specifically, both bands’ interplay between quieter, unsettling stretches and railing, searing fragments of dissonant screeching comes off quite strongly on You’re Better Than This, Pile’s latest album, due to their Pile’s dual-guitar interactions. The riffs, arrangements, and song structures are endearingly complex, endowing these ten songs with a dreary, fearsome edge. Whether via statements as bluntly aggressive as “Tin Foil Hat” or as painfully droning as “Waking Up in the Morning”, Pile always feel like their hinges are about to fly off, both musically and emotionally. The build up to such explosions tends to be quite drawn out, keeping the album interesting for most of its run.

Red Giant – Drones EP

Music historians and journalists tend to point to Massive Attack’s Blue Lines as the first trip-hop album, but in the 23 years that have followed its release, the term has expanded to include styles less indebted to jazz, and more wrapped up in an eerie soul leaning. It’s refreshing, then, to hear brand new New Brunswick, NJ duo Red Giant’s classic approach to trip-hop. Their debut, the Drones EP, meshes the bluesy croon of local star Foxanne with ghostly drum machines, incredibly haunting atmospherics (including a faint siren on the aptly-named opener “Twin Peaks”), and the smoky, dim sheen of modal jazz. Producer Derrick Braxton couldn’t have chosen a better vocalist for his fluid, phantom instrumentals than Foxanne; whether her voice is delivering tales of sci-fi apocalypse (Red Giant is named after the category of star; the scientific lyricism is very intentional) or being chopped and modulated into an element of the beat itself, its warm, comfortable hue drips beautifully into Braxton’s liquid jazz backdrop. Foxanne isn’t the only vocalist present, though; rapper Ken Cardo contributes a guest verse to the brief but highly effective single “R.apid E.ye M.ovement”, and R&B warbler Travis James sings quite a bit of the six-minute fear-mongerer “Atmosphere.” Featured artists are a trait of classic trip-hop very often missing in its modern equivalent and tangentially related genres, so it’s refreshing to hear Red Giant calling in friends for help. A notable exception to this trend in trip-hop is Kendrick Lamar’s unforgettable appearance on “Never Catch Me” by Flying Lotus, another producer who, like Braxton, owes a great debt to jazz. That Braxton and Foxanne are equally as potent with far fewer elements give even the most timid listener reason to delve deep into Drones, a debut that forecasts an exciting career.

Warehouse – Tesseract

Like the duo Fluoride mentioned earlier in this edition of the Underdog, Warehouse is another Bayonet Records cornerstone. How Dustin Payseur managed to pick these Atlanta kids out from the crowd isn’t immediately apparent, given the infinite number of other bands seeking record deals; what’s more evident is that Payseur has chosen a great act to sign. The devilish sneer of Elaine Edenfield recalls the earliest no wave iterations of Kim Gordon, and the jagged but subtle post-punk dissonance of her band also recalls Sonic Youth at its prime. Tesseract, their debut album, feels like it’s playing live from your garage, where these five punk aficionados probably recorded it. The cold steeliness of Joy Division provides a template for the simultaneous bounce and horror of Warehouse’s music, which feels modern despite its clear references to past idols. Maybe that’s because, on top of its post-punk template, there are moments dripping with light reverb and jangle courtesy of – you guessed it – Payseur’s own Beach Fossils. There’s a ring and sparkle to Warehouse’s take on early post-punk that ensures their tunes are confused with no one else’s, and it’s a spark that’s unlikely to die anytime soon.

Yowler – The Offer

The word “yowler” may look and sound similar to “howler”, but howling is exactly the opposite of what’s happening on Maryn Jones’ solo debut. Jones, best known as a member of Saintseneca and the frontwoman of All Dogs, retreats within herself on these solemn, intimate, hushed songs, released via top-notch DIY label Double Double Whammy. The faint hum of one guitar, whether the bassy, thickly clean electric harmony of “7 Towers” or the acoustic hymn of “Yowler” (yes, there’s a song named this, too), is often the sole accompaniment to Jones’ rounded, vulnerable singing. There’s an explicit loneliness to these songs, a mood that very easily welcomes dejection and melancholy. That this album sounds like it was recorded on a cassette in Jones’ bedroom as the sun rises after a night of bad sleep only adds to their intimate, heartbroken feel. There’s really not much happening in these songs, yet they say so much; maybe there’s some howling going on here after all.

Lost Boy ? get lost (pun not intended) in the noise pretty easily. Amidst the buzz surrounding bands like DIIV and Titus Andronicus, audiences failed to notice Lost Boy ? playing shows with these acts, ones to which their first album as a band rather than a solo project sometimes holds a candle. Canned, their debut for the wonderful DIY label PaperCup Music, follows last year’s Wasted EP, released on similarly excellent DIY label Exploding in Sound; it’s clear to see, then, that Lost Boy ? have a rich history in the DIY scene, but remain unknown to many a listener due to the blog buzz and internet noise that seems to constantly surround big-time acts they’ve played with. Maybe they’re called Lost Boy ? for a reason, or maybe for two; in addition to letting the clamor of others swallow them whole, Lost Boy ? drown in all manner of fuzz, low fidelity, and noise on Canned.

Not unlike fellow New York DIY stalwarts LVL UP, Lost Boy ? make music that features more than one vocalist, a nostalgia for 1990s punk sounds, an intentional lack of recording fidelity, and a good deal of straightforwardly humorous lyricism. “You were sad/in Hollywood/stuck in the sand” are Canned‘s first three lines, words delivered atop energetic percussion, frenetic guitar work, and several layers of fuzz and static. This all happens within the first ten seconds of the album, a declaration of where the band continues to head across the LP’s remaining 37 minutes. “Chew” and “Bank” are merely two of the many songs here that run with this approach, using upbeat, fuzz-drenched guitar pop to turn sad or hilarious (or sometimes both) lyrics into joyful garage rock celebrations. “Revenge Song” is particularly effective at disguising the gory details of its story in grungy, smiling instrumentation and overtly filtered vocals; it transforms a traumatic story of childhood bullying into an almost jubilant experience between Lost Boy ? and the listener. Of course, this is also partially due to how atypically blunt and comical songwriter Davy Jones’ lyrics come off: both due to his voice and his words, his description of his futile defense attempts (“I called them assholes and they would just laugh/guess I had it coming since I didn’t have a clue”) sounds funny rather than heartbreaking or infuriating.

Hell, even when Jones isn’t the Lost Boy ? member singing, his group’s songs are acutely hysterical. “Fuck This Century” and “Hemorrhage” serve as consecutive examples of this phenomenon: its vocalist is much more monotonous and deep-voiced, but he still manages to bring humor front and center. In the former song, though, the lyrics would be funny even outside Lost Boy ?’s oddly uptempo universe (“Tragic, nonetheless/I touch myself at night” precedes a proclamation of “Fuck this century!” over a ripping tidal wave of power chords), but the latter song makes a more impressive use of its vocalist. Its story isn’t inherently laughable, but the song’s dejected, almost krautrock-like vocal mannerisms’ contrast to the tune’s pop-leaning instrumentation will at least bring a smile to listeners’ faces. It’s reminiscent of earlier Parquet Courts songs, and since that group has received such an immense rush of critical praise in recent times, it can be tough to imagine that Lost Boy ? wouldn’t deserve similar treatment.

Really, the only obstacle standing between Lost Boy ? and wider success is that they’re not nearly the first group to emulate the sounds of 1990s garage punk groups ranging from Nirvana to, more obviously, Pavement. In fact, Lost Boy ? are bound to draw comparisons to Yuck, whose 2011 self-titled debut remains one of the decade’s finest retro-gazing rock records. Lost Boy ? are undeniably more witty and possibly more pop-oriented than the several peers to whom they could be compared, but it may be difficult for them to put up a fight across a full-length. Each of Canned‘s individual songs contains immense appeal, but lined up across the course of an album, it can occasionally be difficult to stay focused. The second half of “Car Wash”, which is almost certainly just the song’s first half played back in reverse, isn’t melodic or structured enough to be gripping; later in the album, “Bank” and “Deep Fried Young” can sometimes blur into each other. In general, despite the eccentricities and special features of each song, it can be troubling to absorb the album in one listen.

One possible solution to this minor problem is for Lost Boy ? to further emphasize their vocals on future records. The excessively watered-down vocals can prevent the album’s lyrics from being properly understood on the first two or three listens; that it takes a bit of time for the remarkable humor and specificity of the words to shine through can lose some listeners pretty quickly. If Lost Boy ? can ensure the impact of their lyrics, which become memorable as soon as they’re discernible, more instantly on their next many albums (they can look to Courtney Barnett for advice on how to achieve this), then they may no longer find themselves Lost, instead cultivating a fan base on par with the many acts whose shadows they’ve been living in for far too long.

While reflecting on February, it becomes apparent that there were relatively few notable albums released this month. The same effect was felt in the underground and DIY music community: there’s definitely a bit less new material than usual to report on for this edition of The Underdog. That said, the quality of the lesser-known music released this month is quite strong. Among February’s best off-the-radar releases are an impressive third album by a yelping, quivering Boston trio; a stomping revamp of classic rock styles courtesy of some Philadelphia teenagers’ considerable début; and an even younger group of Barcelona kids’ harrowing, minimal post-punk thesis. These are albums that immediately strike the ear, yet, for some reason, features on blogs as frequently traversed as Pitchfork and Consequence of Sound don’t seem to being doing much to expand these groups’ fan bases. Hopefully, The Underdog can help to change that.

Adventures – Supersonic Home

A commenter on Supersonic Home‘s listing on excellent DIY label Run For Cover Records’ Bandcamp describes it as “the best 90s ‘revival’ record thus far.” Indeed, Adventures are the latest in a string of underground groups looking back on the 90s for inspiration, and their fans tend to see them as the best at their craft. To praise them so highly is to paint with broad strokes, but it’s undeniable that they’ve got a genuine charm and a great sound. The ecstatic guitars and eager vocal harmonies of exuberant punk album opener “Dream-Blue Haze” immediately declare Adventures’ influences, talents, and resonance; later tracks such as “My Marble Home” and “Long Hair” tread on more dejected 90s motifs with equal amounts of allure and poignancy. But even at their most defeated, Adventures still smile through these ten enjoyable alt pop songs. “I feel happy,” another commenter declared on the Supersonic Home Bandcamp listing when describing this album; indeed, it’s hard not to enjoy these unpretentious tunes.

Breakfast in Fur – Flyaway Garden

A good number of the albums that frequently rank highly on best-of lists find themselves so well-regarded due to their blatant influence on later acts. Is This It, Late Registration, Daydream Nation, Sgt. Pepper’s – these are all albums you might see on such lists, and ones that each have many obvious followers. Another album somewhat commonly listed alongside these names is Broken Social Scene’s 2002 record You Forgot It In People, but unlike the other records named here, People‘s influence isn’t nearly as transparent. No one has really taken that album’s sound and run with it – well, not until Breakfast in Fur offered an intensely beautiful, instantly striking revamp of it this month. Flyaway Garden occupies the same gauzy, ethereal blur as does Broken Social Scene’s breakout work; its welcoming acoustic guitars, snug synthetic ambience, and effervescent, breezy vocals all recall the best of BSS. “Portrait” would feel right at home on any of their albums, as might “Episode” or “Whisper.” But to only copy an already adored work would be boring; no, instead, Breakfast in Fur infiltrate their music with further influences from shoegaze (think Mazzy Star and Isn’t Anything) and neo-psychedelic sounds like those popularized by Animal Collective. Their diverse drawing board results in memorable numbers such as the Neil Young cover “Cripple Creek Ferry” and the breathtaking blast of unexpectedly hooky opener “Shape”, arguably one of the year’s finest songs thus far. Brewing distinct musical predecessors into a new, invigorating drink is an underrated talent, but on Flyaway Garden, Breakfast in Fur do so with ease.

Dirty Dishes – Guilty

Dirty Dishes are signed to a label called Exploding in Sound for a reason (which, by the way, is one of the most consistently strong DIY labels out there right now, as further evidenced by the Krill album that you can read about below). Their newest album explodes forward the moment it begins, with a feedback ring giving way to a slab of wailing guitars. Vocalist Jenny Tulite then lays down restrained vocals that are very clearly set to blow at any given moment; indeed, opener “Come Again” testifies that Dirty Dishes are more than capable of Exploding in Sound. “Red Roulette” and “Guilty” follow in both succession and ear-stabbing sound, but thereafter, things gradually diminish into more starry-eyed, dimly lit territory. “Androgynous Love Song” builds a bridge between the seething havoc of the album’s first third and it’s almost folky remainder. It’s impressive that a dusky, minimal dirge such as “Lackluster” can find a stable home on the same collection as “Red Roulette”, but Dirty Dishes resonate in both modes. If they sound this great already, one can only imagine what they might be able to pull off if they choose to go in only one direction on their next effort. It’ll be worth sticking around for, providing all the more reason to fall in love with Guilty.

The Districts – A Flourish and a Spoil

Groove and catchiness: two musical qualities you’d have to be truly pretentious to deny. Philadelphia rockers The Districts, who are roughly twenty years old, have both in spades. After their début EP made waves early last year, Fat Possum Records brought them aboard for an inauguration that satisfies eager, excited fans’ greatest hopes and desires. Heavily overdriven guitars that play bluesy chord progressions dominate this record, as does a generally gruff, energetic tone. “Heavy Begs” finds the band pounding away fiercely on its drums as heavily processed vocals seethe and croon in harmony with layers of incisive guitar work; “Hounds” digs deep into the blues rock well towards an intense final climax; “Young Blood” swells from an overwhelmingly brazen guitar attack into a somehow more inundating force of throaty shouting and guitar work that sends sparks flying over nine equally enjoyable minutes. And even though these songs are clearly incredible, they somehow all pale in comparison to album opener “4th and Roebling”, a supercharged stomper that contains one of the stickiest, most direct choruses in blues rock history. Actually, this is a chorus so massive that it leaves the boundaries of blues rock; there’s no clear definition of what The Districts’ sound is, but its traces of blues, rock n’ roll, and classic rock influences result in a product that’s as cerebral as it is corporeal.

Ex-Cult – Cigarette Machine EP

When everyone else around you is a punk, you better have a lot of guts and brawn if you want to excite your listeners. Ex-Cult are aware of their surroundings, offering up some of the most refreshingly visceral punk music of recent times. Similarly to the better known punk act Parquet Courts, Ex-Cult infuse their sound with references to both classic punk tropes and an almost krautrock-like sense of minimalism, repetition, and rhythm. The irreverence and nearly unsung manner of Cigarette Machine‘s vocals reaches back to Black Flag, while the simple rhythms and omnipresent riffage might feel at home among the earliest kraut achievements. Anyone who enjoys lacerating guitar work, intentionally low production quality, and sneering vocals is bound to feel revitalized after hearing Cigarette Machine, and it’s likely that the EP’s creators feel the same rush when performing these songs.

Krill – A Distant Fist Unclenching

It’s not uncommon to see or hear Krill fans compared to a cult. This Boston trio’s following may be relatively small, but it’s almost as strong as their mighty songs are. The heft and relatable weirdness of their tunes’ wry, paranoid musings, wiry, unhinged vocals, sharp, incisive guitar work, and thunderous, pointed percussion matches the fervor and lovable oddity of their devoted listeners. In fact, the former probably directly causes the latter. It only makes sense that a band singing about visiting someone at work only to almost involuntarily begin fantasizing about their shirtless body might generate an enthusiastic response among a small sect of people. This story is merely one of many idiosyncratic, hilarious tales on A Distant Fist Unclenching, Krill’s third and best album to date. Other scenarios include a popular villager killed by a tiger, an apology to a roadkill victim’s family (in Krill’s universe, animals have distinct family structures), and an ostensibly much sadder story of family turmoil. Although only the last of these themes may seem relatable on paper, the alerted, frayed state in which frontman Jonah Furman delivers his lyrics matches the mood and pacing of his band’s music so precisely that listeners’ catharsis is absolutely guaranteed. Krill can turn an interwoven BDSM and self-discovery tale into an allegory for emotions that everyone feels, thanks in no small part to their highly memorable cocktail of post-punk urgency. A Distant Fist Unclenching is truly unforgettable, ensuring that the band’s most famous declaration (and their fan base’s unofficial slogan) remains true: “Krill, Krill, Krill forever!”

Mourn – Mourn

There are two cases to make that this group of Barcelona-based 18-year old punks’ (and one 15 year old!) début album was actually released last year rather than just now. The first is its original release in native Spain early last year; the second is American label Captured Tracks’ digital-only American reissue last October. But only now has Captured Tracks made physical formats available for Mourn in the US, fully marking its impact on American ears. Yet even despite a first-billing review on Pitchfork, Mourn’s reach remains limited. They don’t quite yet have eight thousand likes on Facebook, which is surprising given how stark and immediate their songs are. Across ten songs and twenty-one minutes, Mourn don’t only demand attention, they absolutely command it. This is the first record in recent memory whose very first sound is an uneasy vocal take; to make things even better, only a dim, clean guitar backs the voice. Within thirty seconds of this opener, “Your Brain Is Made of Candy”, the full band instrumentation, unnerving vocal harmonies and dissonantly flickering guitar leads in tow, shoots forward, turning heads more rapidly than a tornado. This combination of minimalism and musical vice-grip continues across the entirety of Mourn, a clamoring post-punk journey that’s impossible to be torn away from while it lasts, but one that ends far too soon.

Each month we’ll collect and highlight the best new indie releases. Our aim here is to expose readers to great new indie music they may not have been aware of otherwise. We intend to cover music that we believe doesn’t get as much attention as it deserves, hence the title of this column: The Underdog.

As the new year approaches, the music industry enters a bit of a dry period, a sort of Great Recession, if you will. Contradicting its typical trend of eagerly anticipating upcoming albums, the blogosphere recounts what it loved, liked, disregarded, and ignored as the year went by, inadvertently casting a broad shadow over any music released in December. Of course, the surprise release of mythical albums like Black Messiah and Beyoncé have proven to be exceptions to this rule, but did anyone really notice that Nicki Minaj album that dropped last month? It’s clear that the music industry seems geared against album releases in December and early January, which is why this latest edition of the Underdog condenses both months into one article. By next month’s end, things will be closer to returning to full swing, but new music won’t be emerging at a rapid fire pace until March, in all likelihood. With all this free listening time on your hands, you’ve got no excuse to at least consider these ten albums released by emerging artists last December and this month. Who knows, maybe one of them will become the next big thing!

Amer – Luxandra

Ever heard of Frank Ocean? After the majesty of 2012’s Channel Orange, many fans were inspired to try their own hand at Christopher Breaux’s woozy, gleaming breed of electrosoul, some with more success than others. Amer, a self-proclaimed “two one-man-band band”, are on the higher side of this recent trend. Their approach is more minimal and hazy than that of their most obvious predecessor, and the lucidity and centering of their vocals gives them a bit of an edge against their competitors. On their Luxandra mixtape, they’re given a distinct touch via minute sonic elements such as the trap drum flickers on “Can’t Breathe” and the electric fizzle of the guitars faintly backing “Him.” It’s a short but engaging collection, but it’s enough of a grower that its brevity never feels like a shortcoming. Instead, it beckons the question, “When will these guys come out with more music?”, a query that’s a welcome distraction from their musical father’s painful lack of recent material.

Alex Calder – Strange Dreams

Brooklyn record label Captured Tracks is home to Mac DeMarco, one of last year’s biggest names, so it’s fitting that they also signed Alex Calder. Aside from their friendship, Calder follows in DeMarco’s footsteps: his lethargic, hazy vocals fall in line with the boundaries of DeMarco’s style, as does his slacker guitar sheen and dreary, enveloping dome of reverb. In fact, his songs often prove more memorable and direct than DeMarco’s blurry fog; the haunting hum of “Out of My Head”, for instance, brings an ominous touch into play that more precisely recalls earlier forebears such as Deerhunter. “No Device” likewise strikes less forgettably with its intensely watery, wavy flow, and the title track’s mercurial melody may well stick in listeners’ heads as brightly as the catchiest pop hits. Strange Dreams builds a bridge between the far too often disparate worlds of jangle pop stickiness and drugged out introversion, and is the most recent in a slew of reliable Captured Tracks releases.

The Aquadolls – Stoked on You

Originally self-released in late 2013, The Aquadolls’ debut album Stoked on You gained a wider audience after its Burger Records reissue in December 2014. Its guitar rock simplicity aligns with the label’s prior output, particularly in its deployment of surf pop sunshine and Californian glee. These fifteen songs get by on basic rock structures, hooky melodies, and vocals bearing the enthusiasm and force of a college-aged girl woken up by an unfriendly alarm. While drowned in this much instrumental sunshine, though, Melissa Brooks’ listless vocal delivery gains a good deal of resonance. This combination makes lines such as “What daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him” and “We were so high” seem novel rather than overused, and ensures that The Aquadolls achieve their desired emotional impact. Sometimes, you really should just keep it simple, stupid.

Beacon – L1 EP

Just like their music, Beacon remain active while lurking in the shadows. L1 isn’t at all their first work, but the impact of their music has yet to spread past Brooklyn; it feels like they could emerge from their corner of the world at any point now. The title track to their newest EP proceeds on a simmering bed of gleaming speckles, broad, harrowing gulps, creepy percussive flutters, and whispering, soulful vocals, assuring a tension just like the one set to explode around these guys really soon. Since the rest of the EP follows in similarly unsettling fashion, why not get in on the action now?

California X – Nights in the Dark

Nights. Darkness. Two things that are inherently nocturnal, together in one phrase. But not entirely appropriately so: despite being one of the tougher, more guttural garage punk records of recent times, California X’s second album lets in plenty of sunshine. Both the title track and its follow-up, “Red Planet”, slam away forcefully with bile and grit, yet convey a major-key gleam. “Blackrazor (Pt. 2)” wears a small smirk despite its pounding, lacerating guitar acrobatics, and “Summer Wall (Pt. 2)” growls pretty happily for a sonic concoction this thick. Listeners seeking some more heft to their melodic punk need look no further.

Cloakroom – Further Out

Now this one should be titled Nights in the Dark. Somewhere between shoegaze and stoner metal, and self-described as “stoner emo”, Cloakroom write music that traps open ears under wide layers of bottom-heavy, bloated guitars and consciously lackluster vocals. On their debut album Further Out, when this notably muddy sound isn’t setting the tone, eerily untouched guitar sparkles effervesce into focus, often lasting only until that grating roar returns into play. “Lossed Over” enters in its quieter mode, alternating between this and its heavier state often while still giving greater weight to its deafening distorted walls; “Outta Spite” more evenly distributes its time between these states. Other songs only occupy one extreme, such as the bleating drone of “Moon Funeral” and the surprising acoustic balladry of “Clean Moon.” Most impressive is the balancing act on single “Starchild Skull”, which displays the most direct percussive attack on Further Out and drifts between calm dejection and pounding exertion. The song ends with a tone and feel that lies roughly halfway between the album’s opposite ends, achieving a floaty bliss not unlike what listeners might experience across this whole album.

Forth Wanderers – Tough Love

Before Tough Love‘s first thirty seconds even finish, vocalist Ava Trilling makes her intentions quite clear, thereby setting the tone for the remaining 25 minutes of this young New Jersey five-piece’s debut. “I wanna be known/as a girl who’s stone cold”, Trilling declares on opener “Selfish”, on which the combination of Trilling’s distinctly downcast whimper and her band’s vast, minor-key guitars ensure that no listener will remain unaffected. This song’s starkly defeated mood impacts with just as much emotional tug on each of the album’s other seven songs, particularly “Blondes Have More Fun.” Far from a 2010s update on “Girls Just Want to Have Fun”, it too opens with straightforward yet startling lyrics: “I don’t know where I went wrong” may read as simple on paper (or on a computer screen), but sung with Trilling’s dejected gaze and her band’s emo-laced soundscapes, it strikes the heart directly. In fact, all Tough Love‘s songs turn ordinary phrases into sentiments far more emotive, an especially notable talent for kids who are just now beginning their second semester of college. May they wander forth forever.

Professor Caveman – Professor Caveman Vol. 2

Rutgers University’s New Brunswick campus is well known in the DIY scene for its rich basement show circuit, one that a small handful of college kids’ bands dominate with much fanfare. Perhaps the most popular band in the scene right now is Professor Caveman, whose shows in town always draw large crowds and result in immense audience participation. And how could they not? Listen to the grooves and melodies on Professor Caveman Vol. 2, which features contributions from two members of fellow scene kings and close comrades Eagle Daddy, and try not to succumb to their instant hookiness. “Toca La Guitarra” and “Puffin’ Down the Dart”, for instance, both use no more than a typical rock band setup (albeit with jaw-droppingly technical work across all instruments) to recreate the heyday of 1960s rock styles. But this isn’t just ripping off the past, although traces of Jimi Hendrix’s psychedelic influence are audible. Instead, songwriter/vocalist/guitarist Rob Romano infuses his music with the swagger of that era’s biggest surf rock and funk trends and figures while cultivating a hilarious personality and presence. The showy guitar and retro-gazing vocal takes ensure humor that brings this EP a notch above the countless other acts imitating the same styles. With talent this slick, it’s no wonder this caveman is a professor.

Suburban Living – Suburban Living

Faced with Suburban Living’s self-titled debut, you might react in one of two ways. The first one, asking “Who needs another shoegaze album?”, will get you nowhere. The second way would be to accept that the reason this style is omnipresent two decades after Loveless is because there’s something very specifically affecting about its hazy guitar tones and lackadaisical vocal delivery. Wesley Bunch, the man behind Suburban Living, isn’t nearly the first musician to adopt this subgenre’s watery, faded approach, but he does it remarkably well for someone just getting started. In fact, he embodies “watery” and “faded” very specifically and knowingly, aptly naming the corresponding songs “Drowning” and “Faded Lover”, respectively. Of course, Bunch isn’t the first musician to achieve success with this sound; this isn’t an album that deserves the phrase “it sounds like no one else”, but it doesn’t need to if it can provide melodies as sticky as that on “Wasted.” This song, the album’s most urgent, maintains a pulse to it, and the dynamic contrast between its restrained verses and its explosive chorus drives the music right into its listeners’ veins. “Hey! You can feel it! You can touch it!” Bunch sings ecstatically on the chorus, and he isn’t wrong: Suburban Living is an impressively tangible debut.

Björk turns 50 this year. It’s an unusual age to release a breakup album, but hell, Björk is anything but traditional. Her 22-year career (longer if her 1977 self-titled album, released when she was 12 and not at all written by her, counts) has allowed her to experiment across an astoundingly wide range of genres, make all manner of fascinating and unforgettable aesthetic choices, compose the album Medulla almost entirely from human voices, expand 2011’s Biophilia into an educational tool for Icelandic youth, and even play the lead role in a film, Dancer in the Dark, for which she created the music. On top of all these accomplishments, she’s renowned for her voice, one to which the overused moniker “unique” actually applies. Its combination of Icelandic accent, raw emotion, extensive range, and always being right on pitch didn’t sound like anyone else on 1993’s Debut, and in 2015, perhaps only Joanna Newsom can claim to have even a strand of similarity in her voice.

Yet one quality often found in other artists’ careers that is rarely found in Björk’s dynamic, all-encompassing catalog is sadness. Well, until now, that is – Vulnicura, her eighth album, quite blatantly explores the emotional devastation she felt (and still feels) in the wake of her split with longtime partner Matthew Barney. The structure of a family, the role of sex in a relationship, and the grieving process are among the sensitive topics explored here, all in Björk’s simplest lyrics in quite some time. The familiarity of her words and topics might prove fatal in other hands, but instead proves a nice change from the science textbook that is Biophilia and the abstractions of Volta. These two albums, her most recent, suggested to some fans that Björk had passed her prime; in contrast, Vulnicura may well be her strongest effort since 1997’s classic, vastly experimental Homogenic.

Actually, Vulnicura feels like the proper follow-up to Homogenic that fans never quite received. That’s not to say Vespertine isn’t magnificent, because it is; however, it generally travels in a gentler direction than its predecessor. In terms of Björk’s career, Vulnicura could be the intermediate stage between the two. Its reliance on very few elements, mostly string arrangements and the clamor of a synthetic percussive track, pull from the wandering trip-hop of what came before, but its subject matter, emotional candor, appropriately lengthy songs (the album and many of its songs rank among her longest), and gorgeous softness could theoretically precede Vespertine. In reality, though, a major factor of the album’s success come from names virtually unheard of two years ago; featuring extensive co-production from Yeezus and LP1 right hand man Arca, and mixing courtesy of even lesser known act The Haxan Cloak, this collection both hearkens back to Björk’s greatest accomplishments and is clearly indebted to the modern dark electronic underground.

In fact, Arca’s presence here was one of the most highly documented aspects of the album prior to its announcement. This proves to be for good reason; although Björk clearly led the production, Arca’s presence is certainly felt in the scattered, rattling beats that define these songs. The thoroughly ominous, minimal sounds of his solo work might well be the only thing currently existent that could combine with Björk’s exceedingly creative mind in a way that would bring her back to her roots and thereby reignite her mildly dormant spark. For example, the shuffle of “Lionsong”, defined by some synthetic percussive rattles and finalized by a hefty, but not overwhelming, bass pulse, both looks back on Björk’s past and bears Arca’s gentle touch. “Family” and “Notget”, which appear back-to-back later in the album, much more clearly emphasize the hand her co-producers play here, although the former track is the only one to feature Haxan Cloak on production duty as well. In its first half, the nocturnally booming percussion is a Haxan Cloak trademark, and the formless, haunting ambient drone is an Arca staple. The latter track even more obviously states that Arca is in the mix: the arhythmic shuffle of horror shop synths outlining its distant edges almost sound lifted straight from last year’s Xen. Then there’s “History of Touches,” built on a completely percussion-less grip that most blatantly recalls Arca’s debut.

Clearly, the helping hands here are a notable and exciting factor in Vulnicura‘s success, but it’s far too often overlooked that Björk leads her music’s production. Vulnicura will grow to be known as an album that sounds like classic Björk; if she were not the major force in her songs’ production, this would be impossible. Rather, the significance of Arca and Haxan Cloak as co-producers is that they’re both known for executing their mutated, pitch-black styles quite minimally, reputations that led Björk to choose them as cohorts. The selection of this approach to songwriting defines Vulnicura; specifically, Björk’s occupation of this sonic template expertly matches the newly personal subjects of her lyrics.

Vulnicura‘s barren, eerie soundscapes excellently accentuate the heartbreak defining the words. This is an album whose first track declares “I have emotional needs”; it’s immediately obvious that this will be no easy journey. Two tracks later, “History of Touches” quite literally recites a detailed retrospective on the very end of Björk’s relationship with Matthew Barney; its words are almost spoken rather than sung, with the incredibly spacious music surrounding it likely built to accentuate Björk’s speech. Outlining her past is just one step in moving on, though: “If I regret us/I’m denying my soul to grow/don’t remove my pain/it is my chance to heal,” she sings on “Notget”, a song where she tries to sympathize with Barney and see things from his perspective. This attempt to conquer her emotional pain is quite clearly necessary, as outlined by what’s arguably Vulnicura‘s single most heartbreaking lyric: “My soul torn apart/my spirit is broken/into the fabric of all he’s woven,” Björk states on the ten-minute “Black Lake”, a deeply complex piece that Billboard has already mislabeled as a Matthew Barney diss track. The song and this lyric are far more than merely an insult: it’s instead a deep analysis of both their roles in their split. Björk knows that, as a part of Barney, standing in his shoes might help.

Björk’s sorrows extend well beyond the departure of a long time lover, though; these two also brought a daughter into this world. On “Family”, a harrowing standout, she begins by asking, “Is there a place/where I can pay respects/for the death of my family?” These lyrics are almost unrealistically straightforward and morbid for Björk – only the opener’s “What is it that I have/that makes me feel your pain/like milking a stone” and the entirety of “Atom Dance” rewind to Biophilia‘s mystifying science metaphors – as they are throughout the album, bringing her pain and raw emotion to the center of her music for the first time in far too long. The unsettling declaration of “When I’m broken I am whole/and when I’m whole, I am broken” sung during “Quicksand” may be an acknowledgement of just how successful these songs are for letting their guard down; regardless, the sadness of these sentiments is new for Björk.

This lyric gets even sadder, though: later in the song, Björk changes “I” to “we,” adding an entire further layer of human depth to her words. This change in wording towards the final moments of the album might depict the last stage in grieving: acceptance. That said, it’s not too likely that this is the case, since as of this past Halloween, she’s still understandably tender about the situation. “I’m just going to have to cry and be a mess and do it,” she told Pitchfork’s Jessica Hopper in a recent interview when asked how she’ll be able to convey these songs live. Very simply put, when an artist cries while singing her words, that’s how you know it’s real. If the made up word “vulnicura” does indeed have a meaning, it may well be “heart-on-sleeve”: now approaching a half-century in age, Björk is once again putting it all on the line the way she did she was in her thirties. It sounds very much like this album was therapeutic for her to create; that she found a kindred spirit in Arca to guide her so closely in a time of emotional vulnerability is just as remarkable. Even more miraculous, though, is that this living legend has recovered from a small but previously thought irreversible decline in her career to deliver her most impactful songs in almost eighteen years.

Panda Bear, real name Noah Lennox, may have accidentally prematurely ruined his newest album, Panda Bear Meets the Grim Reaper, for a small handful of fans. For listeners who enjoy coming up with their own meanings for songs they hear – a faction that does indeed exist – Lennox’s recent revelation to The Fader of the truths behind Grim Reaper‘s songs might dampen the album experience. Of course, this problem could be avoided quite simply by just not reading the article; on the other hand, the thirteen songs comprising the album don’t rely on their words to stick as sharply as they do. Although the subject matter of Lennox’s lyrics, both in his solo career and within his revered group Animal Collective, is often quite deep, Grim Reaper continues his trend of obscuring his already cryptic words with seemingly infinite layers of sound, one of which includes his distinct voice. This instrument’s inherent ability to blur his message while shining brightly through his soundscapes remains key on Grim Reaper; that said, the album continues his previous effort Tomboy‘s upward trend of clearing the vocal fog of his breakthrough Person Pitch, thanks in no small part to a newfound volume and percussive influence from hip-hop.

Although Grim Reaper‘s gorgeously stagnant, watery opener “Sequential Circuits” might be seen as a purposeful throwback to the hazy, understated Person Pitch, Lennox quickly suggests this track to be a false start with his subsequent placement of “Mr. Noah” as the next song in line. Released late last year to extensive critical acclaim, “Mr. Noah” places Panda Bear closer to the dance floor than ever before while retaining his signature glee and playfulness. Lennox’s buoyant, ecstatic vocals seem to tell an incoherent story, but this only becomes apparent after many listens; the focus of this song, like on most of the album, is the shifting, warbly synths, surprisingly hefty percussive groove, and overall psychedelic sunshine swirl. Lennox’s vocal inflection, pitches, and tones play an important role in establishing this feel, but his actual sentiments take a backseat to all else, only emerging forward in the mix after repeated listens.

The fact that Lennox’s vocals are at all intelligible is actually quite a significant step forward in the Panda Bear catalog. Think back to Person Pitch, which contained moments, such as “Take Pills”, with lyrics that, despite being nearly indiscernible, bore significant depth and meaning. Grim Reaper improves on this prior tendency, ensuring that the doe-eyed, harp-led heartache of “Tropic of Cancer” weighs its tragic words and its melting instrumental equally. “Butcher Baker Candlestick Maker” and “Come to Your Senses” also skillfully balance what’s being said and what’s being heard, although it can be argued that, as is classic Panda Bear, the sound of these tunes’ vocals matters far more than their actual content. In particular, the latter’s cries of “Are you mad?” seem merely comical when aligned with the footwork of the underlying beats, an entertainingly novel percussive technique for Panda Bear.

Where lyrical clarity, vocal intensity, and hip-hop groove most fiercely align here is on second single and album highlight “Boys Latin.” This song has maybe the most readily audible lyrics of the album; that every word is accompanied with a lopsided echo accentuates just how tough it can be to know what Lennox is saying elsewhere. A listener seeking to make sense of the repeated refrain “Beasts don’t have a sec to think, but/we don’t appreciate a thing” might encounter a significant challenge doing so before reading that pesky Fader article, but these words are delivered sprightly and joyfully enough that their meaning doesn’t matter. The song’s other lyric, “There’s a dark cloud descending again/and a shadow moves in the darkness”, takes an intentionally murkier vocal turn, successfully paving a transition from faintly lighthearted to overwhelmingly ominous. This change is contained entirely in Lennox’s incredibly deft vocals; the jilting, synth-and-drum interlaced groove remains nearly the same throughout the song, one which entraps and resonates throughout.

Panda Bear Meets the Grim Reaper marks a slight sonic evolution for its creator, but still feels like it could only come from this sole source. It’s an idiosyncratic document from someone who might be staring death in the eyes, a weird position from which to be sending signals this colorful. If this is how death feels, what are we waiting for?

At the moment, the music industry is temporarily quieting down, as it does every November. During this yearly period, it might seem like there’s less music waiting to be consumed, which is where The Underdog comes in. Let us guide you to lesser-known releases, great works that were overlooked in light of bigger names this month. Something here is sure to fill the musical void that some listeners experience around this time of year.

Bugs in the Dark – Cross My Heart Little Death EP

Blues rock was invented long ago; today, t exists in so many different forms that the term feels elementary and almost condescending. But what better way is there to describe Brooklyn three-piece Bugs in the Dark than with this signifier? Their guitars flame distantly with the murky, howling groove of classic country blues, and their vocals sneer with an acidic fierceness. The latter of these qualities is certainly a somewhat more recent development in blues-based rock music (courtesy of names like Patti Smith, Siouxsie, and Karen O), but the raw, homeland feel that the former traits are responsible for is a classic that’s brazenly revitalized on the Bugs’ most recent EP, Cross My Heart Little Death.

Celestial Shore – Enter Ghost

Brooklyn trio Celestial Shore’s youth is palpable. The fractured, tense, bent-guitar noise that throws their second album, Enter Ghost, into overdrive bears a rough novice spark. The alternating havoc and psychedelia of this opening track, “Creation Myth”, is one of two distinct modes in which Celestial Shore operates; a trippy haze is elsewhere cast over Velvet Underground-like tunes such as “Weekenders” and “Too Cute.” Even at its quietest, though, Enter Ghost boasts a juvenile roar, yet it’s actually pretty mature for a bunch of kids who may not yet be out of high school. Crafting tunes this vivid and fierce from just a guitar, a bass, and a drum is a far more adult skill than might be expected from these guys, but they’re working very well with what they have.

Crying – Get Olde Second Wind

“Combine chiptune with basement punk and emo? Why not!” The members of Purchase, NY’s Crying likely had this conversation at some point. A style that sounds ridiculous and overblown in theory, it’s actually remarkable enough to have landed this group a record deal or two. After issuing the EP Get Olde on rising indie label Double Double Whammy, the relatively small, but consistently excellent, label Run for Cover signed Crying, reissuing Get Olde with the companion EP Second Wind. The double EP follows both the hyperactive 8-bit cues of Anamanaguchi and the desolate grimness of myriad emo bands. Vocals that might sound sad and distant when accompanied with traditional sounds instead flourish and rattle here. “Gotta check my email just like every other night/Gotta sip that 40 just like every other night,” as muttered dejectedly on “Olde World,” gains layer upon layer of exciting vivacity despite the hopelessness underlying these sentiments. It’s a balancing act that Crying pull off constantly on Get Olde Second Wind, a short assortment that’s so catchy its forlorn nature can be easy to miss.

Gifts – Seven Songs

Genres aren’t necessary to classify Gifts. All that needs to be said is that their guitars rip no matter what, their vocals travel lucidly over inhale-exhale drum blasts, and their emotions run directly down the middle of their songs. Seven Songs provides, yes, seven examples of this immense talent. Of all the things that two guitars, a bass, a vocalist, and a drum kit can achieve, very few are off-limits here. Check the blast beats on “Tracing Paper” and the mosh-worthy guitar slam that opens “Low”: Gifts shatter boundaries all the time, analogously to how their songs might shatter eardrums. But that’s no excuse not to play this one as loudly as possible.

Gold Lake – Years

Here’s a band that exemplifies everything that the Internet blogs about these days, yet somehow haven’t gotten the attention they deserve. Brooklyn’s Gold Lake layer crooning, warm, often-harmonized female vocals with highly reverbed, evocative guitar swirls and a generally gorgeous, striking atmosphere. Buzz names like Haim and Hundred Waters instantly come to mind, but Gold Lake might almost beat these acts at their own game. The soaring, beautiful vocal harmonies of “Severed Land, The Sound” are some of the year’s best, and the glittery blossom of “Home” employs musical retrospection awfully well. A galloping feel is common here, further solidifying potential comparisons to Fleetwood Mac (see this album’s “Echoes” for confirmation). Gold Lake aren’t nearly the first act to do what they do, but they make their sound feel completely novel, a tremendous task worth admiring.

Mitski – Bury Me at Make Out Creek

I can’t really think of anybody who embodies the term “underdog” better than Mitski does. Her songs dwell in loneliness, defeat, and desire; her fan base is almost alarmingly loyal, yet is relatively tiny; the blog buzz is currently pushing her towards indie stardom, yet for everyone aware of her goddess status, there are a bunch of people who’ve never heard of her. Furthermore, almost everyone who has heard Bury Me at Make Out Creek calls it one of their favorites of the year, and for good reason. The album can be as quietly heartbreaking as “First Love // Late Spring”, “Francis Forever”, and “I Will”, but even these songs explode into the frenzied loudness that truly makes this collection a home run. Other tracks like “Townie”, among the year’s best songs, kick the door down immediately; “Drunk Walk Home” further signifies the apex of maddened, demonic, emotive singer-songwriting. Mitski might be holding her breath with a baseball bat, to quote “Townie”, but the entire world is waiting on her big break. Don’t be surprised if it happens right this second, but until then, read our review of Bury Me at Make Out Creek.

Nots – We Are Nots

No Wave is making a comeback lately, with bands like Ausmuteants, Parquet Courts, and Memphis, Tennessee’s Nots on board. Their jagged punk tunes throw some nods towards post-punk, but the influence of kraut-rock and noise is far more evident in their craft. Nots don’t sing; what they do is closer to chanting and bellowing, not too far off from what The Clash and the Dead Kennedys did in their heyday. Instrumentally, their steely, warehouse bass, guitars, and drums spell out doom and irreverence without ever getting too loud. Dissonance is Nots’ trick instead, which would likely make Siouxsie Sioux and Patti Smith proud (again). If the goddesses theoretically approve, why not listen to it?

Pilots in Orbit – They Go Back Where You Found Them EP

One of the first lyrics on Pilots in Orbit’s final EP states, “I’m gonna waste your time.” While it’s doubtful that this is actually a nod to the band’s conscious decision to make this their breakup release, the sentiment is misleading. They Go Back Where You Found Them isn’t even twenty minutes long, but it’s some of the best finger-tapped, emo-indebted goodness of recent times. It’s a style New Jersey is quite versed in; contemporaries Vasudeva do this thing pretty well, for example. But what Pilots in Orbit have over Vasudeva is a deft, emotive vocalist, one who’s backed with a couple of other voices fleetingly enough that the harmonies don’t descend into overly tender territory. Instead, the band’s racing guitars form thrilling, sparkly anthems. If these qualities don’t convince you, know that the band formed from their ashes, El Americano, is already getting rave live reviews, and they haven’t even recorded their music yet.

Two Inch Astronaut – Foulbrood

I reviewed this album somewhat harshly. I’d still say it has a handful of problems to fix, but a band this young deserves praise and attention for their best moments regardless. That’s part of why they’re on the list, but a more important reason is that their songs, when good, are actually great. Opener “Foulbrood” is only the first instance here of one guitar covering for two or three guitars in its flexibility and skilfulness, and it also displays Sam Rosenberg’s vocals achieving the same great heights. “Part of Your Scene” pulls off the same trick with even more vigor; “Type Four” hosts an even deeper stutter and odd pacing to its riveting garage punk. The album peaks with the tensions of “No Feelings”, an expert study in the buildup and release of musical stress. Choruses that rip hard aren’t tough to come by, but ones that do so with this much intensity are a bit rarer. Props to the upward trajectory these guys are carving for themselves; they’re not quite there yet, but pure excellence can be expected soon.

About a month ago, I prefaced my review of Little Big League’s Tropical Jinx with a brief discussion of the Northeast’s burgeoning DIY scene. It’s a conversation that bears repeating upon the release of Two Inch Astronaut’s sophomore album, Foulbrood. Exploding in Sound is releasing this record, which adds to the continuous stream of notable works from the smaller label scene. The album is certainly more angular and technical than many other bands in this sect of modern punk music could even hope to achieve, yet it still feels right at home with the northeastern DIY crowd. That said, it’s not always as compelling as albums like, say, labelmates Krill’s jagged freakout Lucky Leaves or Double Double Whammy queen Mitski’s booming, thunderous Bury Me at Make Out Creek. In fact, it can actually grow tedious to listen to the entirety of Foulbrood in one sitting; instead, the standout songs hold up incredibly strongly on their own, with the rest of the songs being simply respectable, only a little bit interesting.

Foulbrood‘s technical prowess often sounds engaging and fresh, but this same trait sometimes comes with a sacrifice of overall song quality. Contrasting “Part of Your Scene” with “Black Fridge Area” sheds light on this conflict pretty nicely. The former track’s fuzz-blown guitars alternate between suppressed high notes and gruff, static-screen power-chord murk at an impressive pace, and its vocals snarl and bark appropriately fiercely. This combination of elements creates one of the album’s best tracks, whereas the dry, defeated approach to dissonance and showiness on “Black Fridge Area” keeps things relatively flat until the last-minute. As this song’s end approaches, the guitars wail more loudly and with far more venom, but this effect drowns out the vocals, a musical layer that could elevate the song instead of hiding behind it. “1, 2, Talk” suffers a similar flaw, its splayed, eerie notes not quite supporting vocalist Sam Rosenberg as intensely as they could. This song too approaches a higher state as it nears its end, but even the brief sequence of dirty, fleshy guitar playing that comprises the outro doesn’t hold up as well as other moments on Foulbrood. The apex of Two Inch Astronaut faltering in their flashiness, though, is “Dead White Boy,” an eight minute stoner crawl that visits so many different ideas that it’s difficult to keep up with; even describing its sound and structure proves frustrating.

Enough with the derision, though: there’s also quite a lot to celebrate about Foulbrood. The album begins excitingly with the thick, gravelly cut of the title track’s guitars, and Rosenberg’s vocals here act flexibly enough to ensure a great jam. His guitar playing is also pretty all-over-the-place, but in this case, the craziness establishes a sticky groove. Likewise, the crunch and mobility of “Type Four” is shaky in just the right way, and the lacerating high notes of its chorus are particularly incisive. The album’s true peak, though, is “No Feelings,” a jagged, brooding punk anthem that thrills in its visceral fidgetiness. “You’ve got a tendency to move slow!” Rosenberg shouts during this song’s chorus, but this sentiment directly opposes the music, which is chock full of dynamic shifts, high-octane guitar riffing, and odd pacing. Were Foulbrood to consistently use this band’s technical skills in the same electrifying, corrosive way it does on “No Feelings”, Exploding in Sound might be able to lay claim to 2014’s best punk album.

Instead, that honor still belongs to the handful of labels that distributed and released Cloud Nothings’ Attack on Memory earlier this year, but Foulbrood is nevertheless an accomplishment that Exploding in Sound can use to elevate its status among other, better-known labels. Of course the record has notable flaws, but it’s also smeared with the signs of a band that might strike pure gold in due time. For every misplaced note, guitar overexertion, or underwhelming vocal take, there’s a searing riff, a brash romp, or gut-wrenching shout. It’s a balancing act that Two Inch Astronaut is still working to perfect, but for now, they’re well worth attending to if their highlights remain the focus.

Mitski just found herself. “I’m not gonna be what my daddy wants me to be,” she chants on the harrowing, overblown chorus of “Townie”, the second single from her third and best album to date, Bury Me at Make Out Creek. It’s exactly the kind of phrase that might accompany the self-realizations that bolster the album; in fact, Make Out Creek is the first instance of Mitski sounding truly like herself, being what only she wants to be. The ghostly, precious chamber pop of her first two albums is here traded for an equally haunting, but far noisier and visceral sound. Although a few similar artists come to mind, the album is distinctly Mitski, and in discovering herself, she’s quite possibly discovered only herself: this mammoth of a collection is a treatise in loneliness, heartbreak, and the woes of solitude.

“I’ve been anywhere and it’s not what I want/I want to be still with you,” echo some of Bury Me at Make Out Creek‘s very first lines. These lovelorn sentiments, taken from opening track “Texas Reznikoff,” are as fractured and emotionally devastating as the song itself: a broken, ominous, muted folk introduction segues into a stomping, raucous, overwhelming garage pounder. The chilly image of “you’re the breeze in my Austin nights” previews next track “Townie” nicely, as do the noise and volume underlying these words. Later songs continue in this trend, with “First Love // Late Spring” gradually blooming from a barren sigh into a blazing, organ-filled coda. “One word from you, and I would jump off of this ledge I’m on, baby,” Mitski sings stolidly, emphasizing her conviction to end her loneliness.

Even the arrangements and sounds of Bury Me at Make Out Creek feel like dreary, open, depressing spaces. The guttural guitar roar of these songs often
has little to no other backing, and this sparseness is a deeply affecting, masterfully precise match for the album’s themes. The lone distorted guitar that begins “I Don’t Smoke” is only joined by at most another guitar, a distant, reverb-heavy percussion set, and Mitski’s evocative vocals; “I Will” finds Mitski’s voice at its most PJ Harvey-like against just faint keys, slinky bass, and cacophonous muted drumming. “Francis Forever” also deals in relatively minimal terrain, but uses this lack of layers to achieve a bit more noise. In whatever final form these scant sounds take, they’re deeply moving, and each pose provides deep insight into Mitski’s emotional plight.

Despite how well-crafted and successful the more sparing songs are, Bury Me at Make Out Creek‘s most memorable tracks tend to possess louder, more maximalist instrumentation. Such moments often follow quieter sections similar to those forming the entirety of other songs, making their presence a surprise that ensures the greatest possible impact. “Carry Me Out” is a great example: its initial disarming folk stance blossoms into a wailing, searing wall of guitars and demonically layered vocal chanting. “Texas Reznikoff” also opens the album with this strategy, trapping any listeners who might’ve considered ditching the album. But the song that will truly get the most attention for applying this formula is the downright scary, truly impeccable seventh track “Drunk Walk Home.” What starts as a small spattering of basic drums and an incredibly powerful vocal performance evolves into a more brazen percussive shuffle and dual-guitar unease. This tiny step up eventually explodes into a barrage of cutting, heavy guitar slamming and horror film screaming that feels like it’s trying to return to life from the grave. Easily Make Out Creek‘s standout track, it’s like Mitski’s “Hannah Hunt”: a third-album song whose moderate progression in volume and tension eventually reaches its bubbling point, resulting in a payoff that redeems itself time after time, it feels like the greatest gift the artist may ever offer.

Not to fret, though: if anything, Mitski’s latest full-length forecasts an incredibly rewarding career ahead. When a musician reinvents their sound this successfully, but with a respectable amount of sonic discrepancies among songs, it tends to be the next step in an even more cohesive, gripping direction. As menacing in its most booming moments as it is unsettling in its more subdued states, Bury Me at Make Out Creek shows Mitski solidifying her unique sound while maintaining a bit of stylistic flexibility. That someone this musically confident can be so lonely might initially be shocking, but then again, her music now stands in a class of its own. Who needs other people when you can spend time with music this good?

The first week of October was jam-packed with excellent releases by established or internet-hyped acts: Zola Jesus, Caribou, Flying Lotus, Iceage, Peaking Lights, The Rural Alberta Advantage, Johnny Marr, The Vaselines, SBTRKT…the list goes on. This makes it an ever-appropriate time to take a glance at smaller releases equally or more worth your time than these acts, hence the fourth edition of Way Too Indie’s monthly music column The Underdog. If you’re looking for a break from the same names that you’ve heard time and time again, here’s where to turn.

Ausmuteants – Order of Operation

This one just storms right out of the gates. Appropriate for the month of its release, spooky synths introduce Order of Operation on first track “Freedom of Information.” This song’s kraut-indebted approach to punk is immediately enticing, and repeats throughout, with killer jams such as “1982” and “Stadiums” proving especially memorable. At times, the kraut-punk tendencies approach pastiche rather than originality, but this actually makes the album pretty hilarious and riotous. What band could write a song like “Felix” and not be a bunch of jokers? That’s not to say Ausmuteants take making music likely, though; Order of Operation is pretty heavy, both in its sound and its impact.

Dinosaur Feathers – Control

Certainly weirder than 2012’s Whistle Tips, Dinosaur Feathers’ latest album portrays them restraining their abundantly gleeful pop tropes in favor of a more disco-indebted breed of synthetic music. Whereas past songs like “Untrue” got by on Bitte Orca-like, off-kilter guitar grooves, on Control, the rhythms are a lot simpler, allowing the vocals and digital elements to do the experimentation. Main songwriter Greg Sullo sounds more like Dave Longstreth than ever before, and the reverbed-out drum machines and wispy white synthetics of songs like “For Jonathan” also land in this avant-folk terrain. Elsewhere, “On My Mind” feels like a classic blues rock tune infused with an odd psychedelic airspace; “Zeitgeist” too blends brass and left-of-center sonic architecture into an entertaining tune. If anything, it sounds here like Dinosaur Feathers are intentionally exerting less Control over their sound.

Little Big League – Tropical Jinx

The sophomore effort from this Philadelphia four-piece has clear musical precedents in twinkly emo and 1990s bedroom sparsity, but sounds fresh while some other acts make fairly ordinary tunes in this style. Among this post-hardcore melancholy, there are songs like the punching, immediate “Sucker”, the eerily dapper “Old Time Fun”, and the doe-eyed “Deer Head”, each equally riveting. Vocalist Michelle Zauner knows how and when to sing, shout, scream, and whisper, making her defeated, discouraged lyricism all the more potent. The band’s guitars sound detached and dissonant, but carry a sense of melody and intrigue not as common in other bands of this style. This all makes for a great time, or as Zauner would put it on “Sucker”, “This, this calls for some drugs!”

Nicholas Krgovich – On Sunset

How are more people not covering this album? Seriously, the Pitchfork crowd might get a real kick out of this one. Krgovich’s got a voice like Dave Longstreth of the impossible-to-pinpoint Dirty Projectors, whose Amber Coffman is a close friend and collaborator; his arrangements testify to the innate appeal of the formerly maligned smooth jazz subgenre in the same way the rise of bands like Rhye and albums like Destroyer’s impeccable, modern classic Kaputt have. If it sounds too good to be true, that’s understandable, but it is true. This is a marvelous, gorgeous, playful album of vast appeal; “City of Night”, for example, is equally likely to entrap fans of lounge music, dream pop, Italo disco, and low-key psychedelic music. “Who’s gonna be there for me?” wonder warm, almost impossibly gripping female vocals in this song’s chorus; with music this good, it’s shocking that the answer to this question isn’t “everyone.”

Olivia Jean – Bathtub Love Killings

Olivia Jean is the vocalist and main songwriter of Third Man Records group The Black Belles. Bathtub Love Killings is kind of like Jean’s Blunderbuss, then; although The Black Belles aren’t broken up, it’s an incredibly bluesy, fiery solo debut similar to Jack White’s lone-star beginning. “Reminisce” has the same deep swagger as many of White’s greatest moments, and “Haunt Me” has the soft glimmer of Blunderbuss‘ many gentler moments. That’s not to say that Jean exists solely in White’s shadow; rather, her music feels characteristically hers even though she has a clear guiding hand. The surprisingly breezy “Merry Widow” is most certainly a Jean-exclusive approach to blues rock, and the haunted-house piano-guitar interplay of “After the Storm” is just held back enough that it retains an idiosyncratic Olivia Jean touch. Sure, Jack White may have produced the album, but he’s done it masterfully; Jean still shines brightly through her blatant influences.

Radiator Hospital – Torch Song

I’ll concede that this album was actually released on the very first day of September, but I missed it last time and it truly deserves a mention. Radiator Hospital is a Philadelphia-based power pop band that make an art of balancing catchiness, poignancy, and vigor. Although they’re only now beginning to receive the attention they deserve, one quick gloss over their Bandcamp shows that they’ve made lots of music in a very short time. Torch Song exhibits this tendency of proliferation in tip-top form: boasting 15 songs in just under 33 minutes with barely any filler, it’s the best version of their jam-packed album style yet. Its best track, “Cut Your Bangs”, is actually a far more melodic and affecting garage pop redo of a lo-fi acoustic stomp released around the same time last year. This improvement in recording quality is only one of the many huge steps forward this incessantly replayable, deeply lovable album makes. With songs as sharp as “Venus of the Avenue” and “Honeymoon Phase” in stow, the guest appearances by Waxahatchee’s Katie Crutchfield on “Blue Gown” and “Five and Dime”, as well as the spot her twin sister Allison Crutchfield of Swearin’ gets on “Midnight Nothing”, feel like a second layer of icing on an already delectable, immaculately formed cake.

Son of Stan – Georgia EP

Retrospection is a fad. But hey, with songs as strong as the ones on Son of Stan’s Georgia EP, why not let the past stick around for longer? Through the ridiculously heavy phaser and nocturnal steam of “Feel Her Design”, it’s tough to take issue with this pilfering of old styles. Likewise, the glowing synth hue and watery guitar grind of “Harbor Boat” are too instantly gratifying to demean this EP as unoriginal borrowing. Best of all are the vocals, though; often drenched in reverb and other ’80s effects, their eyes-shifting-across-the-crowd delivery is innately appealing. Imagine how great this would sound over the course of a full-length?

Useless Eaters – Bleeding Moon

Bleeding Moon continues in Useless Eaters’ tradition of writing punk that’s more clearly indebted to rock n’ roll than most of the band’s contemporaries. “Proper Conduct” becomes a halting, messy stomper that looks back on The Ramones’ legacy; “Dungeon” pushes fuzzy power chords to their limit, which helps it sound like the band is in the same room as you; “Aftershock” is a strangely industrial-bound tune that recalls experimental heroes Suicide. In general, Bleeding Moon is a bit more experimental than prior Useless Eaters albums, but it’s just as satisfying.

Wampire – Bazaar

Bazaar is somewhat of a comedown for the Portland, Oregon duo Wampire. Following the scuzzed-out psych-punk of last year’s Curiosity, this sophomore album takes a far more relaxed route to trippy bliss. Single “Wizard Staff” wraps an ’80s gloss and sparkle in layers of twangy, bright guitar, silky brass, and ghostly pianos; even the thornier “Bad Attitude” revels in nostalgia for a more instrumentally diverse, glam-infiltrated era of pop songwriting. This new take on their old sound doesn’t bring Wampire down; instead, their new appreciation for the glitzy, frail jangle of past decades renders Bazaar a fascinating and riveting listen.

Eternally suffering the brunt of the music industry’s pitfalls, the DIY scene still manages to release incredible music in spite of all the obstacles facing it. In particular, New England and the Tri-State Area are putting out some incredible sounds, and many of the most notable acts from these scenes quickly get signed to rising, wholly independent record labels. Specifically, Run for Cover Records, Exploding in Sound Records, and Double Double Whammy, all labels so small that they still have Bandcamp pages, are responsible for providing listeners the recent best of what lies at the fringes of the industry. Based in Boston, Brooklyn, and Ridgewood, NJ respectively (well, EiS also has space in Boston), these labels have given excellent acts like Radiator Hospital, Krill, Two Inch Astronaut, Ovlov, Crying, Pity Sex, Makthaverskan, Mitski, and LVL UP an outlet to captivate bigger audiences. In fact, Speedy Ortiz, now universally revered in indie circles, got their start on EiS before jumping to the somewhat bigger indie label Carpark Records.

It’s worth exploring these labels in depth, but for now, this very superficial overview makes a nice backdrop against which Little Big League’s sophomore effort, Tropical Jinx, can be viewed. This Philadelphia-based four-piece, now signed to Run for Cover after releasing their debut on Tiny Engines, write somewhat lo-fi, faintly dissonant, anxiously glum tunes in line with a lot of the music these labels put out. Their nervously dismal style is grounded by the respectably flexible musicianship of vocalist/guitarist Michelle Zauner, and her words and vocals guide Tropical Jinx across ten antsy, impactful tracks in only thirty-four minutes. The album is merely the latest example of a long lineage of DIY music that manages to be tense and emotive without sounding whiny and irrational, a great new addition to the already wonderful set of recent albums looking back on emo music and 1990s sparseness and loneliness.

Within the album’s opening moments, Tropical Jinx declares its debt to the twinkle of emo and the solitude its lyrics explore. The rough but restrained distortion on the opening notes of the first song (appropriately, the title track) segues into an array of deeply hurt, staring-at-the-ground rock instrumentation. Words arrive soon thereafter, and Zauner’s chilling confession of “I used to have it memorized — the sound of you entering a room” indicates the abandoned direction this album’s lyrics will take. Later tracks such as the woozy, hushed “Take It To a Weird Sad Place” and the roaring, monstrous “Sucker” expand on these themes; in particular, the latter track is one of Jinx‘s best, and it’s exemplary of many of the album’s strengths. Even through the song’s cutting post-hardcore guitar work and fuzzy sonic barriers, Zauner’s lyrics stab like the sharpest of incisors; “Always tend to thrive alone” in the first verse is bested by the chorus’ “I don’t want to leave the house/I’m a sucker/worship the hand over my mouth.” This last line is modified to “worship the hand inside my mouth” for the second chorus, the effect of which is exactly as disquieting as Little Big League planned it to be.

Another strength that “Sucker” displays helps point to an area in which Little Big League could stand to improve. After the last chorus, a chant of “This calls for some drugs” is followed by a brief but intense moment in which Zauner ends the previously stated motif of “I don’t want to leave the house” by gutturally screaming “The house!” The extra force stored in these two words is only repeated on Tropical Jinx during the album’s best song, “Dixie Gun.” Probably the best song about catcalling since Sylvan Esso’s “Hey Mami” blew up earlier this year, its second chorus, like that of “Sucker”, leads to a breakdown followed by a rushing, acutely gratifying sing-turned-shout of “On every fucking street in town/you’ll be the one/they’ll say/’WELL HE WAS ASKING FOR IT!'” It would be great to see Little Big League include more screaming in future releases; of course, Zauner’s low-key, bleeding-heart singing sounds great, but her robust shouting is like an adrenaline shot directly to the heart.

Nevertheless, the seclusion and stress of Tropical Jinx prove to be quite worthwhile throughout. The hazy but scorching instrumentation further adds to this fulfilling setup; lyrics such as “I can’t get you off my mind/I can’t get you off in general” from the don’t-leave-me tale “Boyish” ensure that these oft-explored feelings don’t go stale, and the discomfiting imagery of the slacker-esque “Property Line” achieves the same effect. It’s all very impressive work, one that merits the question, why don’t bands like this have a bigger audience yet? The answer might be that, with releases this good, the DIY scene may soon find itself exposed to more ears than ever before. And if that doesn’t happen, then at the very least, the artists and labels who work tirelessly from the bottom of their hearts to do what they love have every right to be deeply proud of what they’ve created.

“Top 40 synth sounds from a few years ago but with more reverb on the vocals: indie in 2k14. No thank you.” This recent tweet from Vampire Weekend soundmaster Rostam Batmanglij, despite being a bit rude and superficial, isn’t an uncommon view among listeners these days. It’s a criticism that’s been unfairly lobbed at acts like CHVRCHES, M83, and HAIM, and one that assumes all pop music is bad music. Enter Zola Jesus’ fifth album Taiga, a moving piece that will change this conversation. There’s no denying that the song structures of classic radio pop litter this album, and that Zola Jesus, real name Nika Roza Danilova, sounds like she’s beckoning from inside an echo chamber. But even with the lackluster, nature-exploring narrative throughout, Taiga is far more enveloping and dramatic than a commercial pop album. It’s a cinematic approach to a familiar template, and it’s incredibly striking and beautiful despite its flaws.

Taiga seems to find a specific precedent in Danilova’s guest appearance on M83’s 2011 track “Intro”, possibly her best-known song to date despite not being hers. The film-like spectacle and overwhelming rush of M83’s best work provides an affecting, entrapping cornerstone for this album’s production; hell, it sounds like M83 mastermind Anthony Gonzalez produced these tracks. Lead single and album highlight “Dangerous Days” is particularly guilty of this sin, but the same traits that recall M83 also ensure that the hairs on attentive listeners’ spines will stand straight up. “Lawless”, another top track, also benefits from this treatment, as its choral strings and mountainous beckon, which could sound cheesy in the wrong hands (and, honestly, almost do here), instead skyrocket towards some intensely tall target that they somehow successfully reach.

Danilova takes risk after risk here, walking the paper-thin line between near-artless radio fodder and beautifully composed, deeply moving synthpop across eleven tracks in forty-two minutes. Where her former strain of Gothic pop dealt in idiosyncratic restraint, Taiga instead pounds forward forcefully, taking chances on some rough stakes. “Hunger” clomps along menacingly, with its shifting percussion and acute synth spikes drastically spicing up its standard pop form. “Nail” is approximately every mainstream pop ballad distilled into a more chilling, primal form; “Ego” too reads like an overused formula given new, meaningful life. These are very calculated risks: Danilova’s tightrope walk between vapid and intense is deft, at times almost scary.

And this is all thanks in no small part to her incredible voice. Listening to the elementary descriptions on “Hollow”, the slightly bereft words of “Dust”, or the weird lecture of “Long Way Down”, it’s clear that few other voices could actually make these lyrics tolerable. Danilova has such an all-consuming, vital, vast, gorgeous voice that she could say anything not outrightly offensive or crazy and still sound fierce. Her roar only further enhances the sweeping choruses of songs like “Dangerous Days” and “Hunger”, both of which are guilty of boasting some of the more commonplace poetry of recent tunes. It’s interesting that Taiga works by sacrificing lyrical quality at the benefit of vocal expansiveness; it’s bound to infuriate listeners in line with Rostam Batmanglij’s philosophy, but with a voice this drastic and urgent, who needs a deeper, possibly pretentious meaning?

Yet there’s one moment here where Danilova’s songwriting is bound to please all camps. This song is “Go (Blank Sea)”, Taiga‘s second single. An immaculately crafted work of synthpop introspection, its lyrics depict something more universal than the often somewhat failed connection to nature pervading the album: a desire to escape, to be alone. Here, Danilova goes “downtown/where they don’t/know [her] name”, finally freeing herself from the forest which Taiga is named after (it’s Russian for “boreal forest”). It’s a theme anyone can relate to, and it’s not disguised in bourgeois metaphors or imagery. It’s also interesting that her words and sounds succeed most outrightly when she ventures forth from the very theme of her album (the forest and nature), with a supreme, omnipresent chorus that only the most sour of ears could deny.

And sour ears will surely deny Taiga; as established here, there’s a few small reasons to. In light of these oddities, it’s all the more shocking that this album is so unforgettable, so piercing, so righteous. The music is so tremendous that its obvious weaknesses and risks simply fall to the wayside. That a voice and some synths can still do this in an era where Top 40 songs instead use these tools for generic money-making tunes is a testament to something even larger than a boreal forest.

Now that fall is finally here, the big name releases keep coming in even larger amounts. The third edition of The Underdog, then, feels more important than ever: a lot of good new stuff that came out this month got overlooked and remains in the shadow of, say, Aphex Twin or Interpol. For the listener seeking more beyond the established acts of modern day, here are ten lesser-known suggestions for deeper exploration.

Astronauts, Etc. – Sadie

The debut EP from faintly mysterious solo act Astronauts, Etc. is a piano- and synth-bred electrosoul soother. The instrumentals are as beat-driven as they are spacious, slinky, and nocturnal; the vocals are rounded and watery in the same way that the voices of similar acts like Raffertie and Ben Khan strike. There’s an obvious sensual touch to it too, but more so in the sweet, melodic manner of the xx than in the traditional R&B sense. Sadie stands in one of the darker corners of the electrosoul movement, but it’s pop-oriented enough to draw in fans from all genres and brightnesses.

Ballet School – The Dew Lasts an Hour

This Berlin-based trio partakes in a rich history of Gothic influences, combining an intensely beautiful, watery guitar sparkle with a blissful synthetic sheen and vocals that vary between dreaminess and spikiness. Harmonies in these vocals are common too, adding a lightly psychedelic effect to these already woozy new wave tunes. It’s not nearly the first album to borrow heavily from the 1980s, but it’s one of the first to truly feel like a lost document of the time. Although the Dew lasts an hour, it’s too bad this album only runs two-thirds as long.

Broncho – Just Enough Hip to Be Woman

Are Broncho garage rock’s best kept secret? Although they’ve been active for just about four years, they remain merely an underground sensation despite deserving so much more. In a genre that’s so commonly approached with laziness and a lack of creativity, Broncho hit just about all the right marks. Their songs never end too soon, nor do they labor on for ridiculous lengths. Their guitars are drowned in enough reverb, delay, and phaser to add a significant spark to their otherwise traditional chord progressions. Most importantly, the vocals balance detachedness with lucidity, even with the layers of lo-fi haze shrouding them. It’s as though this band has distilled all of pop’s best qualities into a garage rock format, and any ears lucky enough to stumble upon this great album will wonder where Broncho have been all this time.

Duologue – Never Get Lost

Duologue very nicely fill the post-King of Limbs void created by Radiohead’s three year absence. But where that album sometimes felt weak and haphazard, Never Get Lost is immaculately crafted and gorgeously rendered across all ten of its tracks. Percussive skitter appropriated from the Burial catalog pops up on “Sibling” after two minutes of Yorke-esque crooning and haziness; “This Is Happening” lurches forward on some of the most daunting, enveloping synth surges in recent memory. Although listeners are told to never get lost, how can you not lose yourself in this album?

GRMLN – Soon Away

Carpark Records’ best-kept secret is back with yet another album full of searing, crystalline garage pop. Overdriven guitars chug away with remarkably high fidelity, and power pop vocal clarity provides the icing on this bright power chord cake. The songs rip with the ferocity of some of punk’s harshest, most abrasive tunes, but are far more rooted in upbeat, sunny loudness. A clear idolatry for the melodic, clean-cut punk of Husker Du and Dinosaur Jr. is apparent throughout Soon Away, an album named after a direction in which its songs won’t turn any listeners.

Lemonade – Minus Tide

Last year, this band’s single “Skyballer” just made our Top 20 Songs of 2013 list. It’s tempting to think, then, Lemonade aren’t quite Underdogs, but their audience hasn’t grown much since then. Minus Tide is an album likely to change that: try not to float away with the shining groove of “Water Colored Visions”, the oceanic chillwave thump of “Come Down Softly”, or the dance-speckled endeavor of “Clearest.” Disco’s intersection with chillwave throughout this album results in an inescapable drift, a Tide that’s tough to reckon with.

Lowell – We Loved Her Dearly

Maybe the reason Lowell isn’t too well-known at the moment is that so many other musicians have found success with this sound. Or, should I say, these sounds; We Loved Her Dearly vacillates between various established electropop motifs that receive a welcoming refresher here. “The Bells” reinstates dainty, glittery pop as a memorable institution; “Cloud 69” makes a spectacle of throbbing, murky cheerleader chants; “I Killed Sara V” plays the piano ballad game with a strong hand; “LGBT” leans in a sultry, surf-indebted direction before blossoming into an entirely different synthpop mode. It’s impressive to see one artist so adeptly writing in so many styles, and the chameleonic Lowell stands to earn a slew of new fans for it.

LVL UP – Hoodwink’d

New Jersey gets a bad rep, so much so that LVL UP are now pretending to be from Brooklyn. But these Ridgewood, NJ power pop craftsmen have nothing to be ashamed of; their thoroughly distorted guitar work and low-key but lucid vocals are instantly redeeming. Three different songwriters and vocalists helm the tunes here, so the cohesiveness of these basement jammers can’t be overlooked. The songs are alarmingly confident and punchy, as most of them accomplish in less than three minutes what some songs take four or five to do. There’s no hoodwinking going on here despite the album title; this is genuine songcraft at its most rewarding.

Lydia Ainsworth – Right from Real

Gothic pop may be the template, but eerie electronic art pop is the result. Lydia Ainsworth’s voice faintly echoes Kate Bush (excuse this overly used comparison, which is truly accurate in this case and not just a sexist overreach), and her ghostly, choral electronics owe a debt to Bjork’s Vespertine. The eight songs here are incredibly gorgeous and immaculately formed, with synths that impact like cathedral bells without ever overwhelming or being too large in size. Ainsworth’s vocals alternate between an Arctic push and a heavenly warmth, and her mildly introverted soundscapes might disquiet listeners in the same manner that Julia Holter is known to. This is all to be expected from her label, Arbutus, which consistently releases some of the most haunting, beautiful art pop out there. Clearly, Right from Real is no exception.

TOPS – Picture You Staring

What was I just saying about Arbutus and art pop? TOPS are another one of that label’s signee’s, but their music is more fit for the far larger imprint 4AD. Ariel Pink and Blonde Redhead both call (or, for the latter, used to call) this label home, and their psychedelic, watery lounge guitar twang pervades Picture You Staring. The album stands to uproot Mac DeMarco from the slacker haze throne; its greater groove definitely imbues it with more pop power. Most interesting is how the soporific, sunrise vocals and vapor-like guitars echo shoegaze ballads, and TOPS make no effort to conceal their distant relationship with this genre. That they instead wind up with such a soothing, milky sound is reason enough to at least try this album.

Avi Zahner-Isenberg is a weird dude. The songwriter, vocalist, and guitarist of the Long Beach-based band Avi Buffalo has an Instagram account replete with morbid, badly-drawn Microsoft Paint sketches of objects ranging from skeletons to skyscrapers to the insides of homes. As if this weren’t odd enough, the lyrics he sings on his band’s sophomore effort, At Best Cuckold, can be incredibly bad, to the point where it would be shocking if someone other than a thoroughly zany dude wrote them. Instead of being cringe worthy, though, Zahner-Isenberg’s words sound like a deeply genuine form of self-expression when paired with his immaculate, widescreen landscapes of gorgeous, reverb-soaked, crystal-clear guitars, lucid, precise pianos and frequently falsetto vocals. At Best Cuckold displays a socially strange twenty-something year old using the universal language of music to build bridges with people who might otherwise find him disquieting.

It’s easy to isolate bad lyricism from the songs on At Best Cuckold, especially since they’re often equally strange both with and without context. A notable example of this appears just after the album’s midpoint on the psych folk beauty “Found Blind.” “I was not well/and you could tell/I’m walking barefoot with some blank CDs/I’m borrowing from the campsite next door”, Zahner-Isenberg narrates with words so specific that the image they conjure is both unsettling, as probably intended, and straight up goofy. But the watery, vast acoustics and general sunshine of this track would really allow him to say anything at all; it just sounds so good that these awkward words almost become beautiful. “Oxygen Tank” is an even more blatant example of the poetic murder Zahner-Isenberg often gets away with committing; just a brief moment before the music begins, he states, “A man carrying an oxygen tank/is gonna come kill me and my family too/if I don’t stop seeing you.” Later in the song, he describes the “sounds of babies screaming/coughing, breathing poorly/in the backseat.” However, this song’s lackluster piano-based gloom isn’t nearly enough to excuse these images, making it the album’s worst track.

Imagery that’s almost as specific pervades another album highlight. “Bitch I’m on fire/you got magnum desire/I’m a cheese ball on fire” is one of the first things Zahner-Isenberg declares on “Memories of You”, which is at least partially about a blowjob (“hello sweat pea/my boner pressed/up to your chest/I let go”; “my cherry pie/please take my load/just got one holy road”). In this very same song, Zahner-Isenberg also mentions, in his words, “the mourning of the grandpa I never met.” If anything it’s a testament to the space oddity that is Avi Zahner-Isenberg, it’s his ease in thinking about sex and family within the same minute. The lyrics here are some of the album’s most memorable simply because they’re so insane, but what really ensures their impact is that Zahner-Isenberg’s high-pitched coo is drop-dead gorgeous, and the bright sparkle of piano and glorious guitars below his sentiments shoot straight into the spine. It’s incredible that Avi Buffalo can completely negate the flaws in their lyricism with such an unforgettable, sprawling melody.

Of course, a guy who can feel confident in publishing lyrics as bizarre as these could drift into some very unfriendly territory if he didn’t include some wholly resounding words in his work. It’s fitting, then, that first single and album opener “So What” has a set of excellent, albeit tangential and spontaneous, lyrics; the Real Estate-like guitar jangle that guides the song is a perfect match to Zahner-Isenberg’s ethereal, hazy vocals. The story told here is a lovelorn one, and the vein of faint melancholy running through this song also aligns nicely with this theme, making for one of At Best Cuckold‘s most enjoyable songs. Elsewhere, the gentle, heartwarming folk rock of “Overwhelmed with Pride” employs dismal descriptions of roads and birds (okay, “And these birds seem so fucking free” is the one bad lyric stuck in this otherwise stunning poem, but let’s not dwell on it). “Can’t Be Too Responsible” also gets by on some pretty solid wordwork, making Zahner-Isenberg’s defeated sighs of “I won’t give in” seem all the realer. An equally deflated guitar line is far more centered than the rest of the song’s instrumentation, and the dejected atmosphere of the song is unforgettably disarming.

In general, At Best Cuckold is an album that’s striking in its balanced sadness. This is perhaps most obvious when hearing its last track, “Won’t Be Around No More”, the album’s most explicitly forlorn tune. A organ-like synth hums lowly in the periphery as Zahner-Isenberg delivers his most steady falsetto on the album; the delicate acoustics of the song’s verses expand slightly into quietly fuzzed, fully heartbroken electrics. Naturally, a clunky lyric pops up here (“I stayed up all night/made sure I was hard/kissed you in the morning/right beside her”), but the track is so emotionally tearing that all its words feel endearing. The more Zahner-Isenberg sings “I won’t be around no more”, the more it becomes believable. In its place as the album’s final statement, it might also mean that this is the last we’ll hear from Avi Buffalo; after all, they did take a four year break of near complete silence between this album and their debut. The woe surrounding this statement will be shared by the listener as At Best Cuckold reaches its close, and this weirdo from Long Beach will have suddenly made connections all across the globe.

In case you were wondering, no, Being is not the work of the woman who is actually Mozart’s sister. Instead, Mozart’s Sister is the alias of Caila Thompson-Hannant, who chose her moniker because the real Mozart’s sister was an underdog and an outsider excluded by her peers. The real figure after whom Thompson-Hannant is named could have left a musical legacy as vast as her brother’s if women had been treated equally to men during their time. Thompson-Hannant feels like “a bit of a loner”, in her own words; although her comparison of this mentality to the sexism Mozart’s sister faced in her time is a bit of a stretch, it clues listeners in to the sounds and feelings pervading Being. With song titles such as “Lone Wolf”, “Do It To Myself (Run Run)”, and “Don’t Leave It To Me”, Thompson-Hannant’s debut explores loneliness in a way that makes it seem like the very essence of her, er, being.

That’s not to say that Mozart’s Sister treats loneliness with disdain. On “Lone Wolf”, she sounds incredibly excited to be “moving through the night”, as the song’s chorus puts it. “The best part about going out/is coming home alone/fuck yeah, I’m fifteen again/living out on my own,” whispers Thompson-Hannant over synths that, despite being some of the Being‘s slinkiest and nocturnal, may also be the album’s most pop-leaning. Likewise, “Do It To Myself (Run Run)” celebrates the personal freedom of not being tied down in a bad relationship, and features robotic, ominous synth work that’s fully appropriate for the topics at hand. But it’s really opener “Good Thing, Bad Thing” that cements her stance: “I like being alone alright” is one of the song’s first lyrics (and thereby one of the album’s first lines).

What ensures that Being is memorable is how precisely its instrumentals match these sentiments. Throughout the album, Thompson-Hannant crafts synthetic soundscapes that are resplendent in their murky darkness and low-rumbling tones. “Enjoy” makes its titular command easy thanks in no small part to the anxious, introverted contrast between its pitter-patter of bleak synthetic sounds and Thompson-Hannant’s pleading, oscillating voice. “A Move”, one of the quieter, more introspective tracks here, matches the album’s most Little Dragon-esque vocal performance with a slowly blossoming field of computer-built nocturne. “Bow a Kiss” especially impacts unforgettably due to its dicey, anxious darkness: the album’s least serious tune by some distance, Thompson-Hannant’s hilarious, out-of-place wails of “street boy, pussy money, pussy money!” are rendered genuine musical material by the song’s frayed, somewhat dance-centered groove. It’s a track that most obviously displays the alignment between words and music on Being: that its most whimsical song is also its most energetic and nervous is no coincidence.

Another artist who might be described as energetic, nervous, and whimsical is Thompson-Hannant’s friend and soundalike Grimes. In fact, when comparing Being to Grimes’ work, the Mozart’s Sister moniker takes on another meaning: living in the shadow of someone close to you. Being‘s main flaw, and one that Mozart’s Sister may continue to face, is that her work exists very specifically in the shadow of Grimes and the sect of art-electronic that she’s inspired since her 2012 masterpiece Visions. For example, “Salty Tear” has Thompson-Hannant focusing on her upper vocal register, filling out a minimal, slow-budding electronic instrumental with chanty, chirping, fairy-like vocals, just as Grimes is known to do. “My House Is Wild” also suffers this plague, although the strength of Thompson-Hannant’s lead vocals here allow listeners to overlook just how similar the peripheral vocal bits sound to the rest of the new art-electronic uprising. “Falf 1”, with a beat that could be a distant cousin of “Genesis”, even more deeply echoes Grimes, but also traces the steps of contemporaries Little Dragon and Santigold. It’s safe to say, then, that Being is stuck primarily in one artist’s shadow, while also briefly hiding in the shade of other established acts.

Luckily, though, Thompson-Hannant seems aware of how similar and often-done her sound is, otherwise Being would fail completely. Instead, it’s a good, but not quite great, album filled with enjoyable songs that aren’t ashamed of their flaws. It’s an interesting type of confidence, since it allows these songs to stick somewhat, yet prevents them from flowing with the uniqueness that ensures the success of truly unforgettable artists. It would be impossible to write a song as hooky and monstrous as “Bow a Kiss” if not for an extensive amount of brazenness and conviction, but Mozart’s Sister will need to improve in these departments for her future releases to stay interesting. For now, though, what we have is enough to appreciate.

The second edition of The Underdog comes during a month that saw an abundance of releases by well-established acts: Spoon, FKA twigs, The New Pornographers, Basement Jaxx, and so forth. But for every big name that put out an album this month, there were dozens of exciting artists whose work found a much smaller audience. Check out this month’s Underdogs here, and travel back in time to July’s Underdogs for more well-hidden gems!

Adebisi Shank – This Is the Third Album of a Band Called Adebisi Shank

Adebisi Shank blend chiptune, math rock, and vocoders into what could be the soundtrack to your favorite arcade action game. Their pummeling, major-key guitars are the sonic equivalent of lasers, and their retro synth sounds sound like how a friendly android might speak. And yeah, that track titled “Chaos Emeralds” is absolutely a reference to Sonic the Hedgehog; Adebisi Shank equates listening to playing, and it’s so much fun. Although their music certainly wouldn’t pass the Voight-Kampff test, it’ll remind you just how great the experience of pure, unfiltered, adolescent joy can be.

Cold Specks – Neuroplasticity

A repeat Underdog, Cold Specks’ Bodies at Bay EP last month merely previewed her elaborate, mystifying Goth-soul sophomore effort, Neuroplasticity. As with the EP, listening to the album quickly becomes a competition for how many new hyphenated genre names one can invent to describe Cold Specks’ incredibly specific, captivating sound. Elements of jazz, soul, post-rock, Gothic rock, and blues abound and fuse into an eerie, soul-sucking backdrop for vocalist Al Spx’ hefty beckon. That Swans’ Michael Gira provides backing vocal harmonies on two of these tracks is perfectly fitting; the addicting unease his band is renowned for pervades Neuroplasticity, an album appropriately titled to rewire your thoughts about genre boundaries.

El May – The Other Person Is You

El May is Australian singer/songwriter Lara Meyerratken; this moniker is how you’d pronounce her name if shortened to L. Mey. It’s a simple, whimsical method for coming up with a name, mirroring the free flow of Meyerratken’s songs. The music on her debut, The Other Person Is You, is catchy and sticky without using much more than some synth pops, tropical flourishes, a linear drumbeat, and Meyerratken’s angelic, flowing voice. Whether as explicitly poppy as “Diamonds, Girl” or as mellow as “Atlantic/Pacific”, the songs on this album offer something for everyone, and would require a host of arrogant vitriol to dislike.

Elephant Stone – The Three Poisons

Elephant Stone may not be a well-known name yet, but it turns out this Canadian threesome’s 2009 debut was long-listed for that year’s Polaris Prize. Five years later, their sophomore album arrives (although there was an EP in 2011). It’s a throwback to the psychedelic classics: in the same way that Temples and early Tame Impala specifically recall Cream and The Beatles, The Three Poisons feels like a lost Pink Floyd or drug-era Beatles album. The very first sound heard on this album is a sitar, of all things; Elephant Stone tell listeners their exact musical goals immediately as the album commences, and deliver on their aspirations across eleven tracks in forty minutes.

Listen to The Tree Poisons

Literature – Chorus

Jangle pop might sometimes be associated with cheesiness, but Literature make it fun without sounding contrived and disingenuous. Their guitar lines are groovy, watery, and optimistic, all qualities that endow their sound with hopefulness, cheerfulness, and a shining, dance-like gleam. That the high-pitched, drawn-out vocals are drenched in reverb actually helps: the effects applied add a surprising amount of emotional depth to the indie party being had here. Their sophomore album is called Chorus for a reason: all twenty-nine minutes of its incredibly short runtime are as memorable and striking as your favorite song’s chorus.

Mozart’s Sister – Being

It’s totally possible that Caila Thompson-Hannant, who performs as Mozart’s Sister, will forever live in friend and musical soundalike Grimes’ shadow. Not enough people have given her full-length debut, Being, a fair chance. It’s definitely a flawed album, but the ominous, rapping beatwork and thoughtfully inane lyrics of “Bow a Kiss” will linger in your head for weeks after hearing it just a few times. “Lone Wolf”, although a tad brighter and more harmonious, achieves the same effect; “Do It To Myself (Run Run)” also achieves this to a lesser extent. Even with the minor missteps of “Salty Tear” and “My House Is Wild” in tow, Being is a solid album that suggests a bright future for Mozart’s Sister, so long as she stops being the Santigold to Grimes’ M.I.A.

Music Go Music – Impressions

Impressions is a very self-aware title for Music Go Music’s second album. Their songs come off as sharp, accurate impressions of their idols, of whom ABBA and Madonna are just a couple of examples. Their sugary, hyperactive disco-funk sound derives from their thumping bass, stellar guitars, and delicate, hefty female dancefloor vocals borrowed from the 1980s. They don’t just wear their influences on their sleeves; instead, they fully occupy them, and the music that follows is catchy, fun, and impossible to ignore.

The Outs – Spiral Dreams EP

As with Elephant Stone’s The Three Poisons from earlier in the list, The Outs’ latest EP displays these Brazilian psychedelic auteurs in a welcoming state of backwards-looking gaze. Psychedelic pop acts of decades past including The Beach Boys, The Beatles, and even Jimi Hendrix lend their legacy to Spiral Dreams’ fuzzy, blurry vision. Over a mere four tracks, it explores the same space its inspirations trekked through years ago, all while making these sounds new and refreshing.

Roadkill Ghost Choir – In Tongues

With spacious acoustics and reverberating, lackadaisical vocals, Roadkill Ghost Choir make great music in a style with which many other artists struggle to succeed. Instead of falling into the various pitfalls of country, western, and folk, on In Tongues, Roadkill Ghost Choir flavor their sound with enough vigor and resonance to capture even the most skeptical of ears. There’s even a psychedelic edge to their folky soundscapes, in the same way that Kurt Vile’s music is a bit trippy. With vocal harmonies and watery, flowering guitar lines abound, In Tongues does weird and wonderful in just the right amounts.

Rubblebucket – Survival Sounds

Fun comes first in Rubblebucket’s world. It’s not sloppy, overproduced fun, though; instead, this seven-piece Brooklyn band use clever arrangements of synths, brass, guitar, percussion, and female vocals to get listeners groovin’ and movin’. Even at its most upbeat and funky, though, the group’s latest album, Survival Sounds, is at its strongest when vocalist Annakalmia Traver takes center stage. Without Traver’s dynamic, adaptable vocals, Rubblebucket would merely record exciting instrumentals rather than playful, taunting pop anthems. That the vocals make all the difference testify that, although Rubblebucket are all fun and games, they also know damn well how to balance fervor with fury.

Benjamin High did not die in vain. His tragic 2007 passing at just 19 years old, far too young an age for anyone to leave us, began to inform Cymbals Eat Guitars’ impressive catalog even before the band caught listeners’ attention with their 2009 debut Why There Are Mountains. High, a member of the long-defunct Green Arrows and briefly a contributor to Why There Are Mountains, met CEG’s frontman Joseph D’Agostino at a basement show in West Caldwell, New Jersey, and the two were instantly best friends; D’Agostino recently described their spark to Wondering Sound as “the equivalent of love at first sight for friends.” Understandably, the sudden, heart shattering loss of such a close companion still afflicts D’Agostino today, but only during the writing of his band’s third effort, appropriately titled LOSE, did he truly feel comfortable approaching his emotions. LOSE is rife with intensely personal lyrics, both in its more tranquil, traditionally gorgeous moments and during its riotous, searing garage rock anthems. The music often remains emotionally striking, even when D’Agostino’s quavering, needy voice obscures his exact words.

LOSE opens with its first single, “Jackson”, an excellent choice for a first track (and single). It firmly establishes the elements the album’s songs will bear: somber pianos, agony-laced guitar strife, unusually stable, affecting vocal work from D’Agostino, specific, storytelling lyrics, and a song structure that’s long, but not needlessly so, form this track’s backbone. “You’re taking two Klonopin/So you can quit flipping/And face our friends” is an incredibly honest group of words to open this song, and thereby the album; delivered in the almost Antlers-like haze of “Jackson”‘s music, it delivers an undeniable blow to the ears.

That “Jackson” is not nearly the only moment of emotional clarity, musical beauty, and ambitious length to appear on LOSE ensures its success. “Place Names” and “Laramie”, respectively six and eight minutes each, bear the intensity, both lyrically and musically, of “Jackson”, and both tracks are album highlights. “Laramie” scoops up a bit of what’s made CEG’s previous two albums great — the grey, moody, Modest Mouse-like atmospherics of Lenses Alien in its first half, the berserk yelping and frantic synth-guitar interplay of Why There Are Mountains‘ “…And The Hazy Sea” in its second half — and blends these traits together into an impactful tune. “Place Names”, which bears one of LOSE‘s most memorable choruses, begins as merely a draft of a thought, and ends six minutes later in a spectacle of chilling, Local Natives-esque oohs and aahs. “For the last year you lived/You slept in your parents’ bed”, D’Agostino laments among a sea of swirling, phasing guitars, in just one instance of the riveting forwardness that pervades this track.

Even the shortest tracks on LOSE cram unsettling, intimate details into their short runtime. “XR” is LOSE‘s shortest track, but it may be the album’s most direct-from-the-diary story. Details such as the well-esteemed New Jersey record store Vintage Vinyl, a low-profile Wrens show, and the cult film Faces of Death feature in its lyrics, which also directly address “Ben [High]’s Myspace grave.” However, these specifics can be hard to discern without a lyrics sheet, given the filters applied to D’Agostino’s yelping, mad vocals; further, D’Agostino wrote “XR” specifically to be played in sweaty college basements, so its high-tempo guitar work and plastered harmonica blasts introduce a whole ton of wild fun at the cost of lyrical audibility.

“XR” is really the only track where the lyrical murkiness consistently presents a problem. “Chambers” and “Warning” definitely present small moments when it can be tough to decide what D’Agostino is saying, but their melodic, straightforward instrumentals perform a lot of the work over in the feelings department. In particular, “Warning” is a straight shot of musical adrenaline to the veins, as it would be even if the words to its chorus could be understood without a lyrics sheet. A searing, aggressive piece of shoegaze-indebted garage rock, it stands directly opposite the equally potent “Child Bride”, which barely boasts a guitar at all. Instead, pianos, orchestral strings, and D’Agostino’s heartbreaking vocals form this unforgettable tale about how a friend’s early years of child abuse proved a gateway to current drug abuse.

Most of LOSE is drenched in sounds so harrowing that their words, despite their importance, wind up playing second fiddle. Although this statement sounds like a backhanded insult, it’s actually a compliment. This quality turns out to be the album’s saving grace, a trait more easily realized when listening to the album’s last two tracks, which are its least interesting songs. “LifeNet” gives an underwhelming vocal performance from D’Agostino, although the lyric “getting laid in the black sand” isn’t an image that listeners will forget anytime soon. In its place directly following “Chambers” on the album, it just sounds like a less thoroughly worked-over version of its predecessor, since they really contain the same musical approaches. “2 Hip Soul” follows “LifeNet”, an excellent sequencing choice since it’s the slowest, moodiest tune on LOSE. But this is still a mode that CEG have yet to perfect: D’Agostino’s vocals, although often delicate, are just a bit too weak here, and the song suffers for it. Its most exciting part, its final two minutes, has no words. An instrumental riot of noise pop guitar work and a barrage of, er, cymbals, frame this segment of the song, ensuring that LOSE ends with a bang.

An album this imposing deserves to end on a grand, mountainous note, as it does. LOSE may not be a perfect album, but its tiny cluster of flaws doesn’t reduce the impact of its songs, even when their size shrouds their sentiments. No, these are truly skyscrapers of songs, tunes that reach all the way up to heaven. And up there, somewhere in the sky, Benjamin High is smiling — no, beaming — down upon LOSE and Joseph D’Agostino, just as he has been for seven years now.

Is FKA twigs human, or is she dancer? “I can’t recognize me”, she sighs at the end of “Video Girl”, a song that expresses her disdain towards sometimes being more noticed for her dancing in the background of two Jessie J videos, among others, than for her thriving music career. It seems that twigs herself, real name Tahliah Barnett, only sees the dancer in her, but LP1, her eagerly awaited debut, suggests she’s more human than most, despite the mysterious persona she’s cultivated since last year’s cherished EP2. Outside of “Video Girl”, LP1’s lyrics touch on sexuality and emotional intimacy in a stark, honest way, and her music, despite its jagged, eerie feel, is innately sensual and wholly resounding.

Both lyrically and sonically, the content of LP1 is a continuation of EP2. Past songs like “Water Me” and “Papi Pacify” now seem like stepping stones towards excellent tracks including “Pendulum” and “Give Up.” The disorienting, almost uncomfortable R&B of “Water Me” preludes the slithering background noise of “Pendulum”, and both songs explore unmet desires in a sexual partnership. Likewise, the expansive murkiness of “Papi Pacify” bleeds into “Give Up”, whose command of “Just nod your head and give up” doesn’t stray far from “Clarify your love” on “Papi Pacify.” What’s most clear when comparing the new tracks to their predecessors, is that Barnett has now refined EP2’s combined package of lust, desolation, and smokiness into a sound even stronger than her already haughty past works.

In fact, most of LP1 is sticky and irresistible, exactly as the lovers described in FKA twigs’ songs. “Video Girl” is slinky and subtle, but it’s impossible to get unstuck from your head after just a few listens. “Lights On” at first appears choppy and frenetic, but it quickly rearranges into a breathy, striking earworm. “Numbers”, one of the album’s more upfront, immediate moments, may at first dismay listeners seeking a tune as well-flowing as EP2’s “How’s That”, but it soon grows into a ballistic, hyper-tense tale of lovelorn regret. It doesn’t come without a veiled threat, though; Barnett refuses to merely express her anger, opting instead to also act on it with the question, “Tonight, do you want to live or die?”

Even when she’s hurt, Barnett remains in control of the situations she’s placed in, so it’s even more thrilling to hear her in a confident place of complete power. “Two Weeks”, LP1’s celestial standout and a hefty contender for Song of the Year, backs Barnett’s salacious boasting and unrestricted lust with her most uncomplicated, accessible production work to date. The trap drum flickers that appear every so often accentuate her already potent words: “higher than a motherfucker dreaming of you as my lover” is one of the year’s most unforgettable phrases, and the silken synth spikes underlying it swell its impact to undeniable proportions.

Sure, “Two Weeks” is excessive in its profanity and pretty much everything else, but this risky overindulgence is a massive success. It’s also LP1’s most maximalist, obtrusive track; it stands opposite the majority of the album, and casts a shadow over it. For example, the placement of “Hours” after “Two Weeks” makes its restrained, low-key electronics easy to gloss over; that it’s also the lead-up to “Pendulum” sure doesn’t help. “Closer” feels like it could explode into a sonic bliss similar to “Two Weeks”, but never quite gets there. Final track “Kicks” suffers mildly from the same plague, although its unwinding song structure and sexual loneliness, to be overly euphemistic, do entertain quite well.

It’s on this final track that FKA twigs asks, “What do I do when you’re not here?” After listening to LP1 only a handful of times, it’s inevitable to apply this question to the album. Few albums this summer have been as simultaneously perplexing, disquieting, intimate, gorgeous, and memorable as this one. What did we do without this album?

Bell’s Roar began with just a guitar and a voice. Over the years Sean Desiree has transformed her solo project by fully taking advantage of her skills as a drummer, bassist, and ultimately a producer. Her approach to music is DIY not because of its aesthetic, but because of how she keeps her voice ever-present. The music is rooted in a melodic feel, but the beats transform her songs into energetic and dynamic electronic compositions.

Her debut Bell’s Roar EP is a forceful and sensitive collection of six beautiful and personal songs and which was recently mentioned in our Underdog column. Elements of loopy post-rock guitars, hip-hop beats, and R&B vocals combine with an ease and minutia equity suited for the dance floor, living room, or headphones. If the talent Sean Desiree shows on this debut is any indication of what is to come, we will be hearing a lot from her. The vocals, guitar layering and synth-driven beats are best described as synth-pop/post-rock/soul. The album also features Kiran Gandhi, MIA’s drummer for her Matangi tour.

Sean Desiree recently spoke to me about the origins and themes of the EP, develop her own sound, dissecting song meanings, and the key to turning the EP into the final product and much more.

On your Bandcamp, you describe yourself as an instrumentalist. On songs like “Slow” and “Step Up, Step Back”, how many of the instruments are you playing? Which is your favorite to play?
On “Slow” and “Step Up, Step Back” I play mostly everything you hear. I play the guitar, bass, synths, and do backup vocals. The drums on “Step Up, Step Back” are synths. The drums on “Slow” are a mixture of both synths and live drums done by Cedar Apffel, the producer, and myself. There’s a bass synth line in “Slow” and a guitar part in “Cover in Red” and “I Know” that was added in by Cedar. My favorite instruments are guitar and drums.

To me, your music is gorgeous thanks in no small part to how minimal it is. The most obvious elements are the click track, the guitar, and your voice. Is this minimalism intentional, used to convey maximum emotion, or is it just a symptom of your songwriting approach?
It’s just the way I write music. I think because my music started as a singer-songwriter project with just guitar and vocals, those two end up getting highlighted.

Your guitar tone is really incredible. It’s dreamy, emotive, and a tad unsettling, but it’s also restrained and tense, feeling like it could explode forward at any given moment. How do you achieve this – is it a recording technique, guitar pedals, etc.?
I’m in love with the sound of the guitar. I layer harmonies and rhythms on top of each other and seek to find points of harmony and dissonance. A lot of my songwriting takes place in the wee hours and I think that’s conducive to allowing yourself to be emotionally vulnerable. Cedar and I worked together to craft the actual texture of the guitar.

The way you apply guitar in your songs seems like it might be informed by jazz and soul music. What kind of music did you listen to in your formative years? Did this music lead you to pick up the guitar, or did you start with a different instrument and make the transition later?
My early childhood was filled with music of my parents and grandparents’ generation. Motown, jazz, soca, disco and R&B were the most present. I first picked up the guitar to play songs by bands like No Doubt and Nirvana.

Your voice is incredibly flexible, and you have a great sense of command over it. Were you ever formally trained? If not, how did you form your voice into the powerful instrument it is today?
I never really believed in my voice and was incredibly shy about it. I played in another band before this in which I rarely sung. It wasn’t until I started writing music for myself that I began to develop my own sound and confidence. I was never formally trained but would like to do that. I believe my voice has a lot more to offer.

When I listen to your music, I’m reminded only tangentially of other musicians – even though Bell’s Roar is still a relatively new project, you’ve already given it its own unique sound. This makes your influences difficult to pinpoint, but I’m interested in knowing what genres and musicians they are since they’ve resulted in such a specific sound.
I don’t feel like I’m truly influenced by a particular sound. There are bands I like, such as Santigold, Radiohead, Lauryn Hill, etc., but I don’t see myself as them. I feel like my uniqueness comes from years of building my ideas and writing everything myself. There’s not that much outside influence with my project, so it’s a genuine expression of myself. Of course I am influenced by others but it’s not in such a direct way. I am finding it challenging to not fit into a genre because most bookers, music bloggers, etc. want to know how to place you and to make comparisons.

Your name is a tribute to feminist writer bell hooks. How has her writing affected your lyricism? Has she affected how you approach creating music?
My writing to some extent. I read her because she speaks about issues that reflect my core beliefs. She focuses on the intersections of race, capitalism, and gender and how they perpetuate systems of oppression. My lyrics have that theme and I allow myself to speak freely about being queer because I will not let the music industry oppress my self-expression.

It’s clear that Cedar Apffel, who produced your album and has produced many others, did a great job here. How significant was his contribution to the final mood and sound of the album? What exactly did he contribute?
He was key to turning it into the final product. I came to him with demos that I made with Logic Pro and the quality was ok, but not great. All I had at my disposal were Logic amp samples and synth sounds. I was planning on releasing it just as that, but he really loved the music and wanted to re-record everything. So within the course of meeting maybe 8 times I re-recorded all guitar, bass and vocals with him creating the tone. He also added his ideas as far as arrangement. I am greatly appreciative of that because I’m doing this alone and sometimes I’m unsure and need constructive criticism.

Apart from the dreaminess and minimalism in your music, I feel like there’s a good amount of sadness and ache in it. Do you do this to match the mood of your lyrics? Is it a result of the tone, space, and tempo you give your guitar? Is it some of both?
The guitar is usually the basis of my songs and it is where I get the tone. The music sometimes works with the mood of the music and sometimes it has nothing to do with it. “I Know” is an example of music first and lyrics second. The music has a lot of energy and happiness while the lyrics are about abuse. “Slow” is where they work well together. There’s a lot of emotion in both. I think a lot of mainstream music uses the formula of having the two match, but I believe conveying a message while getting people to dance is powerful.

It really does seem like these lyrics are incredibly personal to you. In listening to the EP, I had trouble pinpointing which track is closest to your heart. So I want to ask, which of these songs holds the most meaning for you?
It’s between “Slow”, “I Know” and “Ancestors.” “Slow” is obviously about the love of my life. “I Know” is about my experience with abuse. “Ancestors” is a tribute to the lives of my ancestors. “I Know” may have a bit more meaning because it’s something I don’t talk about publicly but was able to write about.

The new album has extensive use of vocal harmonies. When you’re writing your lyrics, do you ever imagine certain words being sung by more than one layer of voice, or is that a decision you make after crafting the instrumental?
It’s both. Pretty soon after I have the lyrics or melody other sounds come into my head. Cedar and Alisa [Sikelianos-Carter, my partner] also added in ideas.

I think one of the most interesting and universally relatable lyrics comes from “Covered in Red”: “You can’t pay me to be/something that I can’t see/and if you’re like that/you better fight back.” It’s a lyric that could be applied to all sorts of situations in life, and the song’s other lyrics suggest what specifically you’re talking about, but I’d like you to elaborate on it more now, if you can.
The song has two meanings really, or it’s two songs in one. I have the most difficult time with lyrics. I love writing the music and melody for vocals but sometimes I have my partner, Alisa Sikelianos-Carter help me write the lyrics. The song started out being about my tendency to shutdown in relationships. I sometimes have a hard time being vulnerable and will hold back my feelings. I’m trying to overcome that. The lyrics you brought up were from the other version talking about societies brainwashing and oppression. However, they relate because most of my fear of being open comes from my fear of judgement and feeling less than.

Is the title “Covered in Red” implying that you’re covered in blood? To me, none of the lyrics in the song could suggest that, but I want to know if I’ve missed something.
This song was revised a few times and the original version had a chorus with lyrics that talked about being covered in red as being covered in blood. Once the lyrics got removed I never thought of redoing the title. I loved the name and the song just became “Covered in Red” no matter what the lyrics were.

How has your sound changed since Bell’s Roar started? Do you have any sort of future vision for it, or are you just going to take your creativity as it comes to you?
It has expanded from my voice and guitar to a more realized vision of my music. This initial EP gets out the concept of the project, but I believe further development of who I am as a musician will only bring forth more creativity.

In the years that Bell’s Roar has been alive, how often have you played live? Have you toured at all? Do you have any upcoming shows planned?
I have performed live pretty rarely up until this point. I have done 2 short tours, one in the Northwest and the other in Germany. Now that I released my first album I plan on spending a lot of my time booking and performing. I would love to sustain myself off of doing what I love. To get to that point I have to introduce people to my music and hopefully it resonates.

Welcome to The Underdog, a new column here at Way Too Indie! Each month we’ll collect and highlight the best new indie releases. Our aim here is to expose readers to great new music they may not have been aware of otherwise. We intend to cover music that we believe doesn’t get as much attention as it deserves, hence the title of this column: The Underdog. With that in mind, let’s begin!

Bell’s Roar – Bell’s Roar EP

Sean Desiree alternates her home between New York City and Albany, but there’s no wavering in her music. As Bell’s Roar, she creates eerie, R&B-infused dream pop that will affect any listener with even a semblance of a soul. On her debut EP, guitars sparkle and emote, drums pitter and patter, and Desiree pours her very essence into her gorgeous, unequivocally moving vocal performance. “In my heart, I’m feeling sore,” she laments on “Ancestors”; that she’s already this emotionally invested on merely her debut EP suggests that this singer-songwriter only has more greatness to offer in the near future.

Boytoy – Boytoy EP

Name every modern rock trend you can think of: garage, surf, power pop, lo-fi, and so forth. Boytoy have synthesized their own brand of music from all these themes; rather than sounding like a rip-off of past successes, they advance a rockin’ approach that makes the band’s debts clear without explicitly copying them. “Shallow Town” is a throwback to garage and surf, and a riotous, undeniably catchy anthem; “Blazed” is the world’s millionth stoner anthem, but it’s also a sticky earworm of a jam. In an era where so many garage and punk bands find themselves stuck in their forebears’ shadows, Boytoy have their own wonderful charm.

Cold Specks – Bodies at Bay EP

Post-punk and post-rock are established genres, but what about post-soul and post-jazz? Cold Specks make a case for both these labels (although, concession, more genre labels are most certainly not needed). Vocalist Al Spx sings with a lounge-imbued, soulful tone, and her smoky, subdued brass arrangements and jazz-indebted percussion and atmospherics aid in outlining just how haunting her voice is. “Absisto”, a highlight from her recently released Bodies at Bay EP, showcases her strengths boldly: trombones, watery keyboards, and wispy percussion bolster fervent vocals. A bit more than halfway through the song, a brief period of silence precedes an instrumental explosion, a moment that’s a nice metaphor for the joy of listening to this EP.

Field Mouse – Hold Still Life

Shoegaze’s three-decade-or-so run has succeeded in no small part because the genre’s guitar-vocal interplay provides an innate emotional connection. Field Mouse know this all too well, as they craft nearly every track on Hold Still Life with roaring six-string attack and vulnerable, ductile, high-pitched female vocals. The biggest complaint an album like this will inevitably receive is that it’s too familiar and repetitive, but tunes as pointed as “Everyone But You”, “Bright Lights”, and “Tomorrow Is Yesterday” excuse some of the flaws. An imperfect listen, but a sprawling and enjoyable one nonetheless. Check out our review of Hold Still Life.

Junk Riot – Headache

“Excuse me?” would be an appropriate initial reaction to the following true statement: Junk Riot sound like Savages and the Rapture. Surely, a band comparable to these completely distinct acts must have an intensely unique sound; in that regard, and in many others, they don’t disappoint. The hyperactive, shrill synths and guitar-bent dance-punk of The Rapture and other mid-2000s DFA acts meets the outsider female post-punk ferocity and darkness of Savages and their obvious ancestors (Siouxsie and the Banshees, Patti Smith). Complete with a blatant Stooges interpolation on “How It Goes”, this is the most harrowing and hardcore dance-punk has ever sounded.

Kestrels – The Moon Is Shining Our Way EP

I’m not sure whether constantly referring to Loveless when I write about shoegaze is merely lazy journalism, or if it’s genuinely inevitable since it really is a seminal record for the genre. Either way, it’s utterly necessary to mention it when talking about this EP by Kestrels: in the twenty-three years since Loveless‘ release, arguably no other act has so perfectly pinpointed Kevin Shields’ guitar tone and Bilinda Butcher’s vocal dreariness. It’s almost like Shields lent his pedalboard to Kestrels, and it actually sounds incredible. That constant flange and whammy tone pervades The Moon Is Shining Our Way, a direct, searing document whose only true flaw is brevity.

Ladi6 – Automatic

“Electrosoul” is a term that’s been bounced around in recent years to describe acts as diverse as Frank Ocean, Jai Paul, and even Matthew Dear. Yet none of the artists to fall under this umbrella have quite sounded like Ladi6, whose Automatic amounts to little more than classic soul redone with psychedelic synths. Erykah Badu’s legacy smiles widely over this record: deep, raspy, low-pitched female vocals meet the past half-decade’s advent of bedroom-produced trip-hop, resulting in an unexpectedly specific sound. It’s a style you have to hear to believe, and Automatic will hook you from the first listen.

The Muffs – Whoop Dee Doo

The Muffs are surf punks, sweet and simple. Their strong, overdriven power chords and power pop melodies instantly gratify over the course of the standard two to four minutes per song. But what sticks out the most about this band (and a sweet spot is helpful, maybe even necessary, when dealing with such a tried-and-true style) is how obviously bad their vocalist is. Many of the most memorable vocalists are remarkable partly because it’s near-certain they’d sound terrible without music backing them: Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Julian Casablancas, Dan Bejar, Britt Daniel, the dudes from The Rapture and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Add The Muffs to this list of acts that rightfully get away with murder.

Toasted Plastic – TP/ST EP

In the summer of 2011, Ridgewood, NJ’s most successful act, dream pop wunderkinds Real Estate, returned to their hometown for a free show featuring the town’s resident math punks, Toasted Plastic. At the time, they couldn’t have chosen many groups with a sound so diametrically opposed to their own; three years later, Toasted Plastic are looking a bit more melodic and straightforward with TP/ST. Their usual bouts of mathy spasms persist throughout this EP’s four songs, but there are also plenty of calmer passages guided by warm guitars and steady rhythms. It’s not an album for those who suffer musical vertigo, so to speak, but the dizzying thrills presented here will spin anyone right ’round.

The Wytches – Annabel Dream Reader

A self-described “surf psych” band, England’s Wytches adorn slowed-down garage rhythms with classic post-punk shades, surf swagger, and lo-fi recording techniques. It’s the sound of a surf-punk haunted house, equal parts harrowing, thorny, groovy, and brash. “She took all of your mind!” shouts Annabel Dream Reader‘s opening track, “Digsaw” (or maybe it’s “money”, not “mind”?); by the end of this album, The Wytches will have taken the same from most of their listeners.

A shoegaze band named Field Mouse. At first glance, things couldn’t be any more typical, right? Here’s yet another female-fronted, searingly emotive band taking cues directly from My Bloody Valentine; here’s yet another band with the word “Field” in the name (try not to get them confused with The Field or especially Field Music); here’s yet another band with the word “Mouse” in the name (if you haven’t heard of deadmau5 or Modest Mouse, can you teach me how not to feel restless without an internet connection?). Inspecting more closely, though, Field Mouse are a foursome with a simultaneous playfulness and dreariness all their own, despite these traits’ clear influences. Their latest album, Hold Still Life, is a gorgeous, moving display of how tactfully they dabble in well-covered terrain, although this tendency can occasionally prove problematic.

Hold Still Life immediately declares its intentions and influences, leaving no doubt as to what its listeners will encounter over its not-quite-forty-minute runtime. “A Place You Return to in a Dream” is a wise choice for an opening track, its bleak guitar roar and wispy, nasal female vocals dipping into an alternate world where Loveless is several shades darker. “Tomorrow Is Yesterday” follows, and its trippy title hints at the hallucinatory nature of this track. It’s also a great continuation of “Place”‘s motifs: restrained but blossoming guitar roars straddle the borderline between shoegaze and garage rock as vocalist Rachel Browne muses ethereally.

The songwriting methodology of “Place” and “Tomorrow” reaches its apex on album highlight “Everyone But You”, Hold Still Life‘s most outrightly sugary moment. A small glimmer of light breaks through the intro’s expansive guitars, ensuring that the chorus’s incredibly dark, haunting chorus lands as an unforgettable surprise. Browne remains restrained in her delivery, yet undeniably establishes a gut connection. Actually, this innate bond is felt often throughout the album: “Reina” and “Horizon City” are two of many similar songs here that, despite being a bit predictable, still succeed in their goal of aiming for the heart.

Redundancy is Hold Still Life‘s main problem, and it’s one that could have possibly been avoided if its tracks were presented in a different order. The album is pretty consistent until its ninth track, “Bright Lights”, a drop-dead gorgeous slow-burner that reminisces of mosquitoes buzzing, industrial lights shining on a broken sunset, and adolescent heartbreak. It’s an unexpected sound for Field Mouse, and it pays off in spades: its eerie but endearing guitar sparkle strengthens Browne’s graceful, deft vocal performance. “Kids”, the album’s only percussion-less tune, follows two tracks later; it’s another track that’s memorable simply for how different it is. Were these two songs placed earlier in the album, it might well be a more satisfying listen.

Or maybe the problem is that, overall, Hold Still Life is almost too consistent. Distinguishing “Happy” from “Asteroid” isn’t always an easy task; the first handful of tracks, with the exception of the new-wave-indebted “Two Ships”, sound only slightly different from one another. This uniformity isn’t nearly the worst of problems an album can have; in this case, Field Mouse’s songwriting is strong enough to render it only a mild setback. Hold Still Life certainly has no bad tracks, just a few too many similar moments. It’s nevertheless a great document from a worthwhile group, but one that suggests that it’s better to grab life by the horns than to hold it still.

I have to hand it to music critics, myself included to an extent: this year, we’ve become masters of overhyping albums that really aren’t all that great. A painful reminder of this trend comes around this time of year, since it’s already halfway over: music writers ask, “Where did the time go?” and answer this inquiry with lists of their favorite albums to be released so far during the year. Many readers who are constantly immersed in the music blogosphere learn nothing new from these lists, since the same group of albums is discussed for reasons that describe nothing about their sound. Rather, opinions on albums that are actually pretty weak are shrouded in obtuse references and pretentious ideology, guarding a questionable opinion in words that make it sound reasonable.

Way Too Indie seeks to write about how music viscerally and genuinely affects listeners rather than discussing abstract topics not wholly connected to the sound. For this reason, we’ve also chosen to publish a list of our favorites of the year so far, with the intention of discussing why they sound good, not what makes them philosophical masterpieces. This is an unranked list; it doesn’t seek to create competition for a top spot. Instead, it aims to point out a group of genuinely engaging, moving albums that we think listeners will genuinely enjoy. It also serves to expose readers to music they may not yet be aware of, and to introduce new art to our audience. We’ll be thrilled if you like the albums we’ve gathered here, but we’d also be more than happy to hear dissenting opinions. Please remember while reading this list: music is a purely subjective experience, and the goal of a music writer should merely be to spread the joy of listening, not to dictate what is good and bad taste.

In alphabetical order, here are our favorite albums of the year so far. We hope we can convince you to give these a listen.

Way Too Indie’s Best Albums of 2014 (So Far)

Angel Olsen – Burn Your Fire For No Witness

Angel Olsen caught a small handful of critics’ attention with her early releases of barren, haunting lo-fi folk. On Burn Your Fire for No Witness, elements of this sound still abound, but her new full band setup has allowed her to expand into previously uncovered territory. Burn is punchier, thornier, and often louder than anything in Olsen’s past; these qualities endow its lovelorn lyrics, which are a bit craftier than the words so often employed to describe these emotions, with a viable weapon to strike listeners’ ears and hearts.

The album’s first four minutes showcase Burn‘s two extremes with two different songs. The brief, percussion-less introductory track “Unfucktheworld” is a restricted, major-key, lo-fi folk tune which never once swears. It leads directly into “Forgiven/Forgotten”, in every way the opposite of “Unfucktheworld”: a bombastic percussive stomp is accompanied by equally forceful guitars and aching vocals. The album thereafter occupies either of these two states, treading the folk path on the breathtaking seven-minute “White Fire” and many of the less memorable ending tracks, and remaining electric on highlights such as “Hi-Five” and the album’s midsection.

It’s the midsection that I keep coming back to, actually: the three-punch blow of “High and Wild”, “Lights Out”, and “Stars” is matched by few albums I’ve heard. Angel Olsen’s breathy, almost faceless musing over the first of these tracks’ bouncing pianos and twangy guitars is instantly gripping. As the song progresses, Olsen’s vocals become far more emotive and engaging, and it goes out on a bang of low-pitched guitar lines, pounding percussion, and hyperactive pianos. “Lights Out” calms down thereafter, but is no less chilling: its cathedral-sized, pain-laced electric guitar strums accentuate Olsen’s story. The subtle shift in feel from the verses to the chorus in this song is devastating, and amplifies what might be the album’s most memorable and relatable lyric: “Some days all you need is one good thought strong in your mind.” The guitar-solo-that’s-not-quite-a-solo ending this song slowly introduces the ache embodied by follow-up “Stars”: “I think you like to see me lose my mind/you treat me like a child, I’m angry, blind” is maybe the most devastating couplet on record this year, matched only by the second verse’s “Well you could change my mind with just a smile.” The defeated guitars and PJ Harvey-esque vocal mannerisms opening the song lead to a harrowing but triumphant chorus, and Olsen rarely sounds more in control of her emotions. At the end of it all, it sounds like the Fire is slowly being put out.

Ava Luna – Electric Balloon

“Everybody says we’re talkin’/about the new sweet thang!” Becca Kaufman chirps on “Sears Roebuck M&Ms”, the inexplicably titled second track on Ava Luna’s sophomore effort Electric Balloon. She’s wrong, though: Ava Luna are the new sweet thang, and very few people are talking about them. Their Facebook page has fewer than six thousand likes, a testament to their relatively small audience. If more people heard Electric Balloon, this crowd would probably expand rapidly. With a sound that’s dangerously similar to supremely successful acts like Deerhoof, Dirty Projectors, and even Pixies, Ava Luna skillfully walk the line between blatantly copying their forebears and invigoratingly coalescing their styles into one savory, idiosyncratic blend.

“Daydream” opens Electric Balloon with a punk frenzy and throaty snarl ripped straight from Doolittle‘s recipe book, but sounds fresh and exciting thanks to its off-kilter rhythms and free-spirit female backing vocals. “Sears Roebuck M&Ms” is a funky strut down Deerhoof lane, but its alternating playful and armed vocals are an entirely more entrapping animal. “Crown” slowly expands from a self-described “nervous soul” jam into a bile-laced assortment of Dirty Projectors-like female vocal harmonies and vocalist Carlos Hernandez’ crazed wails of “I need a man!” These are merely the album’s first three tracks: in this short time, they brightly display the tinkering with their ancestors’ sounds that continues throughout Electric Balloon‘s funky, unpredictable, scattershot, addicting forty minutes.

For a one-song sampling of what makes Electric Balloon such an adventure, check “Plain Speech”: a ridiculously funky, arhythmic guitar line leads to vocals so intense you can envision the saliva shooting out from between Hernandez’ teeth, continuing for long enough to make the transition to its fuzzy, soul-indebted chorus 100% unexpected and successful. The song veers back and forth between these extremes at the most surprising times, and in the most unpredictable ways. It’s equal parts beautiful, riling, raucous, and skillful, and attests to the simultaneous oddity and spontaneity that make Electric Balloon such a thrill ride.

Cloud Nothings – Here and Nowhere Else

“I’m losing it, but what do I care?” shouts Cloud Nothings’ vocalist and chief songwriter Dylan Baldi during “Giving Into Seeing”, the fifth track on the band’s fourth and best album Here and Nowhere Else. This line briefly summarizes the entirety of the album’s lyrical themes: in just over half an hour, Baldi makes it clear that he has, for once, succeeded at moving past a shattered relationship. It’s Cloud Nothings’ most optimistic album to date, but it never sacrifices the bleakness and noise of their breakout Attack on Memory.

Here and Nowhere Else delves further into the berserk, noisy catharsis suggested by its predecessor. The percussion on this album is technically godly, the guitar work often abruptly shifts from melodic and gorgeous to extremely abrasive and dissonant, the tempo is rarely stable throughout the course of a song, and the veil of darkness shrouding Attack on Memory has been lightened. Lead single “I’m Not Part of Me” is thrilling in its sunnier take on Attack‘s already thrilling sound; “No Thoughts” is a Nevermind-reminiscent garage rock joy; “Quieter Today” is a masterclass in tempo and dynamic shifts.

Above all, though, these cathartic punk anthems are just catchy. Even “Psychic Trauma”, the album’s noisiest and most jagged tune, is undeniably poppy. “My mind is always wasted listening to you,” Baldi muses during this song’s chorus; luckily for fans, the exact opposite of this statement holds true while hearing Here and Nowhere Else.

How to Dress Well – “What Is This Heart?”

“What Is This Heart?” (yes, the quotation marks are part of the title) was heavily hyped by a small crowd of critics before being shot down by a larger group upon its release. There’s no denying that it lacks consistency — the 80s acoustics of “Repeat Pleasure” doesn’t belong on the same album as the glitchy trip-hop/R&B of “Very Best Friend” — and that it’s got a few unenjoyable tunes, but when this album succeeds, it strikes unforgettably.

Ignore the painful mistake that is “2 Years On”, this album’s opener, and you’re led to “What You Wanted” and “Face Again”, two deeply affecting R&B tunes with darkly crafted edges. Tracks like “A Power” and the almost groovy “Very Best Friend” continue in this path, the best of “WITH?”‘s several directions, excusing the cheesiness of a song like “Precious Love.” It’s “Words I Can’t Remember” that best attests to what this album can achieve when it’s properly focused: its fusion of vocal glitches, smoky synths, and haunting vocals draw out emotions that are bound to captivate listeners. That this album hosts enough tracks with this power excuses the assortment of questionable moments scattered throughout, and demands at least a few listens, if not more.

Hundred Waters – The Moon Rang Like a Bell

The Moon Rang Like a Bell is probably the year’s most subtle album so far. It dabbles in the minimal art-rock territory that the xx opened in 2009, and does so with a breathy, entrapping flair. Primarily vocal-based tracks like “Murmurs” and “Broken Blue” are held together by a relatively bare, but not quite absent, set of pianos, synths, and percussion. Elsewhere, soaring tunes like “Cavity”, “Xtalk”, and “[Animal]” emerge, expertly switching between subdued and more forward states in an artful way.

Even more impressive than how well these tunes are crafted is vocalist and lyricist Nicole Miglis’ use of emotion. These are all songs that are obviously near and dear to her heart, yet she never drowns listeners in pain. Both her voice and her band’s music are structured so that it would be impossible not to innately connect with the feelings presented; in other words, the music and the words get equal weight, yet the volume of these songs never overwhelms. A great example of this is “Down From the Rafters”, a song that adds and subtracts sonic layers often, and does so without muddling the message Miglis is sending. “Every morning’s like a climb from the rafters,” sighs Miglis in one of more than a few moments of heartfelt honesty. This trait is possibly Moon‘s most endearing quality: it’s an album that stares you straight in the face and tells you how it feels, both with words and with sounds. If you don’t hear what Hundred Waters is saying, you might just want to listen more closely — it’s there.

Kelis – Food

It’s impossible to discuss anything Kelis has done since 2003 without some mention of “Milkshake.” It’s a song she still plays live, one that she calls “super fun” and isn’t embarrassed about. It’s a great song, but it’s not at all representative of where she’s at now. Food, her most recent release, is a neo-soul album infused with brass instruments, funk rhythms, and jazz sparks, but it’s no less enjoyable than “Milkshake.” In fact, some of her most tender moments to date are captured here.

Food is Kelis’ first record for an independent label, Ninja Tune; as such, only she and her two collaborators (as compared to the vast array of names who contributed to, say, Flesh Tone) control what’s here. With TV on the Radio’s Dave Sitek and composer/arranger Todd Simon at her side, Kelis commands an army of emotive, unguarded sounds. Smoky soul tunes such as “Breakfast”, “Floyd”, and “Runner” directly impact receptive ears; riskier, less traditional tunes such as “Fish Fry” and “Cobbler” are equally as captivating. Kelis treads quite a few paths on Food, and often with a great deal of success: after she claims “We got this!” on opener “Jerk Ribs”, she spends the rest of the album proving it.

Makthaverskan – II

“Fuck you, fuck you!” To hear a woman whose first language isn’t English bitterly wailing this statement over roaring, windy guitars and cutting percussion is a fantastic way to start an album. II, the second (duh) album from these five Swedes, instantly declares that it doesn’t give a damn about subtlety. No instrument or lyric is ever restricted: over thirty-three minutes, Makthaverskan present an exercise in bluntness.

II is crystal clear in every way imaginable. The arrangements and production are near-perfect, and every instrument receives the proper space. The guitars range from atmospheric to pummeling, yet never lose their new wave speckle; the drums are gripping even at their most blurry; Maja Milner’s vocals cut through any and all instrumentals that her band provides.

Milner’s vocals are the true clincher here. A small sampling of her lyrics gets the point across: “It’s not me you’re dreaming of!” (“Asleep”); “Let me take off/this shirt and we’ll make love” (“Slowly Sinking”); “You outshine them all!” (“Outshine”); “Fuck you for fucking me/when I was seventeen!” (“No Mercy”). That last line is a great representation of what makes II so excellent: despite English being her second language, Milner chooses her simple words precisely, and sings them more clearly than a good number of native speakers. Their fierceness matches the intensity of her band, ensuring that II won’t be forgotten any time soon.

St. Vincent – St. Vincent

St. Vincent, real name Annie Clark, is arguably the most blogged about artist of the year so far, although she’s been doing this for a while. It’s incredible to see how far she’s come since her timid, eerie 2007 debut Marry Me; that album, a doe-eyed collection of oddball love songs, couldn’t have possibly predicted the confidence and otherworldliness of her self-titled fourth effort. It’s an album that received enough attention to earn her a musical guest slot on SNL, and one the likes of which we may never encounter again.

“Rattlesnake” is an excellent choice to begin this journey: its Atari percussion and wobbly, funky synths immediately declare that this is an extraterrestrial album, and it’s feet-shaking guitar riff builds to a star-shooting solo that’s as enthralling as an interplanetary tour. “Birth in Reverse” follows, absolutely exploding into the new world crafted by its predecessor: it’s easily the most technical guitar work she’s ever showcased, and it’s probably the most electrifying song of both her career and the year thus far. Songs like “Digital Witness”, “Bring Me Your Loves” and “Every Tear Disappear” continue this fucked-up funk stutter, each one proudly displaying the stamp of former tourmate David Byrne’s influence while thrilling in a way that only Clark is capable of.

Indeed, St. Vincent is Clark’s most singular album to date. It’s stuffed to the brim with ideas and oddities, all of which succeed mightily in their missions. “Regret” and “Psychopath” show what happens when a weirdo like Clark tries to write straightforward pop songs; “I Prefer Your Love” is one of the most heartbreaking fusions of theatricality and slow-burning tenderness on record.

Of course, though, this album can’t be discussed without mentioning “Huey Newton”, the song that best represents everything that makes Annie Clark so great: a hazy, haunting set of light synths and pulsing bass deftly builds tension, ensuring that the song’s shift into near-metal, horrifyingly heavy guitar-shuffling territory is fully unexpected. These dramatic and sudden transitions are nothing new for Clark, an established guitar master; that she pulls it off the best she ever has on this album only hints at just how stupidly engaging St. Vincent is.

Sylvan Esso – Sylvan Esso

From the ashes of Megafaun rise Sylvan Esso. But you needn’t know that to enjoy this duo’s self-titled debut: their music is catchy enough to need no introduction. The folk- and minimal-influenced electropop they advance is reserved enough to emotionally bind listeners, and poppy enough to jam out to. “Could I Be” is a hypnotic, translucent tune that’s as chill as it is meaty; “Dress” undercuts peppiness with hip-hop groove and flow.

“Coffee” is the one you might’ve heard; it’s a pretty good summary of why Sylvan Esso are so engaging. The vocals on the song are heartfelt and warming, yet are never overwhelming; this description can also be applied to the instrumental part. Together, the two parts intertwine to form a very hooky whole, a goal achieved often on Sylvan Esso. Good luck breaking away from this one.

TEEN – The Way and Color

Earlier in this article, I discussed how St. Vincent’s music sounds like it was delivered here from another planet, a description commonly applied to her sound. TEEN, maybe the only band whose music bears any similarity to the 2014 version of Annie Clark, also sounds like they’re sending their signals from another plane of existence. Perhaps the reason both these acts display this quality is that music runs in their blood; Clark is the niece of guitar-based jazz beasts Tuck & Patti, and TEEN’s three Lieberson sisters (bassist Boshra AlSaadi is the only of TEEN’s four members who isn’t from the family) are the offspring of famed, legendary opera composer Peter Lieberson.

Skillful arrangements and astute melodies flow naturally throughout TEEN’s sophomore effort, The Way and Color. The Lieberson sisters’ genetics endow them with the innate ability to compose surprisingly catchy, perpetually flowering capsules of R&B-influenced psych pop. Chromatic synths mesh with Kristina “Teeny” Lieberson’s (hence the band’s name) incredibly dynamic, all-fitting voice, with AlSaadi’s bass and the remaining sisters’ vocal harmonies adding the necessary final flourishes. The result achieved is equal parts trippy and tuneful, and is pretty difficult to turn a deaf ear to.

Songs like “Rose 4 U” and “Tied Up, Tied Down” are both fun and eccentric, while other songs like “More Than I Ask For” and “All The Same” are a bit more contemplative. “Breathe Low and Deep” is its own universe, its second half of psychedelic synths and masked brass escalating towards a climax that feels infinite. There’s also “Sticky”, a song melodic and blissful enough that it can be easy to miss its intensely personal discussion of abortion and motherhood. Once the words are clear, the song becomes even more colorful; even before that, though, The Way and Color is vivid and unflinching.

tUnE-yArDs – Nikki Nack

Nikki Nack is tUnE-yArDs’ Contra: just as Vampire Weekend’s second album had people wondering if the band had become too eccentric for their own good, Merrill Garbus’ third album under her kooky moniker turned away some fans with its supreme quirkiness. But look at her songwriting name: the way it’s spelled, with those alternating caps, declares its idiosyncrasies immediately. What else would you expect?

Were you looking for another w h o k i l l? No, Nikki Nack isn’t as fiery and confrontational as its predecessor, but expecting another album of that caliber was your first mistake. Instead, Nikki Nack is an indulgent, overwhelming, childish slurry of various berserk elements. Bassist Nate Brenner is no less present here, the percussion is more fittingly awkward than ever, and Garbus’ vocals haven’t lost their “oh my god who sings like THAT?” quality. What’s new and odd to some listeners is the near complete lack of Garbus’ signature ukulele in favor of warbly, borderline cheesy synths.

Really, the album borders on the edge of unbridled corniness throughout its entire run; that it never crosses the line is a huge factor in its success. First single “Water Fountain” is a prime example of how stupid this album can get, but it’s just so catchy. “Sink-O” throws just about everything possible in listeners’ faces, and its often inane lyrics add to the juvenile joy. Yet there’s a pretty hefty one that sneaks in there: “If I went up to your door you wouldn’t let me in/so don’t say you don’t judge by the color of skin.” For all its deliberate immaturity, Nikki Nack really throws some important topics in the mix, as made clear by tunes like “Real Thing”, “Manchild”, and “Wait for a Minute.” Following the advice of the latter song will probably help in enjoying Nikki Nack: wait for a minute, and the initial strangeness of this album will transform into something wholly addicting and undeniable.

The War on Drugs – Lost in the Dream

I started this article with a discussion of the hype machine. Lost in the Dream is an album I had in mind when bringing up that point: critics have adorned this album with particularly strong praise, so much so that, on first listen, I wondered what they were hearing. After the critical storm passed, however, I found my ears more receptive and willing to form an opinion that remained my own, yet aligned closely with the popular notion. I’ll still insist that this album, the third effort from these Americana-indebted Philly natives, isn’t as great as the blogosphere dictates, but it’s still pretty damn good regardless.

Lost in the Dream can be very simply described with a small handful of words: introspective, gorgeous, rustic. Its lyrics stem from the post-tour and post-breakup depression songwriter Adam Granduciel experienced after touring his band’s sophomore effort Slave Ambient; the arrangements are paralyzing and mountainous; the instrumentation’s blend of Americana and folk influences often draws to mind images of sunny, breezy, vast spaces. This approach is always affecting, whether through the sunset beauty of “Disappearing”, the heartwrenching soar of “Under the Pressure”, or the Springsteen-recalling grandeur of “Burning.” Ultimately, though, it’s “Red Eyes” that attests to how far Granduciel has come: a tune that’s likely to appear towards the top of many best-songs-of-the-year-lists late this December, it’s emotional melodies and inward lyricism transform into fireworks right before its shimmering, arresting, guitar-based chorus. This impact is more subtle in other places on Lost in the Dream, but it’s omnipresence ensures that it won’t be missed no matter how quiet it is.

White Hex – Gold Nights

On a hunch, I’d guess that Gold Nights is the least well-known album on this list. Makes sense: this is an album that sounds like it’s watching everyone from an invisible corner, making harsh judgments with a frosty gust. It’s very creepy and unnerving in its simultaneous embrace of Cure-style guitar tones, Ladytron-inspired vocal roboticism, and Chromatics-based synth-guitar interplay and stutter. It struts right in with the icy, callous “Only a Game”, a tune that sounds like it’s emanating from where the highest-ranked wolf in the pack howls. Gold Nights then loses none of its opener’s grating, caustic iciness, ensuring an experience that’s harrowing in a different way than many albums are.

“Paradise”, the album’s strongest tune, follows “Only a Game”, and its differences from the rest of the pack shine a light on what makes this album so good. Most of Gold Nights exists in sub-zero temperatures: it’s an album so cold you can almost feel its bite directly on your skin. “Paradise”, on the other hand, is a skyward, cutting slab of 21st century new wave. The vocals are no less haunting here, but the sheer size of the synths presented make this tune a good notch warmer than the rest. This added feeling becomes especially apparent when this song is compared to later tracks like “Burberry Congo” and “United Colours of KL”, tunes with synth parts so bitter and dark they’re almost goofy. The cold that pervades Gold Nights is its most consistent strength, and it’s interesting that “Paradise” accentuates this quality. Wear a winter jacket for this one.

White Lung – Deep Fantasy

By far the shortest album on this list, Deep Fantasy is irresistible simply because of how quick and intense its ten blasts of raucous, 90s-indebted punk are. At a total of twenty-two minutes, Fantasy doesn’t allow time for its listeners to fantasize at all despite its name: these songs are over almost as soon as they begin. That’s not to say they don’t develop thrillingly over their short runtime, though: tracks like “Face Down”, “Wrong Star”, and “Snake Jaw” owe such a distinct debt to riot grrrl and grunge that each passing section of the song is blood-rushing.

White Lung’s worship of the 1990s can’t quite attest to the breakneck paces of these songs, though: “Lucky One” and “Down It Goes” are so rapid it’s head-spinning. It all sounds like if the more surf-heavy side of classic grunge had sped up their songs so much that they verged on metal territory. In fact, “I Believe You” and “Drown With the Monster” may damn well be better described as metal than as punk. The latter song’s commanding, confrontational guitars match the vitriol of its addiction-analyzing lyrics, and topics as heavy as these are common on Deep Fantasy. That White Lung’s guitars often match in intensity is a victory all around.

Wye Oak – Shriek

Shriek is a grower and not a shower. Actually, it’s a bit of the latter too: the album’s flashy, sauntering synths instantly attract attention even in their first appearances. This characteristic provides a good foundation for getting to know the ten songs occupying Shriek, but an initial batch of listens shows that it isn’t quite enough. Instead, to build on the intentional omission of guitar on this album, Wye Oak provide flowing bass and breathy, introspective vocals courtesy of Jenn Wasner, and these are elements that reveal themselves over time.

Lots and lots of time, that is. Whereas tunes like “The Tower” and “Glory” are immediately hooky and irresistible, much of Shriek‘s remainder feels distant until more listens than you can count on your hands have passed. You might be asking, “Why should I try this album if I need to invest so much to enjoy it?” The answer is actually quite simple: give these songs the attention they demand, and you’ll find yourself entangled in their web of gorgeously dreamy emotions and lush sonic textures. A psych-folk tune like “School of Eyes” becomes a blustery, engaging heart-warmer after feeling cold and untouchable; a meditation like “I Know the Law” transforms from an uninterestingly timid passage to an entrapping contemplation. And when these tunes don’t quite feel like enough, it’s easy to turn straight to the intensely catchy, funky “Glory”, the song that most strongly attests to how powerful Wye Oak can sound when they achieve the best possible combination of vocals, synth, and bass.

Earlier this year, I wrote here about my disappointment with Perfect Pussy’s Say Yes to Love , and cited its length (or, rather, lack thereof) as one of its major flaws. It’s easy to get the notion, then, that I think albums need to be a certain length to succeed, but read more closely — this isn’t why Say Yes to Love failed. That album was a letdown because its shortness blurred all its songs together into one murky, indistinct, relatively uncompelling unit; when it wasn’t doing that, it was disguising noise as melody. A few moments stuck out in this haze, but not enough to excuse such a short runtime.

By contrast, White Lung’s Deep Fantasy, their debut for Domino Records (but their third album overall), is fifty seconds shorter than Say Yes to Love, but it’s far more cathartic, show-stopping, and memorable. Deep Fantasy is rife with guttural riffing, mountainous percussion, and harrowing vocals courtesy of feminist blogger Mish Way, and this formulation very rarely tires over the album’s twenty-two minute runtime. Fantasy‘s lyrics, which deal with topics such as consoling a rape victim, overcoming drug abuse, and living with body dysmorphia, are as potent and intense as its instrumentation; both these characteristics expertly recall the grunge and riot grrrl movements.

Deep Fantasy blazes through the gate immediately with opener and lead single “Drown With the Monster”, arguably the most addicting punk anthem of the year so far. Actually, the punk label adorned here is a bit misleading: “Drown With the Monster” verges on heavy metal territory. The rapid, churning guitars underlying its verses wouldn’t sound out of place on a recent Exodus album, and Mish Way’s vocals are delivered in a wailing beckon faintly reminiscent of any of Arch Enemy’s rotating female lead vocalists. In its two minutes, “Drown” tackles Way’s substance abuse with fearlessness and vigor; in fact, by turning her problems into a veritable headbanger of a rally cry, she’s drowned the monster in its place.

“Down It Goes” follows, and it begins in a similar vein as “Drown” before transitioning into sunny, beachy grunge-punk, something like you’d hear on an early Sleater-Kinney tune. “I am not as strong as you, but I am everywhere!” Way affirms over an instrumental palette that’s just as serene as it is alarming. “Snake Jaw” and “Face Down” continue this sonic path, but each refines it differently: the former adds a tad more bleakness to match its lyrical exploration of body dysmorphia, whereas the latter may be the most outrightly grungy, 90s-absorbed tune present.

Of course, a band as fierce as White Lung will only briefly allow itself this moment of relative sunshine: “I Believe You” reintroduces the heaviness and force of “Drown With the Monster”, and covers more territory than many of Deep Fantasy‘s songs despite being the album’s second shortest. “Yeah, I believe you! Girl, you’re so strong!” Way reassures a friend recovering from the trauma of rape, a powerful moment made even more intense by her band’s intermittent, dark guitar pummels and searing treble lines. “Wrong Star” offers a moment to breathe after “I Believe You”, trading in the latter’s heaviness for a less overwhelming tone, but no slower a pace.

“Just for You” and “Sycophant”, which follow next, in that order, are slightly less gripping than the rest of the album, marking one of Deep Fantasy‘s two very mildly less engaging sequences. “Lucky One” breaks up these two moments, its unreasonably shrill and rapid guitars instantly hooky. In particular, the song’s chorus is really entrapping, as its low-rumbling guitars offer a surprising and engaging change-up from the song’s mostly bright but enthralling riffing.

Ending the album is “In Your Home”, a track that’s notably different from the rest of the album. Easily the slowest (although it’s still pretty high-tempo) tune here, “In Your Home” gives up some of the near-omnipresent aggression of Deep Fantasy in favor of an unexpected bit of melancholy. Although the song is likable, it’s not quite as viscerally enjoyable as the rest of Deep Fantasy, but its placement as the album’s final track does offer a necessary comedown from the rushing adrenaline preceding it.

“Take these sights in!” commands Mish Way near the beginning of Deep Fantasy. With just twenty-two minutes of runtime, this album rarely loses focus, keeping listeners in line all the while. Short collections as engaging as this one aren’t so easy to come by, so it doesn’t take much effort to become entrapped in this Fantasy.

Is it surprising that someone writing for a site called Way Too Indie went through a deeply immersive heavy metal phase when he was fifteen years old? I’m talking about myself here. From the time I began high school until my best friend introduced me to Is This It just after I turned seventeen, I was what they call a “metalhead.” Today, my taste has evolved into something more expansive and all-inclusive, but I still enjoy some metal artists from those years. Mastodon, Gojira, Opeth, and occasionally Boris still bring pleasure to my ears (and, more recently, Deafheaven).

Notice something these acts have in common. Their compositions never sacrifice melody for heaviness and brutality. Where bands like Nile and Cannibal Corpse primarily concern themselves with achieving the heaviest sound they possibly can, the groups listed above instead throw some genuine earworms in the mix. Their music is not merely guttural, indistinguishable muck; rather, its well-developed, ornate but ruthless metal. South Dakota’s Talk Rock follows in the later transition, although the breed of metal they advance could pass for extremely low-pitched, high-tempo shoegaze. Throughout their recently released album Vile, they engage in heavy but melodic riffing. It’s an approach that sometimes works well, but is also so perpetual throughout the album that it gradually tires as the album progresses.

The foundation of most of Vile‘s songs are heavily reverbed guitar riffs that are as spacious as they are gruff. Opener “666 Lips” demonstrates this nicely, its music teetering between haunted grimness and shoegaze soaring. The excitement of this sound is dimmed by the vocal take on this song’s chorus, though: the constricted, oddly mopey whines of “Six six six!/On her lips, I felt it!” make the lead up to this break feel disappointing. A better example of the catharsis that the open-ugly contrast Vile provides is “Scapegoat”, a track that crashes through the gates on the album’s most claustrophobic, tidal riff. It perfectly sets the stage for the song’s continued tensions and balances between darkness and hugeness.

“Scapegoat” provides the best example of what Talk Rock has the potential to accomplish. “Perpetual Cryptic” is another instance of this trio deftly pairing dreaminess with deadliness: the partial immersion of its somewhat lackluster vocals by its guitar walls imbue it with the proper amount of eerie growl and upward ecstasy. More often than not, though, Talk Rock fail to fully deliver on the promise of their strongest moments. “Vile Mouth” feels drawn out and lazy, its five minutes feeling like a drag rather than an adventure. Its tempo shifts are only briefly alluring, instead descending into discomfort. Likewise, the louder sections of “Kreepen Man” don’t quite make up for the perpetual crawl of the slower parts. Instrumental track “New Wrist” is guilty of the same set of sins.

Vile is also home to tracks like “The Body”, which contains traces of both musical glory and letdown. The song’s first four minutes are absolutely great, striking an excellent pose of both haunted drone and stark slamming. Yet its last two minutes dribble off into more confusing terrain, wherein the interlocking pummels and arpeggios aggravate rather than excite. That last statement is a half-decent summary of Vile: it’s an album whose peaks are so distinguishable in part because what sounds them just isn’t as exhilarating. These peaks are possible indicators of an excellent metal album in Talk Rock’s future, but for now, they’re more talk than rock.

To get an idea of what four-piece NYC band Beast Patrol sounds like, it helps to check out their list of “Artists We Also Like” on their official Facebook page. Older names on this list include the low-pitched demonics of Black Sabbath and the Eno art rock of Roxy Music, but newer names like blues-psych southerners The Black Angels and psychedelic overjoy masterminds Tame Impala also appear. Yeah, Beast Patrol is as classically oriented as they are watery and dreamy, as their influences hint.

Alternatively, seeing them live brilliantly defines their sound without all this effort and thinking. On a Wednesday night, a small crowd filtered into Manhattan’s Mercury Lounge to enjoy Beast Patrol’s album release show, honoring the arrival of their Unarm Yourself EP. The album title is telling: let down your guard entirely, and Beast Patrol’s music will offer only the best of times.

Beast Patrol’s recorded sound is grand, but it doesn’t really indicate just how intense they are live. Their brand of shoegaze-gone-dream-gone-psych takes on a bluesy and punchy tone in the flesh. Frontwoman Vanessa Bley leads a small crew of three men who have nearly the exact same beard, her onstage gyrations only matched by co-guitarist Robert Granata. The phasers dousing Bley’s guitar lines engage and affect all attentive ears, and her band’s talent reinforces her tight grip.

After witnessing this band put on a show, it’s impossible to deny the influence of straight-up blues on their recordings. The version of “Distant Grandeur” committed to record is ethereal and sparkling; live, Bley and Granata’s blues-driven guitars become life-sized in a way that can’t be heard on the recording, stopping listeners right in their tracks. More obviously heady tracks like “Run Towards Fear” certainly benefit from this trait when played live: although it’s almost folk-punk on the EP, it really sounded like a lost Kinks track live.

Success wouldn’t come so easily to this band if not for Bley and co’s dynamic interactions. On stage, Bley doesn’t dictate her cohorts’ motions and sounds; rather, she coordinates with them wisely, resulting in a natural and buoyant environment. Audience members grooved constantly not only because the band sounds so good, but because they didn’t simply stay still. In particular, Bley and Granata probably stepped foot on at least half of the stage while they were up there. Appearing mobile on stage can be vital to engaging an audience, and Beast Patrol are masters of this notion.

Really, though, at the end of the day, what counts the most is the sound. Beast Patrol needn’t worry here: their guitar tones and innate instrumental talent ensure their success. The crowd most certainly vibed with the Patrol’s vibrant guitar tones, foot-shuffling bass, and trenchant drumming. Bluesy and phaser-heavy sounds invaded the room, and no one present could turn away.

It’s too bad that Beast Patrol have no tour plans at the moment, because they put on a thrilling live show. For now, throw on Unarm Yourself, lean back, close your eyes, and envision the band playing these songs right in front of you. It shouldn’t be too difficult a task: music this confident translates incredibly on record, and even more excitingly live.

Is it 2014 or 1984? Although this is a question that’s been asked lately in regards to the whole NSA scandal, it’s also one that applies to the state of recent music. The last few years have given rise to a sudden surge of artists that incorporate the textures, moods, tones, and lyrical themes of three decades ago in their songs. Whether it’s Blood Orange occupying the bubblegum synthpop of the time, Destroyer transforming smooth jazz from corny cliche into enchanting folklore, or Haim taking on Fleetwood Mac’s interpretation of the era, modern listeners have been exposed to an intense amount of music that borrows heavily from the 80s.

Enter a new face to this crowd: Shamir Bailey, who records as Shamir, and draws inspiration from the wild dance pop of Michael Jackson as well as the funky R&B of Prince. For someone who was born many years after his idols reached their peaks — Shamir is only 19 years old — he tends to adopt their craft quite well. His debut EP Northtown offers a brief glimpse into just how successful he can be at continuing his idols’ legacy, while also showing that he strikes more thoroughly when letting his own shades shine through.

The most immediately entrancing thing about Shamir’s musicianship is his androgynous, soulful voice. Throughout Northtown, Shamir showcases his incredibly dynamic and adaptable voice in enticing ways. “I Know It’s a Good Thing” explores the highest parts of his register as he drifts through booming pianos, a consistent click track, and backing oohs and aahs. “I’ll Never Be Able to Love” captures the low and high ranges of his voice pretty well: he delivers his verses in a relatively low pitch, but puts his laceratingly high-pitched vibrato front-and-center during its chorus. It’s also the most downbeat of the original pieces here, its minimal palette of drums and vocal harmonies later expanding into a stuttered percussive smack for merely a moment.

This later segment of “I’ll Never Be Able to Love” is its most exciting, and it highlights an interesting trend in Shamir’s songs. Despite how inherently gorgeous his voice is, his songs are more thrilling when he surrounds it in maximalist splendor, a technique not as heavily explored by his predecessors. On “Sometimes a Man”, for example, a deep house beat flows sensually under Shamir’s voice, and the abundance and ferocity of the accompanying synths and percussion nicely round it out. The song is one of two absolute dancefloor jams included here, and it’s got a surprisingly dark underbelly, especially when compared to the other banger here, “If It Wasn’t True.”

“If It Wasn’t True” is the moment when Shamir truly glows. Actually, this is an understatement; here, Shamir shines solid gold, fully embracing the maximalism unshared with his idols. He’s brewed up what might be the most viscerally engaging funk-disco tune in ages, and he absolutely revels in it. Pulsating, fat synths and a steady click track introduce this first song on the EP, leading to our first encounter with Shamir’s already-trademark smoothly androgynous vocals. Shamir muses about his bitter breakup with a former lover, his voice soaring over a consistently in-your-face instrumental bed, which unexpectedly explodes into a barrage of searing, adrenaline-rushing synth blasts after about two minutes. It sounds like what the 1980s could have been if that time’s artists had access to current musical technology and trends: catchy, sensual, mobile, funky, and just one of the goddamn best songs of the year so far.

Placing “If It Wasn’t True” at the EP’s beginning provides an excellent introduction to Shamir’s retro-nostalgic world, but it casts a shadow over the remaining songs. Don’t be mistaken — these are all great tunes, although the final track, a lo-fi folk Lindi Ortega cover (“Lived and Died Alone”), feels completely out of place here. “Sometimes a Man” comes incredibly close to matching the magic of “If It Wasn’t True” since it’s just as bold and maximalist; “I’ll Never Be Able to Love” and “I Know It’s a Good Thing”, on the other hand, just don’t compare despite being pretty enjoyable. But, as Shamir reminds us on the latter track, talk is cheap; instead of discussing Northtown‘s flaws, let’s just be happy that Shamir’s delivered a true gem or two here, and that many more are to come.

As though Beyonce’s completely out-of-nowhere release of her self-titled album in late 2013 wasn’t untraditional enough, here’s something to up the ante: Hundred Waters celebrated their sophomore release, The Moon Rang Like a Bell, with a free three-day festival in an Arizona desert named Arcosanti. The festival, named after the desert hosting it, was free as long as guests RSVP’d and handled their own transportation there and back. It gets better: daily activities included swimming, hiking, and bronze-bell casting. At night, acts including How to Dress Well, Majical Cloudz, and, of course, Hundred Waters performed sets.

A logical follow-up question might be: where did the money for this come from? The answer is simple enough, but also pretty surprising: Hundred Waters are signed to Skrillex’s label OWSLA. With a reported income of around $15 million, Skrillex probably had no trouble financing Arcosanti; what’s more interesting is his pouring money into a band with a sound so opposite his own. While Skrillex is known as a leading name in the last several years’ upsurge of intensely aggressive laptop music oddly and unfittingly dubbed “electronic dance music”, Hundred Waters’ style is far more restrained and inherently gorgeous. The Moon Rang Like the Bell is a testament to the humanity that synthetic instruments can acquire, and a collection of truly sparkling intimacy.

“Show Me Love”, as crooned on Moon‘s brief introductory track, isn’t a very difficult command to obey given the album’s lovely arrangements and touching melodies. Nicole Miglis, Hundred Waters’ vocalist, sings in a way that’s equally compatible with trip-hop balladry, eerie piano reflections, and minimal echo chambers, and never fails to affect. The breathiness and fragility of her pondering on the sensual, flowing “Innocent” is just as potent as the more restricted tone she takes on the shuffling, elliptical “Seven White Horses.” More often than not, Miglis occupies both of these extremes in one track, as perfectly showcased on buoyant tunes like “XTalk” and “Out Alee.”

The latter of these tunes may be Moon‘s strongest example of why, in addition to Miglis’ contribution, the work of fellow bandmates Paul Giese, Zach Tetreault, and Trayer Tryon is vital to Hundred Waters’ sound. “Out Alee” phases through alternating bars of standard and 3/4 time, which gives it a tension that Miglis’ voice probably couldn’t convey on its own despite its breadth. A few sudden sections of half-time feel add to this delicate mood, a move that’s both technically impressive and heartwrenching at a gut level. Second single “Cavity” might even be a better instance of how formidably the music strikes: a percussive stutter yields to waves and walls of synths that overwhelm without being larger than life.

Actually, that right there is a precise description of The Moon Rang Like a Bell. Emotionally overwhelming but never sonically imposing, it deftly plays with pathos using as little sound as possible. Check first single “Down from the Rafters” as a demonstration of this art: no more than some wispy keys, a muffled drumbeat, some atmospheric swirling, and Miglis’ brutally gentle vocals form this song, yet it’s one of Moon‘s most direct and haunting encounters. “Murmurs” strikes in a similar way, its repeated (and, for a while, unfinished) coos of “I wish you” bearing little weight despite so effectively conveying emotion. “Yesterday was your birthday/happy birthday” about halfway through this song is one of the most awkward yet endearing lyrics to ever be heard in music this serious, and the inclusion of this line is another interesting and different way in which Hundred Waters operate.

Yet elsewhere on The Moon Rang Like a Bell, the lyrics aren’t quite so memorable. The album’s strength isn’t its actual words, despite how obviously sincere and important Miglis makes them, but rather in their delivery. “You make these feelings go away” goes the chorus to “Cavity”, a sentiment that’s undoubtedly raw and wholehearted, but in no way anything unfamiliar. Rather, the subtle impact of how Miglis sings them is what makes them truly sting. It’s a minor flaw that only emerges upon repeated listening, which Moon fully lends itself to. In particular, “[Animal]” crawls under the skin and into the nerves responsible for pressing the “Repeat One” button, as it’s the album’s most surprising track. The rhythm of its introduction suggests something more bracing and immediate than the rest of the album, a prophecy that unfolds enthrallingly over the song’s length. Heavily processed vocal clips loop and synthetic drums expand as “[Animal]” approaches its last eighty seconds, thereafter exploding into the most discrete dancefloor beat to emerge in quite some time.

Probably nobody expected Hundred Waters to release a song with deep house influences; fewer might expect it to be a contender for Moon‘s best track. Then again, Hundred Waters are signed to OWSLA, of all labels, so maybe there are things about them not yet well-known to listeners. There’s definitely a small sense of mystery contained in the simultaneous eeriness and beauty of this album, but its intimacy ensures that anyone who hears it will feel connected to this band. Although they may not be very loud, their songs absolutely scream.

Although Makthaverskan’s American presence wasn’t established until recently, their career has spanned the last five years. They released their self-titled début way back in 2009, but now this Swedish goth punk band is finally invading the music industry’s largest market. In early May, US label Run for Cover reissued Makthaverskan’s sophomore effort II, exposing their work to more American ears than ever before. True, anyone from anywhere in the world could’ve found Makthaverskan’s output on Bandcamp, but without this American introduction, their music wouldn’t be exploding all over college radio as it is right now.

And for good reason. II is one of the most distinctive punk records in a while, fusing soaring shoegaze tones with Gothic tendencies and post-punk aggression in a way that’s somehow familiar, yet solely Makthaverskan’s own approach. Although traces of acts like Joy Division, Cocteau Twins, The Cure, and even Dum Dum Girls are audible, the vivid, honest emotions of II belong entirely to its creators. Vocalist Maja Milner aches sorely throughout this album, and the dark yet gorgeous soundscapes of reverbed, watery guitars, arena-sized drums, and constantly rolling bass underlying her voice expertly match its haunting, high-pitched tones.

Milner hides nothing on this album, even in its first moments. “Antabus”, named for an a drug given to recovering alcoholics, boasts one of the most simply memorable choruses in years. “Fuck you!/Fuck you!” precedes an overwhelming, beautiful barrage of skyward percussion and pained, desolate guitar notes. “Asleep” follows this track, and treads a similar path of ominous yet sparkling guitars and distant synths. “It’s not me you’re dreaming of!” Milner emotes over steady snares and ascending arpeggios, and her woe permeates the music so forcefully it’s undeniable.

As “Asleep” and “Antabus” show, II is consistently bold, upfront, and woeful. Milner never disguises her thoughts with metaphors or euphemisms: “Fuck you for fucking me when I was seventeen!”, from “No Mercy”, is about as sexually direct and disturbing as a Liz Phair song (“fuck and run/even when I was twelve” still brings up the bile a bit every time). She’s just as transparent on “Slowly Sinking”, as she pleads to a lover, “I want/to see all of you/so come down on me/take off this shirt and we’ll make love.” Milner delivers these messages delicately, overtly yet cleverly extracting the emotional aspects of physical love with her lyrics.

In so many other cases, a young band could completely mishandle the heart-on-sleeve lyrical nature of Milner’s words, but Makthaverskan’s sounds sagely accompany their words. On “Something More”, the track here where Milner stretches her voice the farthest, the underlying percussive stutter and desolate yet endearing guitar work emphasizes her wails of “I don’t know where you are tonight! But if/But if you want, I’ll take you back.” Elsewhere, the band puts their technical extremes on full display, occupying “Distance” with tremendous percussive power and frenetic, life-sized, Gothic guitar searing. Although Milner’s voice is at its most angelic during this song’s chorus, the key change that erupts during this song’s last minute is the most abrasive moment on II. Guitars simultaneously slam and wail against a fierce backing of unforgiving percussive rage for what might be the album’s noisiest, most cathartic moment.

Makthaverskan’s influences might be easy to pinpoint, but on II, the band conveys a gripping level of sentimental forwardness and an electrifying instrumental conflagration. It’s a record that gets intimate while also clawing away aggressively at everything in front of it, and boldly stands out among the myriad modern acts citing the same idols. Forget an American presence: from wherever they broadcast their sound, Makthaverskan will be heard.

Few musicians have transitioned from cult artist to critical wunderkind as quickly as tUnE-yArDs, the creative moniker of Connecticut’s Merrill Garbus, did in early 2011. Before her sophomore album w h o k i l l was announced in early February, very few people were aware of her début, BiRd-BrAins, which was primarily recorded on a dictation machine; after w h o k i l l‘s release two months later, all eyes were on Garbus. Still today, w h o k i l l remains one of the quirkiest, most fearless, and most viscerally enjoyable albums of the decade. Its fusion of electric ukulele, brazen, confrontational, humorous lyrics, slinky bass, world-influenced percussion, and Garbus’ monstrously flexible, fiery vocals pulls from a slew of unusual influences, and three years later continues to sound like the future.

All this history makes it easy to feel disappointed by Nikki Nack, the highly anticipated follow-up to w h o k i l l, upon first listen. But like many albums, this one’s a grower, one that reveals itself with time. Collections that develop in this way aren’t at all uncommon, but few do so as quickly as Nikki Nack does. The attributes responsible for its initial letdown rearrange into its strengths after just two or three more listens, and some of these characteristics are radically different from anything Garbus has published in her career thus far. In particular, for this album, Garbus ditches w h o k i l l‘s omnipresent electric ukulele in favor of frantic, off-kilter drum machines and subtly glowing synths. It’s her pop-iest work yet, but it remains faithful to her sound: Nate Brenner’s bass is still just as central a component as ever before, Garbus’ voice continues to vacillate between passionate shouting and soulful singing, and the equally reflective and sociopolitically charged nature of her lyrics hasn’t disappeared.

Nikki Nack embraces change dutifully; in fact, one of its weakest tracks, “Look Around”, is the only one that retains the ukulele. Garbus’ sound shift is readily apparent immediately when “Find a New Way” begins the album. Synth spikes and oddly metered drum blasts control this song’s intro, after which Brenner’s bass expels the synthetic elements. “Time of Dark” treads a similar path, although its percussive eccentricity takes much longer to manifest. This song transforms into a liberating, wild, repeated chant of “Hey!” with just over a minute remaining, a change that’s neither jarring nor gradual, and this trick is repeated often on Nikki Nack.

“Left Behind”, one of the album’s strongest points, pulls the same switch at its midpoint, although its percussive flicker predicts this flip much more so than the initial tranquility of “Time of Dark” does. “Holiday! Holiday! Let’s go crazy!” Garbus chants without restraint; this relentless is signature tUnE-yArDs, only packaged differently on Nikki Nack. Lead single “Water Fountain”, which suffered the same plague of initial disappointment as its home album only to become an album highlight, puts this quality on full display: few, if any, other artists can manage to be taken seriously with such a sing-songy tune and lyrics that seem to be strewn together from those word magnets people arbitrarily rearrange on their fridges. This approach is a risk Garbus takes constantly, especially in the lyrical delivery of “Hey Life” and “Sink-O.” The latter is a frenetic, Matangi-like array of arguably vapid lyricism that’s rendered thrilling by the music accompanying it, whereas the latter begins relatively calmly and deals with relatable topics before briefly venturing into a childlike but undeniably fun mess.

Nikki Nack is ripe with potent lyrics despite its numerous slabs of intentionally inane words. The balance thrown off by the unbound lyricism of “Water Fountain” is restored by tracks such as “Manchild”, which is a cry of female empowerment just like w h o k i l l‘s “Killa” (perhaps not coincidentally, both tracks end their respective albums). “I mean it! Don’t beat up on my body!” Garbus bleats over loopy, disorienting percussion and cowbells (yes, cowbells — if you didn’t think this album was silly enough yet, now you know). “Left Behind” laments both traditional and class wars (“We said we wouldn’t let them take our soil”; “This place has really changed its ways, goodness/ruined by the boats of rich folks coming here”), and “Real Thing” callously scrapes away at America and its obsession with celebrities (“Red white blue course through my veins/Binge and purge the USA!”; “Girls, are you worried about dress size six?; “I come from the land of slaves/Let’s go Redskins, let’s go Braves!”; “I come from the land of shame/blood and guts are all I claim”). It takes a good ear to extract these messages from the utter chaos of Garbus’ music, and these words burn even more fiercely when delivered in her fire-hot voice.

Of course, Garbus’ true secret is the flexibility of her voice, and second single “Wait for a Minute”, easily her most straightforward and accessible song to date (and thus possibly the album’s best), shows her vocals operating at the exact opposite end of the spectrum as during her more politically charged anthems. It’s the first instance of a tUnE-yArds song conveying any sort of sadness, which is fully appropriate since it details its narrator’s depression. “Monday/I wake up with disgust in my head” is a hell of a downer to begin a first verse, especially coming from someone whose music is generally life-affirming. Subsequent lyrics like “The mirror always disappoints/I pinch my skin back ’til I see the joints” certainly don’t introduce any sunshine either. The psychedelic, slow-jam R&B sound and skittering drums perfectly match the song’s tragic mood. Interestingly, this song also throws in some self-reference, a trick more often reserved for cryptic acts like Destroyer. “I’ll still try to leave the high of violence behind,” Garbus croons during this song’s chorus, which hearkens back to a crucial point on w h o k i l l: “There is a freedom in violence I don’t understand/and like I’ve never felt before!” Garbus shouts, unaccompanied by music, about two-thirds into that album’s “Riotriot.” One of the most cathartic moments in her catalog is recalled here, a surprising and enticing choice.

“Wait for a Minute” doesn’t quite resemble most of Nikki Nack, a trend more frequent in its weaker tracks. “Rocking Chair”, its two-minute penultimate track, feels like an unnecessary piece of filler (even more so than the hilarious interlude “Why Must We Dine on the Tots?”, an allegory for the frustrating futility of trying to quash a misbelief commonly accepted as fact). It’s comprised solely of minimal percussion and Garbus’ vocals, and it demonstrates that her voice is so flammable that music is absolutely necessary to quell its abrasive, unpleasant edges. Although “Look Around” does exactly this, it too underwhelms: it constantly teases an explosive dynamic shift like those on “Water Fountain” and “Time of Dark”, yet never quite provides this relief. “Find a New Way”, another less memorable track, faces a problem in its rhythm section, where its percussion restricts the song instead of allowing it to soar.

At the end of it all, it really is Nikki Nack‘s use of percussion that accounts for its success. Nowhere is this more apparent than on “Stop That Man”, a track that competes with “Wait for a Minute” for the title of Best Nikki Nack Song, but is definitely a more concrete example of why Nikki Nack is so thrilling. It opens with muted, abrasive, digital percussive pounding that provides an ideal bed for Garbus’ robotically filtered vocals. Within thirty seconds, though, the song changes into a hearty shout to “Please, stop that man, stop that man, stop that man!” Garbus rides the beat perfectly throughout this song, adjusting the force and tempo of her voice almost exactly in line with the ever-changing percussion below her. The last minute of this song leaps forward with percussive blasts that belong on dance floors in sweaty, humid college basements, concluding the song with a warm but ferocious feeling.

Nikki Nack is exactly the kind of album that’s fun to write about. It’s so heavily filled and unexpected that more and more of its strengths emerge the more deeply and frequently its analyzed. At the start of this review, Nikki Nack seemed like a satisfactory, but not quite up to par, follow-up to w h o k i l l; now, at its end, it’s clear to see that this is an album that, although not as savage and unique as its brilliant predecessor, will be on repeat for a while. There’s so much to learn and to love here; so much, in fact, that subsequent listens will inevitably reveal aspects of the music that were previously buried beneath their surrounding excellence. Kudos to an album that ages gracefully.

Shriek, the fourth full-length from Baltimore dream pop duo Wye Oak, represents a drastic change for a band that never needed one in the first place. Just a few years ago in 2011, Jenn Wasner and Andy Stack were doing just fine for themselves composing delicate, wispy acoustic tunes with their third album, Civilian. This LP’s sound, although not entirely different from anything these two had done in the past, was tighter and more affecting than usual, and seemed to hint that Wye Oak would one day make a truly unforgettable indie folk record, something even better than a great meditative collection.

Turns out that prediction was wrong — well, only in part. Shriek is most certainly not an indie folk album or a meditative piece; however, it’s their sharpest and most direct album yet. Instead of using hushed acoustics and tranquil vocals to achieve dreamy eloquence, Wye Oak instead employs vivid synths and fluid bass, without even the slightest hint of guitar. As told to SPIN, Wasner’s decision to radically reform Wye Oak’s sound was a life or death situation for the act: “[While writing Shriek], there was all this weird baggage associated with the guitar for me, and I couldn’t get around that,” she grieved. “It was a block. I had to sidestep the block in order to be able to make anything.” And sidestep the block she did; in fact, she’s leapt over it. The novel sound Wasner and Stack convey on Shriek is braver and more affecting than anything they’ve done to date, although it’s a formula they have yet to perfect.

From the moment the warbly, disquieting synths of “Before” open the album, it’s obvious that Wye Oak is going for something different here. This song’s empathic vocal delivery and lush synth beds are fleshed out even more fully on the title track, which follows in sequence. Wasner’s breathy vocals and milky synths flood the music with anguish, as they do on Shriek‘s true slow-burner, “I Know the Law.” This tune would blend in near perfectly on Beach House’s masterpiece-to-date, 2010’s Teen Dream.

Actually, Wye Oak’s trajectory to date slightly mimics Beach House’s musical path. The latter act too started their career in lethargic, desolate dream pop (“Apple Orchard”, “Heart of Chambers”), eventually progressing to direct and unexpectedly heartwarming synthpop. It’s an interesting comparison because it suggests how far Wye Oak has come: just as Beach House’s more recent output, the most tactile and lively material in their catalog, has drawn significantly more acclaim than their early albums, so too should Shriek as compared to its predecessors. Songs like Beach House’s “Norway” and “Myth” find matches in Shriek‘s “Glory” and “The Tower”, respectively.

It’s no coincidence, then, that these two tracks are Shriek‘s strongest (but maybe it is a coincidence that these are the album’s two singles). Placed back to back early on in the album, they’re the most immediate moments present, and deviate a tad more obviously from Wye Oak’s past work than the rest of what’s here. Although the short ambient intro to “The Tower” could segue directly into a Civilian-style acoustic hymn, it instead swells into a massive strut of synthetic sparkle and slinky low notes. Wasner’s voice sounds unusually cold, an excellent match for the arhythmic synths defining the song. “Glory”, on the other hand, is pure warmth and ecstasy: percussive pounding, essentially the complete opposite of the ambience introducing “The Tower”, initiates this track. A thick bassline quickly appears, with snippets of synth warbles outlining the soundscape. The chorus of this track is arguably Shriek‘s most explosive: a surprisingly funky bassline and synths that almost feel like they’re hugging you envelop Wasner’s emotive, exasperated vocals.

If “Glory” isn’t the pinnacle of Shriek‘s outwardness, then this award goes to the track following it, “Sick Talk.” Synth crests outline this sweet, sugary tune, and eventually ascend to watery waves of creaminess during the song’s Friendly Fires-esque chorus. Although the breathiness of Wasner’s vocals makes her exact words somewhat difficult to understand here, this quality doesn’t stop them from sending chills up her listeners’ spines. Really, though, there aren’t too many songs on here where Wasner’s words are fully discernable, which is unfortunate since she may well be saying some incredibly affectionate, relatable things. Take, for example, “School of Eyes”: right before this song’s first chorus, Wasner says something along the lines of “my hand is mine/even when you hold it”, but the heft of her voice disguises her words too much to confirm this.

This problem with Wasner’s voice isn’t limited merely to “Sick Talk” and “School of Eyes.” “Paradise” and “Logic of Color” are particularly guilty of this sin, and of something even more troubling: these tunes simply aren’t as enjoyable as the songs comprising Shriek‘s first half. Indeed, Shriek is a frontloaded album, but that’s not to say the back half is completely flat. “Despicable Animal” is definitely interesting and almost psychedelic, and the uneasy bass of “Paradise” is impossible to track down elsewhere on the album.

Shriek expends its best moments rapidly, yet it somehow stands tall as Wye Oak’s finest accomplishment. If Wasner can learn to elucidate her vocals and enunciate her words, and both Wasner and Stack take steps to keep their formula engaging for all forty minutes of a typical album runtime, then they’ll certainly make the truly unforgettable record that’s suspected to lie within them. Until then, we’re left with a slew of blissful, sensitive songs that, despite the inevitable Beach House comparisons, probably could have come from no one else.

First, let’s address the elephant in the room. You’re on a website called Way Too Indie, where you’re reading a review of the newest album by Kelis, the artist whose 2003 hit “Milkshake” was a major label product that absolutely dominated commercial radio. Yes, this is the same Kelis responsible for “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard/and they’re like, ‘It’s better than yours.'” It’s easy to think, then, that Kelis is exactly the opposite of indie, and that her music is simply commercial, for-profit, mainstream fodder. But take a moment to listen to “Milkshake” again: putting aside the song’s incredibly cheesy lyrics and borderline uncomfortable music video, the song’s production (provided by the Neptunes) is sleek and sensual, and Kelis’ raspy voice provides a delicate tension without which the song might simply fall flat.

More than ten years after “Milkshake”, a critically underrated, lavish R&B gem, Kelis is the mother of a nearly five-year-old son, and is divorced from rap legend Nas for just about four years (their marriage lasted for roughly the same amount of time). She’s no longer that 24-year-old employing cheap sexual euphemisms for radio play; she’s matured tremendously since then, and has gained greater artistic control of her music. Her sixth album Food serves as evidence of Kelis’ newly asserted dominance over her art: no longer a major label signee, she takes advantage of her newfound flexibility tremendously. Rather than working with a whole handful of writers as she did on albums like Flesh Tone, Kelis Was Here, and Tasty, Kelis is instead paired with only two cohorts due to the comparatively small budget of her new label, the consistently excellent, primarily electronic label Ninja Tune. Producer Dave Sitek of TV on the Radio and brass arranger Todd Simon co-write every song on this album, leading to Kelis’ jazziest, smokiest, most sensual, exciting, and certainly most consistent album yet.

Food embraces orchestral arrangements and lounge-inspired sensuality without fully leaving the realm of pop music. This trait can be traced directly back to Sitek and Simon: Sitek’s own TV on the Radio pushes the boundaries of traditional rock song structures while embracing brass contributions (best exemplified by their song “Dancing Choose”), and Simon is responsible for some of the steamy, erotic arrangements on Rhye’s 2013 debut, Woman. Their contributions to Kelis’ sound manifests constantly on Food: after the smoky, reflective aura of “Floyd” is gradually introduced, horns amplify its starry-eyed nature, resulting in an afflicting track that sounds remarkably like the slower jazz standards. Likewise, the searing, charged “Change” intensifies with frantic brass placements just as its first chorus strikes. “Jerk Ribs”, Food‘s first single, arguably benefits the most from its production: the brass placed at the song’s periphery imbues the song with a glowing, triumphant quality that makes it an unforgettable moment.

“Jerk Ribs” is also special for its lyrics, which chronicle Kelis’ relationship with music. The words on this track tell the tale of Kelis’ growing up and gradually becoming more inseparable from the sounds around her. “I was the girl/my daddy was my world/he played the notes and keys/he said to look for melody in everything”, Kelis reflects, later confirming that this passion hasn’t left: “The bass vibrates/right through me/the brass, the strings, I love everything.” Although it’s not unreasonable to view the latter lines as musically breaking the fourth wall, if you will, since they so perfectly reference the sound advanced throughout Food, more interesting is how personal these lyrics are. In fact, personal poetry pervades Food: despite some of the songs’ titles explicitly naming certain foods (“Jerk Ribs”, “Cobbler”, “Biscuits ‘n’ Gravy”), the subject matter is universally love-based, and close to the heart.

Running the gamut from lovelorn to exuberantly infatuated, Food‘s lyrics nicely suit the fiery brass behind them. “There will never be/another/day for us to be/lovers/I’ll follow in your lead/forever/and we’ll forever be/together”, goes the chorus to “Forever Be,” and these words, despite their inherent simplicity, astutely match the pulsating modern take on lounge music that backs them. “Breakfast” and “Hooch” blaze this same path, their ecstatically-in-love lyrics lining up cleverly with their brassy, passionate instrumentation. “Floyd” and “Runner”, however, explore the more upsetting side of love, but the sounds and topics of these tunes still mesh wonderfully. The former track is Food‘s most explicitly sultry number, a melancholy list of desires best summarized by Kelis’ simple wish in its chorus: “I want to be blown away.” “Runner” is equally aching, its brass spikes accentuating just how badly Kelis wants to return to a former lover.

Of course, the topic of love is in no way novel territory for any genre of music, but Kelis’ raspy yet confident vocal delivery almost always ensures that she conveys her feelings strongly and genuinely. Second single and reunion story “Rumble” displays Kelis calmly meditating on her return to an ex-lover, until her voice explodes forward towards the end of the second verse, breaking into fractured, splintered pleading for her man to “stay the night, baby.” Sure, some listeners will be instantly turned off by just how far she pushes her voice, but the limits to which she extends provide the song with a grand spark. She successfully does this during the chorus of the surprising, Western-inspired “Fish Fry” as well, but steps a bit too far outside her comfort zone on final track “Dreamer”, the huskiness of her voice feeling unstable and unbalanced rather than admirably delicate and affecting.

No, Food isn’t perfect, as “Dreamer” demonstrates: for example, the penultimate “Biscuits ‘n’ Gravy” is just a tad too dry to strike as poignantly as the majority of Food, although it’s still a great track. Really, almost every track on Food is enjoyable, but a select few have some irksome facets. The call and response sections of “Fish Fry” and “Cobbler” feel juvenile and forced, although the latter track has one of the most thrilling choruses present. The oddly dull cover of Labi Siffre’s “Bless The Telephone”, placed just after the album’s midpoint, is probably the album’s lowest point, as it completely lacks the remaining tunes’ invigorating nature despite being un-traditionally pretty. Otherwise, Food‘s consistency and novel (well, for Kelis) approach are commendable, although the album’s fifty minute runtime, over thirteen songs, is a bit excessive.

It’s great that Kelis is finally getting her chance to shine after so long. In 2003, when “Milkshake” emerged and opinions divided like 1860s America, it was unclear whether Kelis would just be a “one hit wonder”, to use one of the more reductive musical terms out there, or if her talent would last with time. With each album since then, a bit more of what makes Kelis special has emerged; Food is the first instance of it being on full display. Although the contributions of Dave Sitek and Todd Simon absolutely cannot be understated, this album is a landmark for Kelis, who’s finally crafted the kinds of songs that she’s always seemed capable of. Although her new label may have less money, it’s certainly given her more artistic freedom, helping to sculpt Food into the great piece that it is. This is her very first album released independently, and the buoyancy of Food‘s most jubilant tracks indicate that she’s probably not leaving anytime soon, suggesting that this is only the first chapter in a long, thrilling neo-soul saga. It’ll be exciting to see how the next chapter unfolds, but, for now, what’s been unveiled so far is fully satisfying and enchanting.

Todd Terje was probably born in the late 1970s, so it’s interesting that his music sounds like a lost document from that era. More than that, though, Terje’s entire aura is straight up 70s. A Google image search of his name turns up plenty of handlebar mustaches; the album artwork of his debut, It’s Album Time, depicts a martini-loving man (presumably a caricature of Terje himself) whom it wouldn’t be unreasonable to guess is a jazz pianist. Of course, this depiction of Terje as lounge master is woefully deceiving; rather, Terje is a space disco auteur, as heard over It’s Album Time‘s hour-long odyssey. Although his songs’ similarity, lack of lyrics, and lengths can make them tough to distinguish, there’s a nuanced yet discernible beauty to all these tracks.

It’s Album Time immediately makes its intentions clear with its opening title track, a short intro to the remainder of the music. “Intro (It’s Album Time)” showcases the style Terje puts forth on all twelve tracks here: crystalline disco synths and smoky lounge vibes abound. It successfully achieves its task of lightheartedly opening the doors to Terje’s interstellar electronic world, which hosts odd synth freakouts like the fractured, constantly oscillating “Preben Goes to Acapulco” and the rave splashes of the penultimate “Oh Joy.” The latter track is remarkable for unsubtly incorporating the trademarks of a genre (rave) slightly outside the usual scope of Terje’s disco-indebted music, as are the funk-soul anthem “Svensk Sas” and the giddily jazzy “Alfonso Muskedunder.”

Terje best steps into unfamiliar territory on a track that isn’t even his. “Johnny and Mary”, a Robert Palmer cover that Terje somehow managed to get Roxy Music legend Bryan Ferry to provide vocals for, is a slow-burning piece of minimal, keyboard-centered heartache. Ferry’s raspy yet controlled voice imbues this track with a warm sensuality that’s much more romantic than the sexy bravado of many other songs present. The song’s gradual ascent from merely snaps and faintly wobbling synths to sparkling synths and soulful aching over its six-and-a-half minutes is downright affecting.

“Johnny and Mary” will probably wind up being the track most listeners point to as It’s Album Time‘s standout merely because it has vocals. Terje’s songs individually are of great craft and caliber, but when placed in sequence, their touch is lost somewhat. The problem isn’t that individual tracks don’t stand out, but that these tunes are essentially built upon the same fundamentals. As an example, compare the undeniable groove of “Strandbar” and the hypnotic trance of “Inspector Norse.” These tracks are not perfectly similar, yet their components are so familiar that their effect is reduced when listening to the album in one sitting. It’s a dilemma that It’s Album Time presents more than once over its hour-long runtime.

That’s not at all to say that it’s a bad album. It’s Album Time is most certainly an enjoyable listen, but Terje could certainly have trimmed some fat off the edges of this one. Honestly, a rectified version of It’s Album Time with fewer songs and minutes of music, as well as more songs as funky and vibrant as album highlight “Delorean Dynamite”, might sound impeccable. “Delorean Dynamite” is actually the best refinement of Terje’s style: a six-minute dance tune that boldly wears its funk and disco influences directly on its sleeve, smoothly changes keys time and time again to initiate a danceable catharsis, and belongs in the 70s. It’s a tune in line with an era when perceptions of what popular music could and would be were still growing, which is fitting for Terje: even though he’s been doing this for years, It’s Album Time suggests that Terje is still learning his way around.

As of April 2013, Sharkmuffin were kind of like the Dr. Octagon of the garage rock, noise pop, and lo-fi scenes. Their She-Gods of Champagne Valley EP they released that month showcased Tarra Thiessen singing about hilariously disturbing topics including heroin-addled fembots, mermaid sex slaves, and teenage incest, while backed by some of Brooklyn’s raunchiest, gloriously messy power chords and percussion. It’s surprising and admirable, then, that the band makes some small steps towards the more personal and down-to-earth on their 1097 EP, which packs an impressive amount of punk punch into just seven and a half minutes.

Sharkmuffin’s move towards lyrical realism isn’t entirely unprecedented: “The Lake”, from their self-titled debut, seems to be about losing a friend to addiction. It’s a song about someone else’s struggles, which makes the reflective lyricism ending 1097‘s final track, and thus the whole EP, a bit less surprising. This track, “Soft Landing”, sees Thiessen turning her gaze inward, lamenting “Oh, but I always break/this feels like a mistake,” during the song’s last fifty seconds, her voice becoming increasingly fanged and searing as she repeats the phrase. Opening track “Foul Play” addresses an impromptu lover’s lack of confidence: “But you don’t know how you’ll ever be good enough/if you’ll ever be good enough,” Thiessen muses over slamming guitars, pounding percussion, and bleating bass.

“Foul Play” also shows that Sharkmuffin haven’t gone entirely serious yet. “We wed in the parking lot/we share the same name now” is a statement of youthful spontaneity, a memory not terribly different than a sudden elopement in Las Vegas. The searing noise tune “TEN TEN”, which consists entirely of the lyrics “TEN TEN!” shrieked, howled, and bellowed, both at different times and simultaneously, is another statement of unrestricted explosion and glee, its degradation into unnerving feedback and static sounding like a massive middle finger to anyone at all.

Of course, Sharkmuffin aren’t nearly the first band to use noise and volume to convey their art. Even at their young age, though, they’ve already moved well out of the shadows of their progenitors; their unique combination of caustic guitars, rattling percussion, and wobbly, haunting vocals are their own unique stamp. They’re continuing the traditions of their scene without sounding derivative, and they’re sure as hell having a lot of fun doing it. What more can you ask for?

Listen to Sharkmuffin

Given the self-loathing angst of Cloud Nothing’s 2012 masterpiece Attack on Memory, it might be surprising to learn that frontman and songwriter Dylan Baldi has a fantastic sense of humor. “Listened to the leak of that new cloud nothings album, not at all what i was expecting from them, really awful shit,” Baldi tweeted from his band’s Twitter account on March 6, almost a month before the album in question, Here and Nowhere Else, hit shelves. This quip wasn’t some sort of weird marketing ploy: Here and Nowhere Else had, in fact, leaked extremely prematurely. Baldi probably wasn’t happy about this leak, but chose to address it with humor and brevity, a mature approach for a 22-year old, especially one thrust into the music industry as just a teenager.

Or maybe Baldi was able to joke about this unfortunate circumstance because he realizes that, of all artists recording and releasing music today, Cloud Nothings is the band least likely to gain any extra benefit from an early leak. Baldi’s music is so immediate and forceful that a month more for buzz to build up wouldn’t change anyone’s reaction to his art. Here and Nowhere Else, a grand refinement of Attack on Memory‘s brooding garage rock, demands incessant replaying even after its first listen. The drums here are stronger and more frantic than ever before, and the snarl Baldi sporadically employed for Attack emerges frequently, yet always sounds vital. New additions to Cloud Nothings’ adrenaline-rushing sound can be heard too: risky yet graciously executed tempo and dynamic changes are abundant, and unexpectedly positive and hopeful lyrics pervade the music.

Even though Baldi’s words have taken a happier turn on his fourth album as Cloud Nothings, his music remains thoroughly overcast. “I’m moving forward, while I keep the past around me,” Baldi observes on “Pattern Walks”, but this optimistic message is paired with anxious, paranoid guitar lines and doom-laced percussive blasts. His anthemic cries of “I’m losing it, but what do I care?” on “Giving Into Seeing” are accompanied by morose, raging sounds, which soon swell into overwrought shouts of “SWALLOW!” and despair-driven guitar bends. Lead single “I’m Not Part of Me” is Here and Nowhere Else‘s best example of Baldi’s contrasting lyrics and sound: “I’m moving towards a new idea/you’re not what I really need” is about as buoyant a phrase as Baldi has ever delivered, but the slow crescendo of power chords underlying it is absolutely bleak.

Yet, despite the darknesses of Here and Nowhere Else, its overall mood is far brighter than its predecessor. Whereas Attack on Memory tracks like “Stay Useless” and “Wasted Days” conveyed 100% despair, the desolation of Here and Nowhere Else is subdued by somewhat sunnier guitar chords, as well as Baldi’s gentler vocals (well, when he isn’t screaming). “Just See Fear” is only subtly dismal, its jaunty guitars and relaxed vocals outweighing the inevitable darkness of a Cloud Nothings track. “You don’t really seem to care, and/I don’t even talk about it”, lyrical highlights from “No Thoughts”, coexist with guitars mostly bright, yet faintly grim. Both these songs also progress into shouted catharsis, moments when the darkness of Baldi’s music shines through more obviously. Even during these intense breakouts of screaming, though, there’s a positivity to be heard that never manifested on Attack on Memory.

It’s a bit odd that Here and Nowhere Else sounds so optimistic given its impressively ferocious drumming and blindsiding tempo shifts. Both of these musical elements lend themselves to anxiety, fear, and anger quite well, yet Baldi uses them here to convey confidence. Opener “Now Hear In” begins with midpaced, overdriven guitar rumble that smoothly quickens into a mosh pit rally. This faster portion, led by intense, technically astounding drum work, calms to its previous pace for a second verse, only to reverse again for the second chorus. “Quieter Today” follows, and this track makes even better use of tempo shifts. Its riotous verses keep their pace into the pre-chorus, which ends with a quick pause, building up the tension for a decrease in speed, yet a striking increase in forcefulness.

After “Now Hear In” and “Quieter Today” comes “Psychic Trauma”, the most blatant example of Baldi’s songwriting advancements. Possibly the album’s most galvanizing track, it starts as a dismal guitar dirge embellished with lyrics about the numbness of a bad relationship, but, after forty-five seconds, transforms into a rapid, fiery battery of guttural guitars and pounding percussion. “I can’t believe what you’re telling me is true/my mind is always wasted listening to you”, Baldi sighs over this instrumentation, and then adds even more aggression to this same soundtrack, its newfound intensity stark enough to allow Baldi to scream and repeat the song’s first verse over it. Although a short period of minor tranquility appears next, this brief passivation ascends into a brutal, manic sonic assault. The song’s last thirty seconds are particularly thrilling, as the guitars and drums both go as apeshit as they possibly can, forming a sea of dizzying, adrenaline-rushing, technically bedazzling garage rock grandeur. It’s the best example of what makes Here and Nowhere Else such a triumph, and one of the most visceral garage rock tracks in a while (although Baldi’s own “Wasted Days” is a strong competitor).

Here and Nowhere Else is a clear step forward for Dylan Baldi and his garage rock gang, yet it’s not far removed from Cloud Nothings’ breakthrough Attack on Memory. Its advancements are subtle enough to fully satisfy Attack lovers, yet are also sharp enough to earn Baldi a new wave of critical acclaim. Although it’s a surprisingly happy album, it’s still got enough darkness to perfectly convey the frenzy of Baldi’s very existence. Above all this, though, it’s a unique document in a genre far too often labeled as overdone and expired, an album that’s bound to win Cloud Nothings a slew of new listeners and confirm them as leaders of the pack. Baldi’s genre gets the last laugh, but he’s been cracking jokes from the very beginning.

For someone who’s career is all about listening, Carlos Hernandez, de facto leader of Ava Luna, sure likes to watch. He’s a bit voyeuristic in his role for Ava Luna’s “Ice Level” video, stating that his character “watches from a dark, geometrical vantage point.” More revealing is when he’s observing to learn rather than, well, to be creepy. In an interview with A Music Blog, Yea?, Hernandez confessed that, rather than jamming with his idol Ornette Coleman, he’d rather record Coleman’s performance and “just act the observer, watch for twitches and tics.” Listening to the idiosyncrasies of Ava Luna’s captivating sophomore album Electric Balloon, it’s surprising that Hernandez hasn’t already done exactly that. Each of the album’s eleven songs flaunts the band’s unique jitters and quirks, placing Ava Luna’s very own twitches and tics front and center. Although the dynamics and mood of the music fluctuate somewhat throughout the album, each track sounds uniquely like an Ava Luna song.

Of course, a unique sound isn’t a direct pathway to success. Take, as an example, the rap-rave style of Die Antwoord, a sound that’s unmatched by any other musical act, yet, frankly, sounds quite terrible. Ava Luna have no such problem: the “nervous soul” style, to steal a Bandcamp tag they invented and assigned to themselves, advanced on Electric Balloon is exciting, unpredictable, and wholly theirs. Nevertheless, superficial comparisons to other acts can be made — vocalist Becca Kaufman can sit on the border between cute and eerie just like Deerhoof’s Satomi Matsuzaki can, Carlos Hernandez has a snarl not far removed from Black Francis or tourmates and good friends Krill, and the male-female vocal interplay, odd meter, and technical complexity reminisce of Dirty Projectors, by far Ava Luna’s most frequent comparison. Yet after only a couple of listens, the gates guarding Electric Balloon‘s individuality are shattered, and Ava Luna’s anxious, oddball sound becomes entirely theirs.

One of Ava Luna’s tendencies that attributes to their already-signature sound is their ability to make various tempos, volumes, and emotions sound like no one else has ever touched upon them, all in the course of one album. On Electric Balloon, the flamenco-inspired, shuffling acoustic ballad “Aquarium” sounds just as Ava Luna-esque as does Becca Kaufman’s wild yelping on the mid-paced funk groove of “Sears Roebuck M&Ms” and the uneasy title track. Likewise, the slow-burning, oddly pretty “PRPL” never sounds like the work of a different group than that behind the angsty, boiling soul tension of “Crown.” Ava Luna’s “nervous soul” comes in a few shapes and sizes, yet never fails to strike and enchant.

Even with the diversity of sonic approaches taken on Electric Balloon, certain facets of Ava Luna’s writing consistently manifest in their music. Carlos Hernandez’ ability to swing from a soulful coo to a manic snarl in what feels like only a second drives a good number of these songs, and his laborious arrangements form the backbone of this album. The vocal turns on “Daydream” and “Crown” are particularly impressive, despite neither song sounding even remotely similar to the other. “Plain Speech” displays the extremes in Hernandez’ voice many times in its four-and-a-half minutes, but more exciting are the two tempo changes Hernandez incorporates. The dramatic shift from a sound that really epitomizes “nervous soul” to slowed indie rock greatness (and then back again) surprises each time.

The chorus of “Plain Speech” is equally important for reiterating Becca Kaufman’s significance in Ava Luna’s various sounds. Although she takes the position of background vocalist on this song, as she does on “Hold U”, “Judy”, and “Genesee”, her voice might actually be more intriguing than Hernandez’ off-the-walls vocal chaos. Kaufman quite literally whoops her way through “Sears Roebuck M&Ms” and squeals her way through “Electric Balloon”, two of the most invigorating tracks present. As a background vocalist, she reinforces Hernandez’ shaky, uncertain voice with a solidity that magnifies its emotive effects. Her hollers of “Judy, I don’t have the stomach for you!” under Hernandez’ own shouting of these lyrics delivers the message even more firmly than if Hernandez were left to his own devices.

Electric Balloon sounds more like the work of the whole band rather than just Hernandez, a problem that their debut Ice Level presented. Despite being quite a riot itself, the latter album felt restricted by Hernandez’ control; Electric Balloon flows more freely, its boundaries practically nonexistent thanks to the other members’ contributions. Although Ice Level highlights such as “Wrenning Day” and “Sequential Holdings” predicted the explosive nature of Electric Balloon without fully embracing them, tracks like “No F” and “A Year of Mirth” never quite took off as they might be expected to. Electric Balloon suffers from no such malady, as even its slightly tepid finale, “Ab Ovo”, leaps forward in its final ninety seconds. Here, Ava Luna have incorporated the ideas and skills of many people rather than just one into their sound; the result is something less trapped and more explorative.

Electric Balloon isn’t perfect, but it’s a big step forward for these five weirdos. The multi-faceted style they’ve developed is purely enjoyable, and it never tires. It’s the kind of album that tries many different outfits on out of genuine interest instead of pretentious vacillations, and provides a listening experience worth repeating time and time again. Maybe this is because it offers more questions than it does answers, which is totally fine when the music sounds this good. Perhaps the best question regarding Ava Luna now isn’t one generated directly by the album, but by the listener in response to the album: if Ava Luna is capable of something this towering and singular, who’s to say they can’t outdo themselves in the future?

“Are you going to call me a cunt? Are you going to tell me I’m ugly? Well, here’s my band name—do your worst, motherfucker.” This is the attitude of Meredith Graves, frontwoman of the bold, confrontational Syracuse five-piece Perfect Pussy. The sentiment perfectly matches the music: Perfect Pussy rose to blogosphere fame late last year on the strength of the brutally honest lyricism (well, when it could be understood behind the plethora of filters) and explosive lo-fi garage punk of their debut EP I have lost all desire for feeling. At four songs and twelve minutes long, the EP provided a bare minimum of an introduction to Perfect Pussy’s particular breed of garage rock. Their debut album, Say Yes to Love, is almost twice as long (if the live bonus tracks are excluded), yet instead of feeling twice as powerful as the EP, it rushes by like a blur, impacting surprisingly infrequently.

That’s not to say that Say Yes to Love is in any way a bad album. Although it’s not quite as invigorating as its predecessor, it’s still got many moments of thrilling lo-fi punk. Lead-off track “Driver” rails forward with a greater fidelity and a somewhat slower pace than the majority of I have lost all desire for feeling, which helps Graves’ cries of “you don’t know shit about me!” land with poignancy. “Work”, a faster, more metallic track, combines some of the album’s most incomprehensible lyrics with some of its most immediate guitar work. “Advance Upon the Real” builds upon the guitar assault of “Work”, its words often buried under layers of impossibly rapid six-strings-and-percussion interplay.

Even with all the electrifying thrash present here, though, it can be difficult to distinguish the faster songs from one another, especially since the sentiments, which are probably so lacerating that hearing them clearly would thoroughly enhance these songs, often hide behind the instrumentation, despite the improved fidelity. Consecutive tracks “Bells” and “Big Stars” seem to lead into each other, yet there’s not much to separate the pounding sounds of each song. “Dig” experiences the same dilemma: there’s nothing about it to really distinguish it from its surroundings.

The similarity across tracks on Say Yes to Love, when combined with how short the album is, somewhat dampens the excitement predicted by I have lost all desire for feeling. Although even the album’s best moments can feel monotonous, there’s one song in particular that helps break up the steady flow. “Interference Fits”, easily the most unique song on the album, is a good deal less aggressive than the rest of the album. The song starts with a few strummed notes rather than heavy power chords, as with every other track. It’s a bit more downbeat than the other songs, too, and unexpectedly gorgeous coming from a band whose scrambled sound is generally hideous. “Since when do we say yes to love?” Graves asks during this song’s brief moment of near-silence, a brief reprieve from the sensory overload of her band’s sound.

Eleven minutes of music — over half the entire length of Say Yes to Love — follow “Interference Fits”, yet none of these minutes ever binds the ears as tightly. In fact, just under eight of these minutes are mostly feedback and noise, percussion-less collages of sound that disappoint rather than fascinate. Doing the math reveals that this section accounts for one-third of Say Yes to Love, and this final third is more bothersome than it is interesting. Four bonus tracks follow the third, but each of these features a live performance, adding no value to the album. It’s hard to love an album structured so strangely, and its sameness doesn’t help. Despite its flaws though, it’s tough not to at least like a few of the songs on here, and that’s alright — since when do we say yes to love anyway?

Considering that Real Estate write almost exclusively about suburban life and are known to reference their home state of New Jersey decently often (“Suburban Dogs” features the couplet “Carry me back to sweet Jersey/back where I long to be”), it’s surprising that Real Estate never played a show in their hometown of Ridgewood until June 2012. What’s less surprising is how Ridgewood-centered the concert was: Toasted Plastic and Spook Houses, both Ridgewood-based bands that travel the local circuit, opened the concert, and the show was actually an event to support a charity close to the band’s heart. Entitled the Nick Currey Fund, the charity was inspired by the death of a Ridgewood High School classmate of both Real Estate songwriter/vocalist/guitarist Martin Courtney and bassist Alex Bleeker. Even after two successful albums that led them on American and European tours, Real Estate still came home to support the town they love, the town that formed them.

Unfortunately, Courtney and co. can no longer go home, and Atlas, Real Estate’s third album, describes this stage of life with intense sadness and longing. Whereas this group’s self-titled debut and sophomore effort Days reveled in love for the suburbs, Atlas addresses moving on and growing up, and this shift in lyrical content exposes a maturity that Real Estate had merely suggested until now. It’s not that these guys want to leave their past behind; if anything, Atlas expertly navigates through Courtney’s aching desire to return to former times. This isn’t goodbye, it’s see you later, as suggested by the solemn, pained “Past Lives”: “I cannot come back to this neighborhood/without feeling my own age,” laments Courtney as he reminisces on a past he wishes were still his present.

Throughout Atlas, it seems that the main reason Real Estate have left the suburban life is due to touring. The album explores the conflicts brought upon one’s personal life over months and months of constant traveling: “I’m just trying to make some sense of this/before I lose another year,” Courtney sings on “The Bend”, a phrase to which he could have easily attached “on the road” at the end to reveal its meaning, but the subtext is clear enough. This song’s chorus nails the sentiment even further: “Like I’m behind the wheel/but it won’t steer”, Courtney sighs, implying that, although Real Estate is driving their touring van, it’s actually the other way around: the touring van is driving them.

“Crime” follows “The Bend”, and it’s also a thoroughly appropriate sequence thematically. The “crippling anxiety” of the verses (a phrase whose bluntness is unmatched in Real Estate’s prior catalog) manifests in Courtney’s fear of dying “lonely and uptight”, suggesting a separation from the love he’s left behind, at home, in the suburbs, where his past and his heart lie. “Talking Backwards” also looks back upon a happier time “when that night was over/and the field was lit up bright/and I walked home with you/nothing I said came out right.” Even though, sonically, this song is relatively upbeat given the rest of the album’s content, this stanza of the second verse is underpinned with a clear emotional pain, a nostalgic sentiment cut with unfiltered sadness. Its last line is particularly telling: even when reminiscing on a gorgeous, meaningful moment, Courtney focuses on his own failures. His inability to say what he wanted in that moment is, to him, another significant instance of the “crippling anxiety” which “Crime” focuses on. Furthermore, this memory is “too many miles away,” reiterating the distance this album explores.

Although Atlas is a lyrical advance for Real Estate, this band has yet to evolve sonically, which, given the power of their words, works out surprisingly often. Through its first six songs, the album rarely lags, although the instrumental “April’s Song” is a bit out of place on this lyrically weighty collection. Yet it’s only “Talking Backwards” that truly sounds any different than the rest of this portion of the album: its sparkling, upbeat, almost optimistic guitars completely contrast the dismal, lethargic guitars of its counterparts. By the time seventh track “Primitive” comes around, this sameness can prove a bit exhausting, although the subtle synths underlying the chorus do bolster this song a bit. Penultimate track “Horizon” moves a bit more quickly than most of the album, and the vocal harmonies in the chorus are fully affecting, so it too stands out slightly in this pool of repetition. Overall, though, it’s entirely possible to lose focus as this album progresses, since it can begin to sound like a loop of reverb-heavy, shiny-clean guitar breeziness.

Real Estate are not new to the complaint that all their songs sound the same: in a recent interview with Stereogum, Courtney addressed this criticism by explaining that he thinks “the album is a grower.” He may well be right: Days took some time to unfold itself, but once it did, it became impossible to escape. Sure, Atlas doesn’t offer anything quite as exuberant or as purely gleeful as Days‘ literally perfect third track “It’s Real”, but it doesn’t sound terribly different than its predecessor. This similarity makes it easy to believe that, in due time, Atlas will evolve from an album that makes great occasional sadness-sympathizing listening into a collection that, like the best of albums, can be played over and over again without any expiration date. And when that time comes, hopefully Courtney will have learned to look back on his past with a smile instead of an ache.

For a band named after a bird (and a pun on Don Henley’s crew), Eagulls sure are fascinated by the human body. In September 2013, this British outfit released a music video for single “Nerve Endings” that depicted a super sped-up film of a pig brain decomposing. This brain was similar enough to a human brain, just as they had wanted, that someone who discovered the brain where it was being filmed thought it was human, and called the police. Now, six months later, without any legal repercussions from the “Nerve Endings” video, Eagulls deliver a self-titled debut filled with song titles like “Yellow Eyes”, “Footsteps”, “Amber Veins”, and “Fester/Blister.” If their interest in anatomy wasn’t blatant enough already, it sure is now. The focus seems to be on rotting body parts, and the music matches: Eagulls sounds like a shoegaze soundtrack for someone’s slow death.

In sound, Eagulls have precedents in fellow British acts The Horrors, but that band’s name would be much better applied to Eagulls. The searing hybrid punk-shoegaze guitars that The Horrors are known for also open Eagulls’ “Nerve Endings”, and thus their debut album. This sound continues through Eagulls‘ ten tracks, and it’s done better than their forebears have achieved. Lyrically, though, they don’t quite have any predecessors: what other band could make “There’s no reason, no sense, no meaning behind my awkward smile” seem like this smile is that of a deeply troubled person, someone obsessed with human death and decay? These are the first words of “Nerve Endings”, whose chorus bears the shouted refrain “Can’t find my head!”, which might not be a metaphor coming from these guys.

“Nerve Endings” is a prime example of what Eagulls does best, which makes its placement as the album’s first track somewhat unfortunate, since things can only go downhill from there. But Eagulls are, if anything, consistent, so downhill isn’t too far or steep. On all ten tracks here, the opener’s trends continue: harrowing, aggressive guitars clash bluntly with percussion that sounds like it’s falling from the sky, and vocalist George Mitchell always delivers his disquieting lyrics with a British scowl full of bile and vitriol. The battle between drums and guitars in the chorus of “Yellow Eyes”, for example, resembles another Eagulls chorus, “Footsteps”; elsewhere, “Amber Veins” shoots out fearsome tones subtly drenched in wah to pave way for the track’s percussive stomp.

Eagulls’ sonic cohesiveness is an admirable quality, one that bands as young as they are often struggle with, but while it bolsters their sound, it also mildly hinders their debut as a whole. As the final few tracks approach, the life-sized guitars and bellowed vocals blur the lines between tracks. “Soulless Youth”, the album’s ultimate track, sounds great on its own, but feels tiring within the context of the album; if not for the brief breakdown on “Fester/Blister”, that song too might fly by without leaving a mark on listeners’ receptive ears. Luckily for this band, though, their lyrical consistency helps to shadow the persistent similarities across tracks. “Footsteps”, certainly an album highlight, boasts a screaming guitar riff during its chorus that might feel like just a whimper if not for the shouting of “you’re depleting my neck!” More anatomical imagery saves the day here, as it does on single “Possessed”, wherein the idea of demonic possession sounds like a physical burden rather than just a mental drain.

Although Eagulls falters here and there, it’s a pretty good starting point for a band that, despite having their own sound, isn’t reinventing the wheel. They’ve absolutely got the potential to make a riveting punk or shoegaze album one day, something as bleak and aggressive as Cloud Nothings’ recent masterpiece Attack on Memory. These birds have learned to fly, but have yet to travel long distance. Oddly enough, it’s their preoccupation with human physicality that sprouts their wings.

How’s this for a compliment? Rolling Stone recently deemed St. Vincent “the most thrilling solo artist in indie rock right now.” It’s no small feat to receive this level of respect from one of the best-established cultural publications of all time, even though hyperbole is inevitable in any sort of art criticism. Yet praise for St. Vincent, real name Annie Clark, simply cannot be overdone; over the course of three albums, Clark has proven herself to be arguably the most unique, exciting, passionate, and genuinely incredible musician to break out in the twenty-first century. Her fourth album St. Vincent, possibly her best yet, continues in its predecessors’ unparalleled excellence, expanding on past motifs in just the right ways. It combines the best qualities of her solo output, as well as those of the disappointingly tepid Love This Giant, her collaborative album with personal idol and musical legend David Byrne, into a robust, fiery, emotionally heavy package with no filler to find anywhere and only genuine ideas explored.

Of course, outside influences can be identified as well: Byrne in the funk rhythm of jolting opener “Rattlesnake”, the percussive stutter of the great “Every Tear Disappears”, and especially the brass section of “Digital Witness”; Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin in the overpowering, monstrous last two minutes of “Huey Newton”; Pink Floyd in the background ambience of the devastating, downright gorgeous “I Prefer Your Love.” But, more than anything, Clark’s own catalog informs St. Vincent without dictating it. The wonderful third track “Prince Johnny” employs the same sort of grey, uneasy haze of Strange Mercy gems like “Surgeon” and “Dilletante”, yet aches even more earnestly than much of that album’s thoroughly yearning tunes; the shell-shock dynamic shift of “Huey Newton” is an improved take on Actor highlight “Marrow”; the acoustic guitars surrounding album highlights “Regret” and “Psychopath” recall the early days of Marry Me. Really, St. Vincent is a distillation of Annie Clark’s musical past, simultaneously a reminder of where she came from and where her music is heading.

Musically, St. Vincent succeeds by expanding upon previous instrumental tendencies; its lyrics also stem from the same seeds as on older albums. As with Actor and especially Strange Mercy, the lyrics here are deeply personal despite the frequent cloud of metaphors and imagery surrounding them. The figurative language is often so thick that, although it’s clearly sincere and close to Clark’s heart, its true meaning can be hard to interpret. For instance, when Clark sings “Summer is as faded as a long sicada call/memories so bright I gotta squint just to recall” on “Regret”, it can be difficult to establish whether she looks back upon this time with shame or positivity, although the song title very blatantly suggests the former. Elsewhere, the words of “Huey Newton” simply sound like an assortment of disparate images tossed together, seemingly unrelated turns of phrase that only coexist to sound eerie, a job they do perfectly.

Of course, when lyricism is this personal, true feelings inevitably shine through. Clark’s words on “Severed Crossed Fingers” and “I Prefer Your Love” make no effort to conceal their woe and desperation, imbuing these tracks with a heartache unmatched in her catalog to date. “The truth is ugly, well/I feel ugly too” and “Spitting out guts from their gears/draining our spleen over years” pierce the former track, ensuring that its melancholy and poignancy don’t go missed; “I prefer your love/to Jesus” is actually quite straightforward coming from Clark on the latter track. “I Prefer Your Love” is indeed deeply personal — it’s about her mother’s battle with disease — and its somber strings emphasize just how heartfelt this slow-burner is.

However, despite the blatant feelings of these two tracks, there is a moment on St. Vincent when the lyrics bring the music down just a tad. The sarcastic, preachy lyrics of “Digital Witness”, albeit humorous in their irony, aren’t quite up to par with the rest of Clark’s poetry, and the out-of-place brass section dominating the song sounds like the stronger side of the still weak Love This Giant. Released as the second single from the album, “Digital Witness” marks the first instance of Clark’s output feeling like a mild letdown. Yet, despite its somewhat silly, yet well-intentioned and socially relevant lyrics, and its borderline camp instrumentation, the song’s a grower; it might be this album’s weak point (or maybe that’s “Bring Me Your Loves”, a tune so jarring that it takes some time to accept, yet, naturally, it too grows into greatness), yet it’s still a fantastic, invigorating scorcher of a tune, and it shines even more brightly in the context of the album.

It’s interesting that “Digital Witness” benefits so greatly from its placement within the album, because it follows the best song present, the overwhelming, no-looking-back “Huey Newton.” Although the lyrics on this track sound meaningless in sequence, Clark delivers them in a manner as spooky as the underlying instrumental, a minimal mesh of muted OK Computer synths, distant digitalism, and straightforward percussion. As if this weren’t menacing enough, Clark completely reverses the song with two minutes remaining, converting it from a relatively tranquil meditation into a stomping, larger-than-life, so-heavy-it-could-be-metal anthem in what feels like a millisecond. The transformation is so quick it can make hearts skip beats and incite listeners to jump out of their seats in shock, and it may damn well be the single most rewarding moment in the St. Vincent canon to date.

Clark seems to be fully aware of just how special “Huey Newton” is: the disgustingly distorted guitar part guiding its metallic second half is none other than the fierce, unidentified-until-now riff used way back in November 2013 to initiate the St. Vincent promotional campaign. It’s that menacing, dirty jam that played under the European tour announcement on her website, a placement that might imply that it would be the intro to the first single released from the album. Yet on “Birth in Reverse”, no such riff was to be found, although equally funky and distorted guitars form its excellent instrumentation; furthermore, no other singles contained the riff, and the ninety-second previews that iTunes offered for each song showed no evidence of its presence on the album. It’s as though Clark did all she could to preserve the sheer joy of the surprise 2:38 into “Huey Newton”, the moment when she proves herself a master of unexpected, cathartic shifts in mood and sound, and an artist unrivaled in innovation and individuality.

The majority of, if not all, St. Vincent fans will cherish St. Vincent. It demonstrates Clark reimagining everything she’s done in the past in its best possible form, resulting in not only some of the most dynamic, exciting pieces of her career, but of all twenty-first century music. On St. Vincent, Clark sounds thoroughly modern and of her own kind while she picks delicately from the past for influences. That she sounds this new while still wearing old colors completely justifies anything and everything good anyone, whether fan or fledgling critic, casual listener or Rolling Stone writer, has ever said about her.

Phantogram’s career to date has proven that an artist’s musical approaches can be scattershot and haphazard without coming off messy or amateurish. Their debut LP Eyelid Movies dabbled in a wide range of styles: faintly dark, electro-tinged dream pop, terrifying, urgent, 90s-style hip-hop, and contemplative yet forceful indie rock all received equal space on this album. Follow-up EP Nightlife demonstrated the duo’s proficiency in even more modes: eerie acoustic hymns, distant electropop, and dreamy, stadium-oriented rock all appeared within. However, the band’s second full-length and first in five years, Voices, sees Sarah Barthel and Josh Carter ditching the stylistic indecision of their past releases, resulting in their most consistent work yet. Although such a decision might plague the band’s fluctuating sound with sameness, these two cleverly avoid this problem by delving further into the darkness and sexiness their catalog had previously only hinted at.

From the get-go, though, it’s not entirely obvious that Voices marks any new territory for this duo. Opener “Nothing But Trouble” explores the same musical motifs and vocal methods employed on Eyelid Movies highlights “Mouthful of Diamonds” and “As Far A I Can See”, but this is certainly not a bad thing. Acting as a gateway between Phantogram’s former doings and their newer ways, it provides a proper segue into newer terrain, leading directly into the sensual moodiness of “Black Out Days.” Constructed upon ominous synths and thrilling vocal loops courtesy of Bartel, this song begins Voices‘ journey into more affecting, lust-speckled themes, somewhat uncharted territory for these two. Elsewhere, the deceivingly-titled “Bill Murray” exudes warmth and sensuality despite the murky, bleak synth crests forming its core; “Howling at the Moon” employs Western-tinged guitars and haunting synths to achieve an aching, evocative synthpop tune. The chorus’ main lyric of “at night I crawl and howl at the moon” can easily be mistaken for “at night I cry and howl at the moon”; in fact, maybe that’s what the words really say — it can be hard to distinguish through the flickering percussion, background howls (no coincidence), and longing guitars. Regardless, it’s downright afflicting since Bartel’s voice is so flexible.

Although Bartel usually takes the vocal lead on most of these songs, Carter gets his fair share of time front-and-center. This is a continued trend — Eyelid Movies‘ “Running from the Cops” and Nightlife‘s “Turning Into Stone” feature Carter on vocals, but Voices marks what’s possibly the best use of his vocals yet. On “I Don’t Blame You”, Carter alternates between monotone storytelling in the verses and skyward, longing tones in the chorus. The bare instrumental composition of the verses — rhythmic, repeating percussion, background synth hum, muted brass samples — perfectly contrasts the explosive chorus, its synths and percussion both accentuated to far greater heights. It’s arguably Phantogram’s best tune with Carter as frontman to date, although Voices‘ sparkling, heartbreaking “Never Going Home” could also qualify for this title. “If this is love/I’m never going home,” emotes Carter during this song’s chorus, and though the sentiment may be ordinary, his pleading delivery makes it fully believable.

Preceding the somewhat introverted dynamics of “Never Going Home” is the heaviest, most adrenaline-rushing song on Voices. “Fall in Love”, released as the album’s first single way back in December of last year, proves to be Voices‘ strongest track despite how familiar it feels by now. Synthetic strings unassumingly open the song, but quickly pave the way for huge synth blasts, slamming percussion, and digitized oohs and aahs. These elements disappear quickly as Bartel croons the first verse, but reemerge thereafter as the foundation of the song’s absolutely giant chorus, in which the background voices strikingly underpin Bartel’s cries of “You were fallin’/I’m sorry.” Its bridge contains a contender for Phantogram’s most disturbing lyric yet: “The lights/on my face ate away my smile,” laments Bartel, adding more ghostly feelings to this already eerie track.

“Could it be that I’m/falling apart?” asks Bartel during the bridge of “Fall in Love”, yet, if anything, Voices implies that Phantogram are just coming together. As Phantogram’s darkest, steamiest, most cohesive effort to date, Voices establishes that Phantogram’s career has not been a series of flukes, of disparate ideas that just happen to click. Here, they’ve channeled their varied ideas into a document that speaks to their strengths like never before.

Confidence can go a long way. Rising NYC outfit Isle of Rhodes is absolutely not lacking in this department: the self-described “hardest-hitting keyboard duo in NYC” wouldn’t apply such a statement to themselves if they had low self-esteem. Or perhaps this is just a facade? On their third release, the Affirmation Caravan EP, these two struggle to find their own sound, their music held back both by vocalist Robert Farren’s often complacent, unexaggerated voice as well as their blatant adaptation of their ancestors’ approaches. The music is by no means bad, as this young duo has a clue or two about how to light a fire under their listeners’ feet, but they often do so in a perplexing and inimitable manner.

Opener “Tic Toc” starts this brief EP on a very confusing note, both literally and perceptually. Jarring, wah-infused keyboards that recall the late 60s initiate this first track, gradually calming into the background under vocalist Robert Farren’s soothing voice. Although Farren’s subdued vocals suit the verses of “Tic Toc”, their hush oddly contrasts the chorus’ overdriven guitars. Even when Farren’s voice approaches higher pitches, or harsh growls during the final verse, he only shows restraint, failing to provide the music with the proper emotional kick it suggests and deserves.

Elsewhere, Farren’s voice better matches the music, but it’s still this outfit’s weak point. “Oceans” sees Farren harmonizing with another vocalist, likely female, during its chorus, a technique that bolsters his voice’s strength, yet doesn’t fully make up for its flaws. Instrumentally, the song occupies the same retro vibes as “Tic Toc”, but its tones feel warmer and more embracing. Really, though, all these songs look back in time: the moderate keyboard warbles of single “Islands”, probably this EP’s best track, shine with the dim gentleness of past eras’ soft rock, and the title track sounds like an odd hybrid of The White Album and The Doors.

Although Isle of Rhodes never conceal their influences, they do indeed make their own small mark with “Islands.” This tune boasts a chorus during which Farren’s voice, shrouded in reverb, briefly escapes its plaintive, reticent boundaries and matches the afflicting guitars. It’s a glimmer, an eclipse, of the band’s very own methods, a sign that, although this young duo has a lot yet to learn, they’ve already learned something.

Every week, the online music magazine Stereogum publishes a list of the week’s five best songs. Being the integral component of the hype machine that they are, Stereogum often tops the list with a new song by a well-established act, so when Gardens & Villa’s “Bullet Train” topped this list on November 22 of last year — ahead of psychedelic buzzboys Temples — it came as somewhat of a surprise. It’s likely that many readers were unaware of Gardens & Villa before this list was released, but those who actually took the time to listen to “Bullet Train” were equally likely to feel excitement upon discovering a great new song from a rising group. “Bullet Train” is certainly a standout on this outfit’s sophomore effort, Dunes, but that’s a tough label to assign, since every track shines so brightly.

Dunes begins with “Domino”, a pretty synthpop tune that lightly dips its toes into chillwave’s summer of 2009. Subsequent track “Colony Glen”, the first track released from this album, further cements Gardens & Villa’s fascination with thick synthetic pulses, and displays vocalist Chris Lynch’s uncanny ability to meld his voice into an imitation of James Mercer’s. This similarity, in combination with the track’s eerie electronic elements, absolutely screams Broken Bells (who, coincidentally, will be releasing their sophomore effort After the Disco on the same day as G&V will release Dunes, also their sophomore effort). “Bullet Train” continues the fun, and combines the chillwave leanings and Broken Bells reverence of its two preceding songs.

However, despite Dunes‘ excellent opening triforce, it’s not until fourth track “Chrysanthemums” that Gardens & Villa truly come into their own. What may damn well be a faded recording of a flute loops around deep pianos, computer-programmed clicks, and Lynch’s earnest voice, which reaches nearly harrowing heights in its chorus. “Give back your love,” coo Lynch and a female backing vocalist at the chorus’ end, providing a perfect emotional segway into this track’s flowering (pun intended, although there’s no better description) second verse. It’s Dunes‘ best example of how this band’s songwriting has expanded into an emotionally potent force.

Of course, Gardens & Villa’s sounds wouldn’t ache so brilliantly without DFA co-founder Tim Goldsworthy’s expert production. Goldsworthy’s presence brightens G&V’s sound considerably, and, in the process, provides it with optimism that wasn’t always present in the band’s past works. Whereas older tunes like “Black Hills” and its B-side “Orange Blossom” occupy spacious, somewhat downbeat environments, Dunes is far perkier, its synths blaring colorfully rather than defeatedly. A great example is the Holy Ghost-esque tune “Avalanche”, whose dark undertones are very well-concealed by its lucid guitar notes, pumping bassline, and transcendent synths. The flow and hue of these synths, as well as of those on “Thunder Glove”, are surely Goldsworthy’s contributions, his dance-punk background bleeding directly into these tracks.

It’s hard to pick out flaws from such a strong album, but if Dunes makes just one mistake, it’s that its final track feels like filler. “Love Theme” is a short (one and a half minutes) ambient piece that lacks percussion, focusing on its two or three computer-programmed synth parts. Although ambient music can be thoroughly moving, “Theme” underwhelms as the album’s final moment; an introverted track that still skirts the boundaries of synthpop — something very similar to “Minnesota” — might have provided a more appropriate ending for such an exciting album. But really, degrading Dunes for a brief sidestep is like throwing our your favorite sweater when a millimeter-sized hole forms somewhere near its bottom; it’s cutting off the nose to spite the face. Dunes is an excellent listen over its not-quite-forty minutes, an album on which most tracks could easily top Songs of the Week lists.

It must be nice being a longtime Damien Jurado fan. His sound has barely changed since his 1999 sophomore effort Rehearsals for Departure, and his consistency is most certainly an agreeable approach for devoted listeners. But might Jurado’s lack of musical turnarounds eventually grow frustrating or boring with time? Brothers and Sisters of the Eternal Son, Jurado’s eleventh and most recent album, still doesn’t quite answer this question: it’s a collection of both his signature folk sparsity and, more commonly, some exciting, mildly different adventures. His new methods are invigorating and gripping, but his usual approach feels a bit tiring. Regardless, Brothers and Sisters is no less affecting than anything he’s previously released.

Some of the songs on Brothers and Sisters dabble in terrain that Jurado has already covered many times throughout his seventeen-year career, and falter somewhat for this approach. “Metallic Cloud”, for example, progresses at a snail’s pace, relying on pianos and Jurado’s unmistakable voice to carry the song; “Silver Katherine” employs wispy acoustic guitars and well-buried strings (so subtle, in fact, that it’s difficult to determine whether the instrument at hand is a violin, a viola, or a cello) to achieve the same effect. “Silver Joy”, the most outrightly desolate track here, is classic Jurado, slithering by on merely its creator’s voice and finger-picked guitar notes. It’s nice to see that, after so many releases, Jurado’s most frequently used formula still works somewhat.

However, these same tracks are pushed to the album’s periphery when cast in the shadow of its more daring moments. “Silver Donna” sounds just as bleak as the majority of Jurado’s catalog, but its cold, brittle bass and arching vocal howls ensure that its six minutes, a long runtime for its creator, never bore. “Return to Maraqopa” is neither a return to Maraqopa, Jurado’s previous album, nor its title track; rather, it ditches those works’ abandoned acoustics for unsettling synth undertones and gorgeous guitar gallop. Opener “Magic Number” improves on the later-featured “Silver Katherine”, borrowing the latter track’s instrumentation and resulting in a mildly quicker tune. What’s particularly notable about “Magic Number” is its middle thirty seconds, a sort of harrowing, dusty percussive breakdown. This brief interlude is sandwiched by two nearly equal halves, an arrangement that might render this section pointless if it weren’t so interesting.

“You lost your mind on a music note/caught in your throat”, Jurado mutters on “Return to Maraqopa.” The man probably isn’t talking to himself here: on Brothers and Sisters, Jurado’s voice emanates loudly and clearly from the sonic mess. Even on “Jericho Road”, a track that buries its singer’s voice under filter after filter, the plight of human emotion is readily apparent; more traditional tracks such as “Silver Joy” make no effort to conceal their sentiments. This song’s “do not disturb me/let me be” mantra pervades Brothers and Sisters, an album on which no object or person disturbs Damien Jurado’s creative process.

Yeezus. Reflektor. Random Access Memories. mbv. If you feel like you’ve heard these names far too often recently, you’re probably not alone. These seemingly ubiquitous names have appeared towards the top of many “Best Albums of 2013” lists, but many, if not all of them, rank so highly only due to critical hype. Way Too Indie’s Top 20 Albums of 2013 list cuts through critical buzz and picks out twenty thoroughly enjoyable, moving, infinitely replayable albums released this year…well, somewhat. Even after clearing the critical fog, frequent picks Settle, Days Are Gone, Modern Vampires of the City, and The Bones of What You Believe remained compelling enough to place on this list. Despite the appearance of these albums, there should be some surprises that lie ahead, some wonderful albums that went relatively unappreciated this year. Let’s begin.

Also check out our Top 20 Songs of 2013

Way Too Indie’s Top 20 Albums of 2013

#20 – Moderat: II

The dreary nature of II is best observed on tracks such as “Versions” and “Ilona,” movingly dark pieces that affect with each synthetic spike. Of course, Moderat is somewhat aware that this formulation will eventually turn stale if repeated to precision on each track, so they occasionally invite in a guest vocalist to mildly brighten the mood. The flicker of hope in the vocals of tracks “Damage Done” and “Bad Kingdom” ever so slightly disguise the thoroughly desolate instrumentals below them.

More vocal bits might have helped Moderat craft a better album, actually. Only four songs contain guest vocals, and, although each of the remaining tracks is perfectly enjoyable, it can be easy to confuse one with the other (“Therapy” and “This Time” are almost interchangeable). Luckily, Moderat seems to understand the similarities running through their songs, as evidenced by their decision to stick the brilliant ten minutes of “Milk” close to its center. “Milk” is the track that transforms II from a great album to an excellent one. Its repeated synths fluctuate in and out of focus, and the clicking drums haunt just as thoroughly as the thinly veiled vocal samples comprising the song’s perimeter. It’s mildly more upbeat than the rest of the album, striking a balance with its thorough darkness; this balance allows II to succeed in spite of its notable flaws.

#19 – Saint Pepsi: Hit Vibes

Indeed, DeRobertis is a pretty funny guy. Check out the dialogue that begins the album: opener “Hit Vibes” starts with a seemingly arbitrary bit of dialogue before spending just under a minute fleshing out a brazenly funk-indebted track. The next track, “Have Faith,” boldly announces, “It’s Saint Pepsi, bitch!” and then releases a slew of mid-70s dance sounds, as though the first track weren’t already fully devoted to this era.

Really, Hit Vibes is a modern take on the disco and funk themes of 70s music. Album highlight “Better” mixes brass and bass to maximize the level of retro-worship, resulting in a fast-paced dance anthem; “Skylar Spence” is as outright an embrace of funk as is the much-better known Daft Punk song “Fragments of Time”; “Together” echoes the era’s slow jams, embellishing the music with soul influences to fully achieve this effect. Even when Saint Pepsi includes more modern sounds, he sounds like the past: although the heavily processed vocals on “Strawberry Lemonade” are altered to fit the tradition of instrumental hip-hop, the instrumentation belongs to, again, the 70s. Forget being a champion of the internet in 2013; Saint Pepsi is happily anchored forty years in the past.

#18 – Boxed Wine: Cheap, Fun

This group’s upbeat, foot-shuffling sound echoes Matt & Kim, albeit with a greater polish. For a band with such limited resources and exposure, “First Time” features a surprisingly professional sheen, enhancing the already ecstatic themes of the music. Indeed, Boxed Wine writes songs that border on dangerously high-key; if they keep at it, their presence in the world of music may match that in their songs.

#17 – Jagwar Ma: Howlin’

In theory, the description of Jagwar Ma’s style reads like that of so many other groups, yet the band’s success lies in their unparalleled exuberance. These three simply sound happy to be making music, and their delight is infectious. Even on songs as lyrically upsetting (although commonplace) as “Man I Need”, Jagwar Ma threaten to fully absorb listeners with their hookiness. But nowhere do they compel as greatly as on third track “The Throw”, which thrusts forward over seven unforgettable minutes. It’s an early statement of Jagwar Ma’s greatest powers; the rest of Howlin’ follows in suit.

#16 – Mister Lies: Mowgli

Opener “Ashore”, a thinly dim affair, starts Mowgli unassumingly, but by the arrival of third track “Align”, clearly the most house-influenced track here, it’s no longer plausible to apply the word “tiny” to this album. “Lupine” continues the ice of past tracks, its paranoid synth screeches accentuating the subdued horror; the Exitmusic-featuring “Hounded” cries soulfully, its ethereal vocals providing a disconcerting yet gorgeous contrast to the cold instrumentation. A generally dismal work of art indeed, Mowgli‘s bare nature enchants from its opening moments rather than merely emulating its predecessors.

#15 – Glasser: Interiors

Yet even though the actual sounds heard on Interiors skillfully balance dread and beauty, nothing on this album is particularly new. Interiors inevitably draws comparison to Björk’s music because, well, it sounds exactly like the space between Homogenic and Vespertine, two of the Icelandic goddess’ best works. Whereas many musicians might bore by so transparently emulating their idols, Mesirow instead so boldly wears her influences on her sleeve that her gorgeous songs never get lost in pure reverence.

For instance, the frozen synths and flickering percussion opening “Design” provide a thrilling segway into an even more chilling track; the minimalist opening notes of “Exposure” allow its huge chorus to blindside listeners, sweeping them with emotion; the short segments of “Forge” that consist only of Mesirow’s singing are nothing short of harrowing. Glasser excites without truly innnovating: although Interiors exists in the shadow of its progenitor, it sparkles gorgeously.

#14 – Boards of Canada: Tomorrow’s Harvest

The dreariness of first track “Gemini” sweeps into “Reach for the Dead”, a bleak picture of desolation; the emptiness continues over the entirety of Tomorrow’s Harvest, each track adding more to the theme. Indeed, Boards of Canada haven’t lost their talent for extending an idea across a whole album; in fact, moreso than ever before, they’ve released a work that, in its hour-long runtime, conveys one mood so precisely. Although a couple of standout tracks do exist (“Jacquard Causeway” and “Nothing Is Real”), Tomorrow’s Harvest succeeds wonderfully as the sum of all its parts.

#13 – AlunaGeorge: Body Music

Generally, AlunaGeorge’s music is “future soul”: Francis’ delicate croon permeates warbled electronic beats, delivering what could be mistaken for 90s radio R&B sent to the 2030s for plastic surgery. Francis and Reid explore the more aggressive side of this style with upbeat, radio-ready tracks such as “Attracting Flies” and “Superstar”: exuding typical pop song structure, these tracks wouldn’t sound horrendously out of place on commercial radio if not for their futuristic, atypical synths. Elsewhere, the music exudes sensuality and intimacy: “Outlines” and “Your Drums, Your Love” soften the heavy blow of Body Music‘s many in-your-face pop tracks, delivering sensitive love tunes with familiar themes.

If anything, Body Music only falters for how familiar it feels. Even on this album’s best tracks, formulaic approaches can be pinpointed. For example, “Kaleidoscope Love” changes key for its final chorus, a technique that might come off cheesy if this duo weren’t so damn good. Lyrically, it’s firmly precedented: themes of love and lust are no fresher than a McDonald’s salad. Sure, Body Music have flaws, but AlunaGeorge are excellent architects of sound, and it’s tough not to enjoy their music, even with its faults.

#12 – Phoenix: Bankrupt

It’s not like Phoenix have never focused on synths before. “1901”, their best-known song, backs its verses with absolutely monstrous keyboards; however, for its incredibly distinct, catchy chorus, guitars lead the charge. On Bankrupt!, though, the synths control everything. The album’s most cathartic moments — the rushing post-chorus of “Entertainment”, the bright flourishes of “S.O.S. in Bel Air”, the mid-song transition in “Drakkar Noir” — ever so slightly elevate the synths above the guitars, to the point where distinguishing the two proves somewhat challenging. The increase in synthetic elements dictates the sound of Bankrupt!, which isn’t as outrightly sunny as the bright-skies-over-everything Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix. Not to fret, though; the glory days of upbeat, positively exuberant Phoenix are not yet over. For now, though, they’re disguised by somewhat darker shades, an exciting switch-up from a band so well-respected for their skyward enthusiasm.

#11 – Disclosure: Settle

Truth be told, the fourteen tracks on Settle can be difficult to power through in one sitting, but the album’s saving grace is how enthralling each track is on its own. “F For You” is a front-foot-forward, handclap-driven jam that’s relatively low-key for something that bumps so heavily. “White Noise” broadcasts the precious voice of Aluna Francis (yes, the same one from AlunaGeorge) and berserk clicks of icy synths. “Stimulation” pounds forward on giant percussion, thick, computer-generated murk, and sampled vocal snippets. “You & Me” fuses Eliza Doolittle’s soulful, pleading voice with percussive shuffle and moody yet quick synths. “Confess to Me”, perhaps the most exciting of all the guest-featuring tracks here, uses Jessie Ware’s breathy vocals to great effect, establishing a longing ache in the verses before exploding into dancefloor mania in its chorus.

Amongst all the guest features and straightforward compositional techniques, the tracks on Settle hit surprisingly hard. There’s not a weak track to be found here, and each song has a moody underbelly hidden beneath the dancing drums and high-paced synth attacks. What a deceiving name for an album: on their debut, Disclosure’s fire never Settles.

#10 – Baths: Obsidian

It’s ultimately tragic that Wiesenfeld’s despair makes for such chilling music. Wiesenfeld discusses his absolute lack of respect for his current live-in boyfriend on “Incompatible”, a hapless situation indeed, yet the bare instrumentation and harrowing percussive click of the chorus inevitably strikes an emotional chord. It’s even easier to resonate with the statement that initiates the comedown from the chorus: “You don’t do anything with your life/fascinating, terrible, your stupid idling mind/I could prod your hurt all night.” Although the particular situations Wiesenfeld finds himself in may not be commonplace, his sentiments ring home.

Further compounding the themes of “Incompatible” is “No Eyes”, perhaps Obsidian‘s best instance of giving equal emotional weight to the music and the lyrics. A desperate tale of loveless sex, it bravely commands, “come and fuck me!” during its quavering, uneasy chorus. The lyrics are as uncomfortable as the instrumentation, which feels glaringly obvious during the disturbing, minimal interlude following the second chorus. Barely a synth tone flickers in unison with some sort of metal objects making contact in the distance, until a massive, unexpected, three-second glitch burst disrupts the quiet. Or, rather, it disrupts the disquiet; on Obsidian, the two are equal. When the darkness of the lyrics and the music are also equal, which occurs frequently and alarmingly, Obsidian succeeds as a bold statement from an artist who, despite finding his place musically, still has many more issues to sort out.

#9 – Fuck Buttons: Slow Focus

Naturally, Fuck Buttons being Fuck Buttons, Slow Focus doesn’t eliminate its rave and noise precedents entirely. Lead single “The Red Wing” closely approaches the transcendent, sky-reaching roar of Tarot Sport, although final track “Hidden XS” does so even more obviously. However, the twosome’s newfound horror-house sound makes for intense listening over this album’s seven, mostly-longer-than-six-minute tracks, even when the music approaches the Buttons’ prior optimism.

No, these guys conscious decision to restrict the soaring brightness of past works does not bore. In fact, moreso than ever, the music is driving and forceful; rarely over the course of these lengthy songs does the weight of the album fail to demand attention. Fearsome though it is, Slow Focus enthralls throughout its fifty-two minutes, and is one of the year’s best instrumental experiments.

#8 – The Virgins: Strike Gently

There’s a retrospective haze clouding Strike Gently‘s instrumentation, manifesting particularly strongly in its guitars and vocals. Many other acts have attempted similar styles and felt forced rather than natural, but The Virgins approach past sounds wonderfully (although these past sounds belong to other artists and not themselves — no “Rich Girls” will be found here). The relatively soft, almost-ballad “Figure on the Ice” instantly brings to mind the sparkle of 70s high school proms and the associated slow dancing, but never sounds cheesy; “Wheel of Fortune” takes on a comically lackadaisical vocal attitude to emulate the personality of the era’s performers, resulting in a wonderfully moving composition; “What Good is Moonlight” extends the band’s retro-reverence into quasi-arena rock, and is the album’s most outrightly fun number.

In the interspace between these tracks lies “Flashbacks, Memories, and Dreams”, the track that best demonstrates how The Virgins’ backwards-looking approach succeeds when it could so easily fail. It’s tough not to at least crack a smile when first hearing the tone the song’s vocal takes, although the glam guitars opening the song are already amusing enough. “I think that cool kid broke my jaw!” begins the second verse, a line that instantly recalls the glory days of the Brat Pack. “Flashbacks” takes a striking pose, although it does so gently, clinching the album’s mission statement.

#7 – Savages: Silence Yourself

A rolling, ominous bassline tends to dominate the direction of these tracks’ verses, with stadium-sized guitars overtaking the choruses. Even when massive distortion rips these songs open, the guitars somehow manage to recede into the background by the arrival of the first verse, giving priority to the bass. “I Am Here”, “City’s Full”, “Strife”, and “She Will” all use this exact same approach. Rather than cursing the songs with staleness, though, this formula enthralls. Perhaps, though, this success is only due to the saving grace that is the Siouxsie-esque voice of vocalist Jehnny Beth. Equally capable of both breathy pleading and unhinged terror, Beth’s distinct voice empowers Savages with an absolutely undeniable force.

Although the fear induced by Beth’s voice holds the key to “She Will”‘s riotous, triumphant outro, the comfort it induces on tracks like “Marshal Dear” also deserves a mention. Ending the album, this track stands alone from the rest: rather than just post-punk instrumentation, it also brings pianos and what might be horns into the mix. It boldly states just how flexible Beth’s voice is, and makes it clear that, despite how gigantic the rest of the band sounds, this element is what drives the band to such great heights so early in their career.

#6 – CHVRCHES: The Bones of What You Believe

“We Sink” follows “The Mother We Share”, and further hints at the vast, skyward sounds the album will achieve. “I’ll be a thorn at your side/’til you die/I’ll be a thorn at your side/for always” coos Lauren Mayberry during the chorus, and these lyrics stick not due to their sentiments, but rather due to the impact of their surrounding synths. Like “We Sink”, “Lies” and “Recover”, probably the two best tracks on the album, also burn lyrically due to the instrumentation enveloping the words rather than their inherent meaning. On the former track, “I can sell you lies!/You can’t get enough!” scalds listeners rather than just passing them by as some sort of love-lost metaphor; the much more transparent “and if I recover/will you be my comfort?/or it can be over/and we can just leave it here” feels important and desperate when wrapped in the latter track’s humongous, optimistic synths.

There’s a definite relation between composition and lyricism in CHVRCHES music’, and it’s the interplay between the two that makes The Bones of What You Believe such an enjoyable listen. “I am gonna come for you/with all that I have,” threatens Mayberry during the first verse of third track “Gun”‘s chorus, and it’s a good summary of what CHVRCHES do best. Using all their possible instrumental and verbal talent, CHVRCHES have brewed an incredibly potent album, one whose unrestricted buoyancy provides an incredible, addicting release each and every time.

#5 – Haim: Days Are Gone

Take the title track, for instance: the subdued, bluesy guitars recall Fleetwood Mac (really, everything this band does recalls Fleetwood Mac, but just roll with this example), while the pleading vocals of the chorus might not sound terribly out of place in a 90s R&B jam. Elsewhere, “My Song 5” advances on both computerized arena rock percussive stomp and similarly thick, bluesy guitars, and “If I Could Change Your Mind” employs Danielle Haim’s soul crooning in combination with affecting guitar flicker. Haim thrills by fusing their influences with tradition, a surprisingly valid approach.

Perhaps the best example of how Haim boldly balance admiration for the classics with modern pop structures is their best known song, “The Wire.” Opening on a power chord and an arena rock drum pattern straight out of a Billy Squier tune, the song quickly rolls into a verse dominated by palm-muted guitar riffing, fluid but subtle bass, and deep, breathy vocals courtesy of Danielle Haim. Its chorus sparkles only mildly in comparison to the verses, yet it sounds impossibly larger than the verses surrounding it. After the first chorus, the song plays a trick on unfocused listeners: Danielle hands lead vocal duties to her younger sister Alana for the first half of the verse, and then to older sister Este for the verse’s second half. Each sister’s voice bears a notable amount of soul and attitude; confidence appears to be a genetic trait, as does infectious pop songwriting.

#4 – Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Mosquito

Very few other bands, if any, could make such an indecisive album a success; really, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs are getting away with murder. But this trio have a certain magic to their songwriting regardless of what shape it takes: the brutally tenuous “Subway” stings just as harshly as does its following track, the searing, frivolous “Mosquito.” The latter track contains one of the most useless, outrightly stupid sets of lyrics to ever appear in this band’s catalog (and this is coming from a band responsible for the words of “Black Tongue”); rather than bringing this song down, though, its simplicity lets the bonkers instrumentation shine. It’s a similar approach to some of the music on M.I.A.’s Matangi: let’s make the music thrilling enough for the possibly vapid lyrics to take second fiddle.

Of course, this approach is bound to fail at some point, as it does on the inane, worthless “Buried Alive.” But when you’ve also got lyrics as gorgeous and affecting as “Despair”, “Subway”, and “Sacrilege”, it’s easy to forgive the occasional slip-up. These songs all encompass dramatically different musical palettes, yet each burns with longing and passion. The victories on this album completely negate its weaker moments, and although Mosquito is no Show Your Bones or It’s Blitz (really, how many other bands write near-perfect albums in two distinct genres?), it’s still just as potent.

#3 – Foxygen: We Are the 21st Century Ambassadors of Peace and Magic

Take “No Destruction” as an example of how Foxygen distinguish their art from that of their musical parents’. The lightweight, giddy sound achieved here settles in some unexplored gap between The Rolling Stones and The Velvet Underground, fleshing out this space with Sam France’s narrative storytelling. His voice varies from half-assed and uninspired to borderline broken (this latter state mimics Mick Jagger to near perfection), and the fusion of barely overdriven guitars and faint pianos recall the late 60s all too well. Of course, it’s impossible to discuss this song without mentioning the stellar jab, “There’s no need to be an asshole/You’re not in Brooklyn anymore”; France’s wicked, characteristic sense of humor pervades his words and their delivery constantly on Ambassadors, and “No Destruction” is only the duo’s most notorious example.

The precious way France sings the opening lyrics of “San Francisco” is bound to incite at least a chuckle from the attentive listener, as is the chorus: “I left my love in San Francisco” is followed by a high-pitched, distantly mocking “That’s okay, I was born in L.A.” Oddly laughable lyrics outline “Shuggie” as well: “I met your daughter the other day/well, that was weird/She had rhinoceros-shaped earrings in her ears,” France sing-speaks as nonchalantly as the surrounding guitars and strings slump forward. The lyricism originates from predecessor Lou Reed, whose recent passing makes his influence on this album even more apparent than it already was. Indeed, even when employing their own unique sense of humor, Foxygen recalls prior greats; their backwards gaze provides an amazing template for the success of Ambassadors, an album that’s simultaneously clever and trifling, and as reverent as it is irreverent.

#2 – Vampire Weekend: Modern Vampires of the City

From the opening moments of “Obvious Bicycle”, it’s evident that Modern Vampires of the City is far more restricted in its dynamics than past albums…well, for the most part. “Diane Young”, “Finger Back”, and “Worship You” are boisterous, energetic standouts that show the band hasn’t entirely left their frenzied, wild past, and while these tracks all strike as diligently as the rest of the album, it’s the stark, depressing tracks that chill most strongly. “Unbelievers” contains Vampire Weekend’s signature instrumental flourishes, although they’re far more moderate than ever before. The intertwinement of the track’s organ-esque keyboards (I saw them live, I can assure you it’s not a real organ) and pushing percussion screams Vampire Weekend, yet these parts sound far bleaker than ever before, and thus more afflicting.

“Step”, “Everlasting Arms”, and “Ya Hey” also flourish on this same trick: these songs don’t sound like any other band could have created them, yet their darkness is newfound for this foursome, and their tone startlingly resonant coming from a band who once sang about Decembers spent looking psychotic in a balaclava. In general, the songs on this album are undeniably evocative and bone-chilling, but it’s impossible to discuss MVOTC without mentioning the brutal, heart-shattering “Hannah Hunt.” Critics and fans alike agree that this song is the best Vampire Weekend has yet released; from the opening whir of washed-out bass and faded human chatter, it’s instantly clear that something greater is at work here. Almost three minutes in, a cathartic, emotionally destructive climax emerges, fulfilling the song’s disquieting tension with a tragic, painful swell of pianos and Ezra Koenig’s aching, pleading vocals.

Throughout Modern Vampires of the City, one might be as likely to cry as to jump in excitement. Although it sounds soft when compared to past work, it strikes a blow so massive that it makes this band’s already excellent previous work seem like child’s play. Even if this album doesn’t feel right at first, give it a few more listens; if you have a heart, the human core of this album will eventually overtake you, and you’ll never look back.

#1 – Youth Lagoon: Wondrous Bughouse

Turning a deaf ear to such soaring guitar fills as the ones driving “Mute”, “Attic Doctor”, and “Pelican Man” must take some sort of supernatural skill. As devastating as they are kooky, the sounds on Wondrous Bughouse might at first feel confusing and trifling, but Powers’ mental troubles are entangled with his compositions. When faced with the prospect of losing someone he cares about, he writes “Dropla”, driven by its doubtful claims of “you’ll never die” and its nostalgic sentiment. “Raspberry Cane” also contains the repetition of a straightforward statement likely not believed by its speaker: “Everybody cares,” Powers tries to reassure himself, only to quickly admit, “They say love exists/but what happened to it?” The bare instrumentation surrounding these thoughts soon ascends into a hallucinogenic, childlike array of alien-sounding synths that’s oddly irresistible.

In general, the songs on Wondrous Bughouse are trippy and juvenile, but it’s this very description that also accounts for how striking they are. On “Attic Doctor”, for example, Powers introduces haunted mansion synths and MGMT-like psychedelic gait, a bit funny in their silliness, but also deeply keen and acute. “Third Dystopia” is trapped underwater, but its affecting guitars and longing chorus thrill and invigorate. “Sleep Paralysis” actually sounds like a dream for a while, but when it picks up the pace, it truly sounds like a nightmare.

Naturally, the inane basis of these songs’ instrumentation can be easily perceived as rubbish; its oddball, off-kilter tone isn’t for everyone. For listeners able to connect to Powers’ eerie songwriting, though, Wondrous Bughouse is a thrilling ride, often fun in its instrumentation, but always depraved in its sentiments. A psychedelic playground, but only for those willing to spend some time on the monkey bars.

As Christmas approaches, so do the lists. Yes, it’s holiday season, but it’s also ranking season; each and every year, bloggers, music critics, and your Average Joe music listener all compile lists of their favorite musical works of the year. Typically, there’s a preface included, which reads something along the lines of “this was a great year for music, so choosing these picks was extremely difficult!” This introduction is about as guaranteed as the mere existence of the list itself, because, well, those who devote time and effort to discovering (and hopefully enjoying) new music know that it’s rare that, at any point in time, a dearth of it exists.

In light of this wonderful wealth of music, don’t fret if some of your favorite songs of the year don’t wind up on this list; there exists a perpetual abundance of art, far too much for any one human being to perfectly and fully absorb, so it’s wholly possible that great works won’t achieve the appreciation that many believe they merit. That said, notoriously popular picks such as “Get Lucky” might not be found here, although such omissions stem from indifference rather than malice. Also, lists convey opinions rather than objective fact, and, as Sly Stone once said, “Different strokes for different folks.” Anyway, without further ado, let’s reflect on this year and twenty of the many great songs it brought us.

Also check out our Best Albums of 2013 list

Way Too Indie’s Top 20 Songs of 2013

#20 – Lemonade: “Skyballer”

#19 – Haim: “If I Could Change Your Mind”

#18 – Jagwar Ma: “The Throw”

#17 – Foxygen: “On Blue Mountain”

#16 – Boards of Canada: “Nothing Is Real”

#15 – Glasser: “Exposure”

#14 – Saint Pepsi: “Better”

#13 – Disclosure: “When a Fire Starts to Burn”

#12 – Speedy Ortiz: “Tiger Tank”

#11 – Darkside: “Paper Trails”

#10 – CHVRCHES: “Lies”

#9 – The Virgins: “Flashbacks, Memories, and Dreams”

#8 – Vampire Weekend: “Hannah Hunt”

#7 – Savages: “She Will”

#6 – Arcade Fire: “Reflektor”

Even in light of Reflektor‘s often pale musings, its title track stands as one of Arcade Fire’s greatest accomplishments to date. It continues the band’s embrace of disco as hinted by The Suburbs‘ “Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains)” — actually, it expands this theme much farther than most listeners would have reasonably expected. Marching forward upon “deep African voodoo rhythms that are the language in Haiti,” as vocalist/songwriter Win Butler describes the percussion, “Reflektor” perfectly melds the dance-leanings of producer James Murphy with the cathartic, carrying song structures Arcade Fire perfected on their first three albums. The grandiose instrumentation also present on these albums is restricted to a backing template here, as strings and brass merely paint an outline for these nearly eight minutes of life-sized splendor. It’s Arcade Fire’s longest song to date, and over its course, there are many moments when dancing is as understandable a response as is being too awestruck to move at all.

Listen to Arcade Fire: “Reflektor”

#5 – Kurt Vile: “Wakin’ On a Pretty Day”

From this song’s opening moments, it’s clear that Vile’s lush guitar tones and Americana-influenced soloing make for pure psychedelic bliss. After an already appealing first four minutes filled with this variation on his typical complacent, chill psych-folk, a brief pause transitions into the song’s second half, the true winner here. The first appearance of what might be the year’s best guitar riff emerges just about thirty seconds into this section: washed in lush, hazy tones, plucked guitar notes bathe the listener in a listless euphoria. There’s nothing exceptional about the riff itself — these notes have been used before, these scales are thoroughly abundant in guitar-based music — but its delivery is riveting. Vile repeats this riff constantly over the course of five minutes, adding minor variations here and there, yet it affects just as strongly each and every time. Nothing to be afraid of here — just sit back and float away.

Listen to Kurt Vile: “Wakin’ On a Pretty Day”

#4 – Moderat: “Milk”

With “Milk,” Moderat can be added to the list of electronic musicians with a steady hand over repetition. “Milk” lasts ten minutes, yet feels much shorter. Perhaps this pseudo-brevity, both a blessing and a curse, stems from how great the song’s repeating bit remains from its first to its last iteration. The clatter of icy percussion, the rise and fall of cold walls of synths, the blurring and refocusing of sampled oohs and aahs: really, these three phrases describe the entirety of the song. Although each featured is layered and de-layered countless times during “Milk”‘s blessed ten minutes, the song never stagnates despite its inherently perpetual nature. Amidst all the repetition, it’s one of the most moving pieces released this year.

Listen to Moderat: “Milk”

#3 – Jon Hopkins: “Open Eye Signal”

#2 – Youth Lagoon: “Pelican Man”

#1 – Yeah Yeah Yeahs: “Sacrilege”

From the song’s relatively minimal opening moments, it’s clear that Karen O hasn’t lost her ability to alternate between the vilest and purest states of her voice. “Halo! ‘Round his head!” perfectly covers the former terrain, while “Falling for a guy/who fell down from the sky” embraces the latter. Once the percussion picks up and provides the bass (a rare instrument in this trio’s music) with a greater context, Nick Zinner doesn’t take long to throw in a flashy guitar riff similar to the ones for which he’s so well-liked. Zinner brings some murkiness and general mystery to the tone of the chorus; this feeling slowly spreads throughout the remainder of the song (although it had been there since the beginning), culminating in, of all things surprising, the addition of a 24-piece gospel choir.

This gospel choir could have easily felt out of place, but the band instead uses it to initiate the song’s triumphant emotional peak. As Karen O pleads and prays, the choir follows her lead, eventually themselves becoming the leaders when nearly all other instrumentation drops out. It’s a reminder of just how powerful human voices can be, especially in unison, and achieves a victorious feeling that seemingly resolves the tension the song employed in the first place. Sure, it’s a change in direction, but when it’s this resonant, who cares?

Listen to Yeah Yeah Yeahs: “Sacrilege”

Dan Bejar is one of very few people who can claim to have spent the last fifteen or so years yelping and whining his way through a musical career. He’s also one of a much greater number of people who can claim to have spent the last fifteen or so years cleverly musing and sensually crooning his way through a musical career. Bejar’s music, which he releases under the name Destroyer, uses his chameleonic vocals as one of its most prominent vehicles, and on no two songs over his nine-album discography do these vocals take the exact same form. Despite the diversity of Destroyer’s acclaimed output, few listeners probably expected that, somewhere between the lethargic, resigned near-whispers of Kaputt and the manic, ear-splitting shrieks of This Night, there exists a range of Bejar’s voice that perfectly suits the Spanish language.

The most surprising element of Destroyer’s Five Spanish Songs EP isn’t that a wordsmith as extravagant and unmatched as Bejar has chosen to abandon his native tongue for a language foreign to some of his audience; if anything, Bejar might be the modern musician most apt to make such a poetic, romantic decision. What really stuns about the EP is that a man recognized for howling through lyrically dense, poetically perplexing masterpieces sounds so fluid in a language so much more nuanced than his own. From the first words of opener “Maria de las Nieves,” it’s clear that Bejar’s shape-shifting voice has settled in an unexpectedly logical place.

As an opener, “Maria de las Nieves” also establishes the dynamics and instrumentation that form the rest of the EP’s songs (all of which are covers of music by the band Sr. Chinarro). The Kaputt-esque, dreamy electric guitars lining “Maria” appear prominently on the tropical percussion-backed “Babieca”; “Del Monton” borrows the lucid, acoustic guitars of “Maria” and throws in some pianos while minimizing the percussion; “Bye Bye”, the most minimal piece here, isolates the opening track’s acoustics and electrics to create a slow-burning, Streethawk-styled ballad.

It’s this last track that best resembles previous Destroyer works. Centered on a bare, basic acoustic guitar riff and sprinkles of light, clear-as-day electric guitars, the instrumental palette brings to mind past Bejar pleasures “Helena”, “It’s Gonna Take an Airplane”, and “Watercolours Into the Ocean”, among others. Indeed, “Bye Bye” rewards long-time Destroyer fans directly after the surprising rock stomp of “El Rito.” Although the latter track is by far the most obviously energizing tune present on the EP, it’s rather straightforward and fun coming from a guy who writes about fictional society balls and swords hanging above liars (“A Dangerous Woman Up to a Point”).

Compared to the wordy weight of past efforts, Five Spanish Songs strikes gently, perhaps a relief for fans seeking something a bit less challenging than the rest of Destroyer’s catalog. Yet it’s this very quality that prevents the EP from meriting infinite replays, unlike past albums including, but absolutely not limited to, Destroyer’s Rubies and Kaputt. Even though Bejar name-checks Franz Kafka on “Del Monton,” these five songs generally lack the cultural references and wordy mass that galvanize the bulk of Bejar’s writing. Regardless, Bejar has recorded these tracks in such a way that enjoying them does not depend on knowing that they’re all covers of the same band; they shine without context, a quality that confirms, in light of the doubt cast by the language switch, that Five Spanish Songs is indeed the work of Dan Bejar.