Aa

Aa – Gaame

Every genre is an opening for exploration, and if you’ve previously turned your nose at the slightest whiff of a drum circle, consider taking a second sniff. New York’s percussive noise rock quartet Aa (pronounced “Big A Little a”) reformat the wild clamoring of percussive tribalism into an avenue for further experimentation by folding its hypnotic rhythms around an dizzying array of tape loops, synthesizers, and manipulated and modulated vocals. But don’t consider this album a cerebral endeavor; there are enough rhythmic explosions to second as an external defibrillator. Each track quickly bursts out bright and intensely, rarely stumbling out of a three minute range, except for the goliath seven minute closer, “Horse Steak”, where all their knob twisting and voice-as-sound investigations are allowed to run amok. Volitale? Yes. But perfect for dousing your Burning Man float in flames, then stomping it out to the beat. Weak of heart need not apply.

Electrelane

Electrelane – No Shouts No Calls

With their last album, Axes, the female UK quartet Electrelane stepped away from the charming pop of its astonishing second album, Power Out, by revealing and reveling the dissonance that was always just a finger scratch beneath the surface. Their love of angular British post-rock where extended into feisty Krautrock jams, and smothered with skronky saxophone and piano-down-a-staircase pounding: a recipe any Sonic Youth fan could admire. Now, returning with their fourth album, No Shouts No Calls, they’ve once again shown restraint, yet still pursue all their compositional chamber rock influences. The surging pulse of lock-grooved drumming still prevails as much as their layered harmonizing, power guitar outbursts, and the noodling on vintage Farfisa keyboards, all of which shines within the gorgeous clamor of “Between The Wolf And The Dog”. If you still prize your old Can and Neu albums, you’ll be doing yourself a big favor in discovering these English ladies.

Pink Martini

Pink Martini – Hey Eugene!

The early 60’s snapshot of a cigarette-flicking, freshly made-up and party-outfitted redhead should clue you into the mind frame of the Pink Martini’s new album, Hey Eugene, and their signature sound: an orchestrated prelude to a night out culled from yesterday’s jukebox. The dreamy, string-glistening and soft vocal opening track “Everywhere” recalls MGM’s golden era with its rich melody, something Dorthey would have cooed to distraught Toto. The upbeat starts with Carmen Miranda’s 1934 rumba “Tempo Perdido”, then continues to hopscotch across the globe for its playlist. “Taya Tan” is a sultry Japanese nugget that envisions James Bond at play in the Orient and with a twenty-five member choir, Pink Martini translates the Arabic number “Bukra Wba’do” into a Rodgers & Hammerstein show tune, without the slightest hint of schmaltz. Billy Holiday’s favorite vocalist, Jimmy Scott, close the night with his baby soft whispering soprano that practical seduces those high heels off for you.

Amiina

Amiina – Kurr

Arriving out of Iceland with a resume that name checks their native cousins Sigur Ros as well as glockenspiel lover Sufjan Stevens, the four ladies of Amiina now daintily rap at the doors of a larger audience with a sound that is as delicate as it is arresting. Kurr (Icelandic for “cooing”) opens with a gentle refrain that couples toned orchestra bells with perfectly tuned plucked strings, a mesmerizing organic intonation reminiscent of Brian Eno’s ambient endeavors. Swirling a mix of violin, cellos, and atmospheric electronics together with wordless voicing and an array of oft-overlooked instrumental sounds (the chime of tuned water glasses to the tremulous warble of a singing saw), Amiina weave melodies into either euphony compositions such as the richly layered soft horns of “Bláfeldur”, or mini sonic investigations as on “Lúpína” where detuning strings segue way into the fat raindrop sounds of a thumbed Kalimba. All of which is an entirely relaxing bliss.

Wilco

Wilco – Sky Blue Sky

Having impressed the critics circle with two distinct albums- one emitting purposely deconstructed pop songs (Yankee Hotel Foxtrot), the other percolating with various song structures, from propulsive Krautrock to dissonant-tinged classic rock (A Ghost Is Born)- Jeff Tweedy now turns down the Bunsen burner on his musical experimentation, and leaves the laboratory for the outdoor sun. Sky Blue Sky is the sound of Wilco enjoying a spring time drive, dusted with the acoustic richness that also sprinkles many of Neil Young’s 70’s recordings. In fact, it’s the addition of avant-garde jazzist Nels Cline and his energized electric guitar flares that plug into the same Fender amps as Crazy Horse –note the fiery slashes that burst forth part way through “You Are My Face”, also one of Tweedy’s better-penned tracks. For a band that managed to merge commercial success with artistic curiosity, a soft rock album may seem like a retreat. But forget expectation, and open the cellophane on a summery treat.

Dan Deacon

Dan Deacon – Spiderman Of The Rings

Wildly goofy and with the BPM pitch shifted into a warp speed overdrive, Dan Deacon has manufactured the 8-bit rave that Nintendo characters walk away from, sleepy-eyed, on Sunday morning. Magically, he’s synthesized down a barrage of antique electronic influences (Wendy Carlos’s maniacal Moog and Vocoder exploration, the score to first wave arcade shooters like Galaga, and the blistering pacing of the near-forgotten electronic genre Happy Hardcore) into a sum that’s better than its parts. Instantly danceable, “The Crystal Cat” convulses with a ferocious mechanized beat and a helium laced vocals that is more rhythmic than lyrical recognizable. Ten minute hyper epic “Wham City” pops the collar as a call out to his Baltimore collective, and “Big Milk” offers a moment of Gamelan-infused reprieve. But all this supposes you can get past the agitating cackle of Woody Woodpecker and blitzkrieg-beat of the opening track. This is dance music for a new age. Parents, expect to be appalled.

Mavis Staples

Mavis Staples – We’ll Never Turn Back

This decade boasts a cherished moment for soul rediscoveries: old veterans sounding new as Joe Henry’s spotlighted both Solomon Burke and Bettye LaVette, while new debuts like Amy Winehouse retreat into a supposed antiquated Motown sound. Mavis Staples, the front daughter for her father’s family band, The Staple Singers, remerges with assistance of known relic finder Ry Cooder (Buena Vista Social Club) , and a songbook full of Civil Rights Era hymns. As Martin Luther King’s warm up act, The Staples Singers stamped the late 60’s and early 70’s with their brand of gospel soul. We’ll Never Turn Back re-taps this energy, with its passion only increased with the presence of the original vocalists from the SNCC Freedom Singers, as well as Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Shifting between throaty and fiery spiritual sung proclamations (“99 1”) to the hymnal sweetness of self-penned “My Own Eyes”, Mavis’s voice still delivers its loved gritty expression.

Spank Rock

Spank Rock – Fabriclive 33

Erupting from the hyper-digestive Balitorme scene, where anything can be altered for the eager hips of the dance floor (mashed up 80’s pop, Dirty South hip-hop versed over revved up electro and booty shaking Miami Bass and its Brazilian balie funk cousin), Spank Rock take their guilty fun to the UK, spinning live in the London club, Fabric. Track recognition over deep-crate digging sets the play list, as well as wild genre shifts that seem magical in its ingenuity as well as seamlessness. Opening with the hand clap break of Kurtis Blow’s hip hop classic “The Breaks”, the hard bounce sustains into Brazilian dance punk outfit CSS and then loosening into the album’s front third of electronic familiars: Kano, Dominatrix, Yello. Grin-inducing mash-ups sample both Yes and The Romantics, the later flawlessly synthesizing into the electro feminist sound clash of Chicks On Speed. As their first legitimate “above-ground” mixed tape, Spank Rock continue to court your guilty pleasure. Give in.

Blonde Redhead

Blonde Redhead – 23

If there is anything upsetting to previous Blonde Redhead fans, it probably isn’t the loss of its quirky dynamic no-wave roots to its current expression of haunting melodies swirled around Kazu Makino’s echoey siren vocals. To pinpoint any possible dissatisfaction, it may simply resolve around this being Blonde Redhead’s most accessible album. Awash in waves of shoegazey craftsmanship (producer Alan Moulder crafted My Bloody Valentine’s classic Loveless), from the layered shimmering guitars and atmospheric synths to the ethereal dream-inducing sung lyrics, 23 is a dream-pop album of rising helium beauty. However it’s drummer Simone Pace who weighs all these air bits down with a crisp tight groove percussive gravity. It’s the harnessed restraint that keeps everything moving straightforward, from the snappy bop of “Silently” (which recalls the bounce of 2000’s Melody Of Certain Damaged Lemons hit track “In Particular”) to the gentle closer “My Impure Hair.” Magically beautiful to the last note.

Grails

Grails – Burning Off Impurities

With their first release for the post-rock leaning label Temporary Residence (home to such dissonant yet melodically atmospheric entities like Explosions In The Sky and Mono), the Portland-based Grails instrumental sound never feels lacking. With a rich cinematic sense, each track builds upon a hazy, and often Eastern modal, psychedelic intro into muscular propulsive epics. Think of the Doors feeding off the visual contortions and manic instability of Jim Morrison. Now minus Mr. Mojo Risin’s poetic voice, allowing the band the extra room to shift into high tension. It’s this heavy blues backbone, an aggressively amped style birthed by Cream and Black Sabbath, that the Grails inhabit and transform. Ethnic instrumentation, deep bottom bass drum thrusts and steel guitars and violins all color an air that may have you envision the expansive terrain of a spaghetti-Western back dropped against Moroccan architecture. As easily hypnotic as invigorating, the Grails are worth your effort.