Bright has never shown a moment of weakness during their four albums. In fact, Full Negative (or) Breaks finds them more self-assured than ever. The brash "I'm Colliding" and "Yeah! Holy Stones" stick to the power chords, with full knowledge that the glory is greatest when things get louder. Unlike their previous album, Blue Christan, Bright seem less willing to pussyfoot up to earsplitting volumes. Each song is an unfurling epic that builds quickly but lingers at the climax.

Even the mediocre "Parable of the Bicycle" doesn't pass without a show of strength. The song opens with two reverbed guitars trading jabs, but they simmer down to let a rumbling bass take center stage. It's your standard study in feedback. You'd confuse them for a ho-hum psychedelic jam band that plays interminable drifters, but what's astonishing here is that only LeBrecque and Dwinell are behind this. Presumably, they have to overdub the bass, the second guitar, the third guitar and the Rhodes organ, yet it's uncanny how all the parts coalesce and resonate with each other.

There's also a dash of old master wisdom at work here. Bright has harnessed the visceral energy of The Albatross Guest House, and honed their penchant for meandering guitar lines. Full Negative (or) Breaks strikes a balance between puckish indie-pop and diffuse space-rock. Now, Bright has a mean furious game, which no doubt could leave the Boy Wonder on the canvas and, on a good day, the Dark Knight down for the count.

-Edgar Ortega
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This is an amazing record in its own right, but the circumstances in how it happened are amazing: Dave Witte recorded all of the drum tracks alone with no music particularly in mind! Dodge's only request was to "keep it mostly fast and crazy." The thought is mind-blowing. These are complete songs written mostly on the drums. Now, the music dabbles in its fair share of joyful experimentalism (à la Naked City), but it's a grind/power/fastcore masterpiece. Dodge gets a little West Side vocal help from Gary Niederhoff (Noothgrush) and Lydia Dodge (Ancient Chinese Secret) and Witte a little East Coast squarbble from saxophonist Erik Hoagland. Other than that, it's all up to Chris to provide a li'l tunefulness. Damn it's awesome.

There are no song titles to speak of but 27 little pictures that I can only assume corollate to the 27 songs. Well, let's just assume that's true. The woodsman with the hatchet (track 5) kinda sounds a bit like being chased by the aforementioned timber rustler. The jazzy etherealness of...the Turk with the fez (track 7) lays into some serious riffage not unlike how you'd imagine an Ottoman Turk wooing a lady and then making the move. Okay, I'm starting to believe there is a relation, 'cause I'll be damned if the Portuguese man-of-war (that's a jellyfish and it's also track 18) doesn't sound like it's taking place 20,000 leagues under the sea. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm crazy. I just know I'm not as crazy as these guys to make such an oddly amazing record.

-Tiber Scheer
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Links:
Collide

kaRIN and Static have been busy since the 1997 release of their remix and cover album, Distort, mainly keeping their chops up with subsumed work with other bands as they figured out the details of making their own way in the music world (hence the release of Chasing the Ghost on their own label). And maybe during these external projects they got some of the noise out of their systems. Distort pointed towards a noisier future, a structure laden with wild feedback and the distorted snap of uncontrolled machinery. Surprisingly, Chasing the Ghost ably steers away from that end, gliding towards a more introspective sound, a more exotic exploration of empty spaces within. There is a haunted quality to these songs, a yearning in kaRIN's voice that is echoed by the dark instrumentation swirling around her. When the machinery does erupt in savagery (as it does on their sublime cover of Jefferson Airplane's chestnut "White Rabbit"), you realize that their restraint is self-inflicted--their directive one of introspection.

Maybe what I've been chasing is unobtainable--it may never exist. As kaRIN sings on the title track, "I've come so near and yet so far." Maybe it is time to stop running, time to lay down here and disappear into myself to find the source of want. Chasing the Ghost is an angelic accompaniment into the dark heart of your obsessions. Take this beacon with you.

-Mark Teppo
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Links:
Cult of the Psychic Fetus

-Steve Weatherholt
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Links:
Crematory

-Sabrina Haines
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Links:
DJ? Acucrack

With Novak and Duffy writing and programming their sounds instead of splicing others to suit their needs (it's what the "?" in "DJ?" stands for), Sorted is a much needed kick in the ass for a lot of the recycled samples that have been going around, and its amphetamine-fueled beats make ripping through old couches with a chainsaw much more fun than one should let on to.

-Craig Young
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Links:
Dr. Walker

Looking beyond the moody chill spaces of his Liquid Sky scene in Cologne, Walker has assembled a two-hour escapist downtempo fantasy. Culling tracks not just from his circle of contemporaries and associates, he crafts an atmospheric adventure which leaves the hard concrete and smoky glass of the city behind. Playing hide-and-seek behind his aliases, Walker takes us on a trip down Massive Attack Lane with "Eat U Like Candy" (which is exactly as dance-beat candified as you would expect with a title like that), infests us with a serious groove through several parts of Timestretch's "Paradise," knocks us about carefully with "Samstag Morgen Hangover," and throws us underwater with the bubbling lilt of "Eigelstein." That's not the only water-infused track--Thee Joker's "Bush...Karim" floats along like a leaf on a winter stream and R. Dos' contribution of "Men Think..." makes me think of a stovetop of covered pans coming to a percolating boil. The whole shooting match begins with the lazy trumpet of Cozmopolis' "Morning High," setting the lazy, havin' a cappuccino at the corner bistro in the early morning feel. It's escapist, sure, but so is getting on a jet plane and going anywhere. This is just a great deal less expensive and you don't have to pack.

-Mark Teppo
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Doves

Part of Doves' power arises from their ability to distill elements of great Manc groups past without sounding derivative. "Melody Calls" slinks and stomps like the best of The Smiths, while "Catch the Sun" is an earnest, driving guitar anthem that would fit snugly in the Noel Gallagher canon. "Sea Song," a meld of sweeping electronica, layered acoustic guitars and aching vocals, seems to finally cash a check that Electronic--the occasional collaboration between The Smiths' Johnny Marr and New Order's Bernard Sumner--signed nearly ten years ago. "Rise," complete with gurgling, effects-soaked vocals and squelchy sounds, is a rock song pasted onto an acid house template.

But the pinnacle of Lost Souls is "The Man Who Told Everything," on which Doves finally cut the strings of their influences (or at least sublimate them beyond recognition). Here's the track that will stir the dust in those forgotten corners of the heart. It starts with a rickety acoustic guitar and the high howl of a theremin, then builds to a lush symphonic peak as the lyrics chart the oddly euphoric course toward tragic resignation. "Get out of bed / Come out and sing / Blue skies ahead / The man who told everything" runs straight into the song's surprising coda: "I feel like I'm losing my head / I didn't mean to stay / lives have been wrecked and I've picked up my check... / I'm going to get out of here / I'm going to get out of here / I'm going to sell." The lyrics, which call to mind the drubbing the Gallagher brothers and Travis' Fran Healy inflicted upon their estranged fathers in the UK press, seem an indictment of this superstar brand of dirty laundry airing.

"A House," the album's final track, is the ultimate comedown after all the pomp and majesty. It's a dark yet nimble folk music couched in a low rumble, like the flaming wreckage of a sampler; and, like a lot of the album, it seems to carry with it a lot mileage and wisdom. In 1997, the studio the band was working in burned to the ground, destroying the tapes of their planned LP (which featured esteemed guests Bernard Sumner and trip-hopper Tricky). But Jimi Goodwin and twins Jez and Andy Williams pulled their guitars from the heap, leaving behind their melted drum machine and scorched computers to become Doves. In light of this, "A House" comes off significant as hell: "It was a day like this that my house burnt down / And the walls were thin and they crashed to the ground / It was a day like this and my life unwound... / Day after day and the life goes on / And I try to see the good in everyone / If I ever find myself here again, I'll give everything."

NME called this the first great debut album out of Manchester since Oasis' Definitely Maybe. (Let's pause to recall that before global success and the attendant mediocrity, Oasis released this marvelous Slade-meets-Sex Pistols plate of pub fare, full of gritty guitars and Liam's midway-between-Rotten-and-Lennon snarl.) But I'm going to take the next step and call Doves' Lost Souls the best debut album of 2000.

-Erik Hage
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Euphone

After a solid self-titled debut and an insuperable follow-up EP, Euphone has taken a fall. On his own, Ryan Rapsys pulled off a couple of musical pirouettes and derived some minor magic. But as a duo, ever since Calendar of Unlucky Days, Euphone's turned in some spotty performances.

Although Nick Macri and Rapsys are essentially incapable of laying down a maimed groove, they're also chronically unable to build upon their instinctive swagger. At least in Calendar they were straightforward and unassuming; not so in Hashin' It Out. They raise the stakes and fall short. I think Mommy used to say something about ambition paving the road to failure.

Reckoning that three heads think better than two, Macri and Rapsys frequently enlist the help of Jeremy Jacobson of the Lonesome Organist. Jacobson's only redeeming intervention comes in "Shut It," an ironic little number only the Organist could pull off in spades. The rest either sounds out of place, or seems derivative. We may still learn that "Bad Ascending" and "Press On" are misplaced recordings of Marc Ribot and Los Cubanos Postizos.

Even at their best, during "Oh You Ache" or "Weekend" they spend most of the time in obtuse introductions. The former opens with a full-bodied bass line that slowly works up the courage to break out. Three minutes later, when you start to swing a limb to the rhythm, the song comes to a sudden end. "Weekend" is even more frustrating; a glowing melody emerges from overlapping bass lines and a skittering beat, but it's a stillborn. The song immediately fades, never once settling down or amounting to anything. Mommy also has a line about the virtue of staying the course.

I like my Euphone straight, as in "My Ladies Can't Remember the Eighties." It's a pared down dreamy tune that soars as layers of reverbed drum fills pile on top. Meanwhile the warm, almost cheesy melody seems transcendent when it's fleshed out with horns, bass and a piano. The song is entirely played by Rapsys and, with all due respect to Macri, it shows. It's the only trace left of Euphone's past glories.

-Edgar Ortega
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These Finns are a demented lot. Think of backwoods creatures being spoon-fed rockabilly that was spun over the top of a Jesus Lizard tape played in a damaged portable tape deck. The Festermen play no-nonsense stripped-down rockabilly tunes sometimes played at a frenzied pace and others spewing a hypnotic trance. They have two guitars, one amplified through a bass amp, both having a passion for the slide bar, and one with a madman on vocals. Oh, yes, they do include a drummer with a very tiny kit. What comes out of my speakers sounds like something Jon Spencer would have done if he had the balls!

This is truly a disconcerting fucked-up dissonance blended together for an enjoyable listen. The song number eight, "Cracker Jack," has been festering narcotically in my brain for the last few weeks! One thing you can say for the musicians in Finland is that they are very unique, original and don't give a fuck what others have to say about their musical style!

-Steve Weatherholt
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Links:
Atom Heart
Burnt Friedman

Take "Nightbeat 1" for example. Midnight Sound begins with a riff of static and the echoing warning to "please watch your head" in several languages before being lost beneath a brush snare, upright bass, and vibraphone melody. "Midnight Sound" is awash with a fuzzed guitar line behind the chugging locomotion of a trap set and percussion ensemble. The dying echo of the audience fills out "Stepping Out of My Dream" as you finish out this odyssey flushed with the surprising amalgamation of the old and the new that these two characters have gleefully constructed. It's all sleight-of-hand really. You don't really know what was live and what was pulled off Memorex or programmed to sound like either. Does it really matter? Burnt and Atom are plastic wizards, stretching and distorting the boundaries of what was and what will be. Get yourself a cocktail and move along to the future.

-Mark Teppo
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The Gentlemen represent a fusion of two great groups who fly the flags of pop sensibility and hard rock assault and operate largely on the New England/New York axis. Singer-guitarist Mike Gent--a frontman in the tradition of The Replacements' Paul Westerberg at his sharpest--leads the criminally underappreciated Figgs, while bassist-vocalist Ed Valauskas, guitarist-vocalist Lucky Jackson and drummer Pete Caldes represent three-fourths of Boston scenesters Gravel Pit.

Apparently the collaboration emerged in the spirit of fun and, while that is the dominant mode of the album, I defy any other group of musicians to do it as well. The album's opener, "Sour Mash," is a Stones-Georgia Satellites barroom boogier whose womanly subject "looks like June" and "talk[s] like Johnny Cash." The lyrics are where the seams may show in this fun-fueled romp--wince-worthy lines such as "with a busted tooth and a mended heart, I was just falling apart" ("Top Heavy") tend to crop up. But that seems to be part of the package, and time-defying nuggets like "When We Broke in Two" will make the excursion worth while.

I "discovered" this group in the best possible way: live (at Brownie's in New York City, after being prompted by Figgs/Gentlemen maven and rock journalist Steve Reynolds). From the opening barre chord, the group charged out of the gate relentlessly and restored my faith in a lot of things. I hadn't felt such a pure, gutty assault since--as a much younger and more idealistic person--I caught The Replacements on their 1989 tour. At that show, I bravely took a position in the front row and spent a good portion of the show with my face pressed against the floor near Paul's effects pedals as the massive force of the crowd drove me forward. (Not as poor a vantage point as one would think, especially since Westerberg spent a good portion of the show face down on top of his guitar, even slurring a request for a cigarette from me as we lay face-to-face at one point.) At The Gentlemen show, however, the only thing knocking me off my feet as I stood coolly to the side, pint in hand, was my own amazement at the melodic yet blistering attack of the group. Like I said, they restored my faith in a lot of things.

-Erik Hage
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Godspeed You Black Emperor!

Even prior to its Lift Your Skinny Fists like Antennas to Heaven, the Canadian nontet had built a towering reputation from its interminable crescendos interspersed with rants from apocalyptic prophets and fringe characters. Its opus magnum has been critically sainted: Everyone says the hype is only half true, GYBE! is actually twice as good as legend would have you believe. My will is weak so I won't argue.

In fact, I'm warming up to Godspeed, if only because it sounds less operatic and more boisterous. There are even moments of genuine pop during the last five minutes of "Sleep," (I believe the subsection would be entitled "Broken Windows, Locks of Love Part III"). Or how about the swooping cadence of "She Dreamt She Was a Bulldozer, She Dreamt She Was Alone in an Empty Field," where Aiden's loose drumming lightens up an already tangy melody. The elegiac solemnity of its debut f#a#oo is largely absent here. Indeed, there's even a hedonistic rockout entitled "Edgy Swingset Acid." Maybe by their next album they'll be ready to admit they have a sense of humor and go for titles like "Hit Me with a Rhythm Stick." Until then, until they move beyond their bichromatic songs, their unforgiving alternation between humdrum atmospherics and sonic explosions, their relentless evocation of only fury or nostalgia, I remain a skeptic.

-Edgar Ortega
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At times it reminds me of Frank Zappa, Morphine, Talking Heads and a conglomeration of other art-rock no-names. The concept behind the album is cool enough: It is a big company with worthless offerings--a satire sort of affair. I can overintellectualize with the best of them, but this falls short of interesting, conceptually and musically.

Comprised of three people, GrandNtl Brnds isn't just a band. According to the disk they actually deliver some sort of satellite relay real-time audio delivery over the Internet. I have no idea what the difference between this and the standard Internet music compression files we are used to listening to are, but it sounds big.

The disc features a hefty amount of mumbo jumbo nonsense concerning this stuff. I can't make heads or tails out of it. Maybe I just don't get it, but nothing about this package really makes me want to dig that deep. I'm completely left with an overwhelming desire to say, "Whatever."

-Jeff Ashley
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