With three years elapsed since their debut release, The Ortolan (Dim Mak), a sprinkling of recent shows, and seldom an update, some fans might have begun to wonder if the Deadly Syndrome had retreated more permanently to their beloved eucalyptus, where they could let their beards grow long. Even the band now confesses that at times they wondered if a second album would happen at all, having parted with their label and managers since Ortolan. This week the L.A. rock quartet delivers their sophomore album, Nolens Volens by way of independent distribution. The title is a Latin phrase meaning “willing or unwilling.” As a symbol of their label departure and new found creative control, the band releases this introverted album as their own piece, for the world to accept or not.

Nolens Volens reigns in the upbeat urgency that pushed through the prior album, showing signs of maturation. That is not to say that the album is absent the energetic breakdowns that have popularized the band’s live shows, having previously opened for Silversun Pickups and Hot Hot Heat. Songs like “Wingwalker,” and “Deer Trail Place” carry their spirited tradition of rippling drum fills, shout choruses and crunching guitar progressions. But even on these louder tracks, there exists a darker, contemplative undertone. Notably on “Doesn’t Matter,” the brightest track on the album, singer Chris Richard belts out “Things will be fine or they’ll get worse, I never used to sleep this much.” On these moments that reach out and shout at the listener, Nolens still proves reflective.  You might ask on the opener, “Villain” what’s reflective about “Why don’t you go fuck off and die?” That I don’t have a good answer for you.

Coming back to that eucalyptus quip, it turns out the band had in fact been retreating into the woods. Nolens was recorded and produced by keyboardist Michael Hughes at his cabin. Between the harder hitting song segments, Hughes creates far wider spaces than had existed on Ortolan, and they unravel patiently. For instance, “After Work” plucks along as woodsy, confessional folk, but over the course of its duration the looping finger-picking rhythm is exposed to a series of resonating guitar swells, and later to a symphony of varying electronic humming and buzzing. It’s an ambient journey, backed by a minimalist click-pop digital drumbeat and quivering frequencies, creating a relaxed groove that sounds like the most wandering of Broken Social Scene. It’s easy to lose yourself in these nebulous moments and forget you thought you were listening to a rock album, particularly in its closure.

Nolens plays as a well thought out record, building on simple bases and overlaying a sharp ear for tonality and production accents. It’s a disc of fewer words, and less high-peak vocals and forced instrumentation. The landscapes are carefully constructed and the transitions are cohesive. About a month before the release, the band revealed Nolens as a “more honest album.” It seems the Deadlies have driven the jokes, ghosts and wolves out of the garden, remaining there to cogitate about it, and occasionally do a little partying in its twilight.

- matthew hunt

Somewhere, right now, an Alpha Pi Epsilon brother, or APE-man as he likes to be called, is in the basement of his frat house, surrounded by his brothers (maybe a few freshmen girls who don’t yet know that the cute lacrosse guys are, like, ALL in the frat across the street) passing the bowl and telling everyone – in that knowing tone- about how he was into these guys since way back, like in 2006, and how it was so real when they rejected their major label and released their own debut record. This is all currently happening. Right now. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

The Whig’s third release, In the Dark (ATO Records) is about as pure frat rock as an album can be. In the ‘90s, this album was wearing cargo shorts and pukka shells. In the ‘00s it was popping its collar and wearing a visor. Today it’s touring with the Kings of Leon and calling itself “Garage rock revival.” But sonically, if the Black Keys are on one side of Kings of Leon, then The Whigs are on the other; they are the more mainstream-palatable version of the mainstream-palatable version of a garage rock blues revival band. In the Dark is a truly middling album.

There are some great moments on the record, which only serves to torture, showing the listener glimpses of what this band is capable of, then drowning those moments in mediocrity. The clear breakout single “Kill Me Carolyne,” has a truly wonderful quality in the wailing vocal chorus and soaring guitar harmony. But, much as in the rest of the album, these flashes of joy are surrounded by uninteresting work: uninspired and repetitive guitar solos, very standard rambling bass lines, and back-up singing stolen directly from tour-mates Kings of Leon.

The lyrical theme of the album seems firmly planted in the APE house on the far corner of campus, just past the quad. “Someone’s Daughter” gives us a lengthy look into the shocking realization that the girl you feel bad about doing things with/to last night is… SOMEONE’S DAUGHTER! Oooooh, it gets sort of naughty, though, when through all the guilt lead singer Parker Gispert concludes that he wants to do it again! Edgy! Gispert continues the theme of violence on women in “Naked” (one of my favorite tracks on the disc, with early sleeper “Black Lotus”) wailing something about hitting and her being tied-up naked. The ambiguity, I guess, is supposed to complicate the situation, but comes off as overwrought and trite.

“I Don’t Even Care About the One I Love” is another crowd pleaser, and after three or four listens, it did get me singing along to this anti-hero anthem. However, my love affair is short-lived. The echoed woodblock percussion and seemingly Vampire Weekend inspired hook leave me soured and wishing I didn’t enjoy the parties I went to in college so much. But I did. So, likewise, this album could be very popular- I certainly don’t begrudge The Whigs their fame. Even if In the Dark becomes the soundtrack to drunken groping and awkward jello-shot fueled hook-ups at beer-blasts and keggers campus-wide, that will be fine. I don’t think it was intended to be anything else.

- nicholas mott

It’s difficult to listen to She & Him without imagining the painful loveliness of Zooey Deschanel in her 60s-revivalist prom dresses, her long, brown bangs and her Carter family twang. With the backing of sunglass-toting debonair, Matt Ward, the duo garnered most of their initial critical acclaim from user generated videos of their small performance at SXSW in 2008, in which Zooey bashfully revealed her rendition of the Beatles’s “You Really Got a Hold On Me.” Needless to say, the indie sweethearts have had their fare share of musical fame in the interim, having generating a massive crowd in their two year anniversary at SXSW last week. On the duo’s second Merge backed release, Volume Two, the adorable reign continues with a renewed confidence that can lay it on a little thick on first listen.

The first glimpse of the album was offered by the video premier of the single “In The Sun,” which both in its peppy catchiness and horribly cheesy choreography parallel Feist’s “1, 2, 3, 4.” The video climaxes with Deschanel hoola-hooping on a platform in a high-school auditorium in a polka dot dress. The over-exaggerated wink that follows hints at the overly pubescent sentimentality to be a joke, but even so, it’s a little much. With this as its precursor, the album finds itself full of bubble gum love ballads, busier and bigger at times than the previous album. String backings and chorus lines fill the space previously held for kazoo solos and tambourine clangs.

The golden oldies styling that She & Him revived prominently finds it way onto “Thieves” which carries the tone of Wayne Cochran’s “Last Kiss.” On this opener, Zooey bears an honest heartache, “I’m not a prophet / old love is in me / new love just seeps right in and it makes me guilty.” This is lyrically about as sophisticated as the album gets. More common are tracks like “Home” which feature substantial nothingness, “You’re the nicest nicest toy I’ve ever met and then / I think about you then think about you again / and again.” But given the music they are paying tribute to, you may let this pass. Consider the two 60’s cover songs on the album, NRBQ’s “Ridin’ in my Car” and Skeeter Davis’s “Gonna Get Along Without You Now,” which harp on a Stepford kind of love, “When I’m home alone / I can think of other things to do / but when I’m rolling in forward motion / all I can think about is you.” Some may find a certain melting brought on by the timeless simplicity of these emotions, or possibly just nostalgia from watching many episodes of The Wonder Years. Tracks like “Brand New Shoes” recall the contemporary alt-folk of Jenny Lewis, and acts as the strongest recollection of the duo’s stripped beginnings. The album closes with gospel humming, while Zooey sings a chamber number overtop, in keeping with Volume One’s closing rendition of “Swing Low Sweet Chariot.”

M. Ward again stays largely on the vocal sidelines, adding a bit of strumming but sticking mostly to production work, which sounds to be more of a task on this record than the piano-side solo pieces of Volume One.  On the whole, this is a bigger sound for the duo. Even moreso than Volume One, this is an album of surface-layer, Jonny-drove-me-in-his-Ford love songs. But if there’s no dust on your Patsy Cline records, you’re a sucker for “bad-da-dums” and “la-la-las,” and like long rides to the drive-in milkshake stop, Zooey now feels more at home as your rightful 60s-ballad spokeswoman.

- matthew hunt

From what I’ve heard, Queens is supposed to the new locus of artistic living. Less grating than Williamsburg, less crime-y than Bed-Stuy — a real New York gem, pretty much. The rents are allegedly cheaper, the food is more ethnic, and the bulk of American Apparel gear comes in tones more muted than neon. But if I had to judge the borough based on the efforts of native — or maybe adopted — sons Freelance Whales, I would have visions of New Jersey Turnpike exit 13A.mThe band’s debut album, Weathervanes, is the musical equivalent of the Elizabeth Ikea. Since I’m sure Queens really is lovely, I’ll be more generous than that.

The highest compliment I can pay to Freelance Whales is that that they’re promising junior analysts of the meme economy. Formed in 2008, the snooze-pop quintet promptly started playing on street corners and subways platforms. Now usually, buskers get ignored, get pity change, or get hassled by transit cops. But since Freelance Whales are oft-blazered white kids playing the most inoffensive brand of latte shop music possible, they got blog posts and Twitter followers. That has subsequently turned to Passion Pit remixes and utterly charmed NPR coverage, focusing on their delightfully quirky use of the harmonium and waterphone. Yes, their instrumentation is just like every other bloated Beirut knock-off.

Weathervanes begins with the smallest hint of promise. “Generator ^ First Floor” swells, gurgles, creaks, and lurches for about 40 seconds before releasing into a cloying blend of banjo, guitar, and whiny panting, all with the nasally, dulcet pleading of a Ben Gibbard clone layered over. In case you didn’t think it sounded enough like the Postal Service, synthesized blips are added to the mix in the next song, “Hannah.” Here, we’re told the self-pitied and self-absorbed tale of a whimsical boy who falls for his palindromed Bujalski heroine, all because she offers him “lemon Now and Laters.” (Christ.) The track’s only unexpected moment comes when front man Judah Dadone takes a break from his trite swooning to rip off a Dave Matthews Band ode to awkward boning. Insipid indie rock, meet insipid adult soft rock. I’m sure you’ll get along fabulously, and hopefully y’all can figure out whether you’re right-side up or upside down without boring me to tears from here on out.

With every new song comes an easy comparison to a band whose album has received moderate critical acclaim. “Starring” calls to mind cut-rate Mates of State. Sufjan Stevens probably has grounds to sue with “The Great Estates.” “Location” shows what happens when emosogynists with “flammable hearts” are given GPS devices for Christmas and crush the beret-and-fishnet bedecked sprite at the top of their overpriced yet subsidized walk-ups. If you didn’t already figure, this is a recurring theme. It’s all done with the breathlessness of a rejected Stars track. A precious glockenspiel solo takes the song to such great saccharine heights. When Dadone wails, “You could be in several different places/I am sensing your location,” you pray for the object of his affectations to get a restraining order.

But Freelance Whales don’t just feel derivative of the Stevia stylings of 2005. With its jouncy tempo and tween perky melody, “Killiojoules” feels like what would happen if Taylor Swift signed to Slumberland, took an introductory creative writing course, and re-recorded “You Belong With Me.” And while the Freelance Whales were maybe hoping for a broody Bright Eyes kind of vibe on “Broken Horse,” the song was better when it was called “Who Will Save Your Soul” and Jewel sang it.

Ultimately, Weathervanes is a solipsistic patchwork of indie pop’s most embarrassing habits with echoes of Top 40 romantic misadventures. Close to the end of the album, Dadone beseeches, “Don’t Fix my smile/ Life is long enough.” After listening to Weathervanes, I’d agree. Yes, it is. Far too long.

- alexandra gutierrez

Kairos, the second release from White Hinterland under the Dead Oceans label, is the beautifully cathartic follow-up to their previous release Phylactery Factory. White Hinterland uncovers a much more original space with this release, stepping out of the cutesy singer-songwriter role akin to Regina Spekter, and into a dreamier, ambient space while upholding singer Casey Dienel’s charm. The duo is practically unrecognizable, trading in band-backed lounge ballads for other member Shawn Creeden’s scratchy, electronic dub backing and double-tracked vocal loops. The result is a circling exploration of layered sound, piloted by a warm-hearted vocalist.

White Hinterland finds its greatest strength in Dienel’s vocals, which trill and flutter through notes at hummingbird pace. She pops in and out of falsetto range with frictionless transition. The looping harmonies often layer to hit an orchestral peak. At times the harmonies and superb tonality come reminiscent of former label-mates, The Dirty Projectors. Hinterland features a similar blend of afro-pop and classical styling. The African influence is featured most prominently on tracks like “No Logic” which beats with syncopation while Deniel’s vocalisms are equally complex in rhythm, singing na-na-na’s in an M.I.A. fashion. But Deniel stretches far beyond the limits of the monotonous chanting that this influence recalls. It is worth noting that she received classical training at the New England Conservatory, as her professional vocal quality is unmistakable. But Hinterland finds its originality in blending its afro-pop and neo-classical qualities with the dub beats that underlay it. Though Dienel leads you with her infectious, looping melodies and hooks, the ambient texture of the record keeps you slightly distant while she dances just up ahead in the lunar landscape.

Kairos, a Greek word signifying an opportune time, points to the album’s focus on transition and finality. Kairos often finds itself concerned with the satisfying release from heartache and proves soulful through the dreamy atmosphere. Deniel reaches the listener through the nebulous of the synthesizers and scratchy rhythm and bass to glimpse at the mending of her playful heart. Deniel introduces you to her struggle from the first track and the album’s single, “Icarus” on which ponders with the album’s most memorable hook, “Oh what can it mean? Why must I always see the ending at the beginning?” Yet as the album progresses, Deniel leads us through the tunnel to the light, changing tone to “I am afraid of so many things, but I do not fear the future” on “Moon Jam.” She expresses this progression more explicitly on Cataract- “Even though I may be out of your picture baby, you can still call on me from time to time,” and through “Begin Again” in its entirety.

The album closes on “Magnolias,” with an intro that is the rawest excerpt of Deniel’s talent. Stripped to the light backing of a plucking guitar, Deniel overlays her vocals with immense clarity through an intricate melody, bouncing throughout a wide range. She describes a heavenly place, “Magnolias floating on the water forever and ever as far as the eye can wander” as she drifts off into nirvana. Ascending with angelic tones, the time is right and Deniel releases us back amongst the stars.

- matthew hunt

Sisterworld, the fourth album from Liars released by Mute Records, is an album completely absent of hope for the well-adjusted. The album is haunting on many different planes -  wind chimes ringing in a chilling wind, the vocal musings of the deranged, paranormal sound effects, and piercing strings adding high levels of tension. The lyrics prove just as warped. Written and recorded with Jon Brion collaborator Tom Biller, Sisterworld plumes with texture, varying from lo-fi hisses and pops, to thick, bouncing static.

The album begins with the first single (if you can call it one), “Scissors,” presenting a solemn, falsetto harmony akin to the melody of Radiohead’s “Reckoner.” The harmony meets deep contrast as singer Angus Andrew confesses in baritone vocals likened to a Nick Cave murder ballad. After 60 seconds of slow, drifting descent, the track plummets at full speed, erupting into a Mars Volta break beat. The discomfort of this transition sets the tone of the entire record, which ranges from disorienting, terrifying solitude to explosive crashes, signifying the chase of the hunted listener. It is in the paralyzing, Hitchcock-ian anticipation of the bang that the album finds its power. It strings you along in its mysticism, and suddenly you are blindsided by disruptive post-punk. Dangers hide in all of its corners, which it reminds you of with many repetitive admonitions: “you should be careful… you should be careful…”

Angus is a masterful vocalist on Sisterworld- hanging on to notes as they drop out of tune, dragging them along to break the meter and the melody. He hits hymn like lows reminiscent of Mark Lannegan. Yet he also slips into gentle, vulnerable highs such as on “Drip” when he pleads “won’t you help me out?” He changes the tone from subtle and atmospheric to distorted and thrashing on a dime.

The path through Sisterworld is crooked. Tracks like “Scarecrows on a Killer Slant”  ring of QOTSA, and represent the record at full speed chase – demanding answers to maddening questions, which arrive at equally unhinging conclusions like “stand up in the street with a gun and then kill them all.” At times the record grooves, particularly on “Proud Evolution,” providing flashes of neo-psychadelic rock. On “Goodnight Everything” clicking electronics manifest an operation room suited for Mary Shelley, closing with an anthemic doom march. The only unapologetically post-punk song on the record, “The Overachievers,” spitefully targets the Los Angeles lifestyle the album seeks to escape, providing a flash of self-awareness for the concept driving the record.

“Too Much, Too Much” is a definitive exit song which cleanses the listener, allowing them to ascend to their rightful dimension from the nightmare land they have just toured, even revisiting the melody from “Here Comes All the People” with a consonant spin on it to make you wonder if you had misheard it all along. The delusion is over but it lurks in your subconscious.

Sisterworld is a highly progressive and conceptual rock album, leaving few contemporary comparisons to be made. It’s a slanted world for the wayfaring stranger, but Liars feel right at home in the deranged homeland of Sisterworld. Just be damn sure you want to crawl down this rabbit hole…

- matthew hunt

When I first heard The Airing of Grievances, I tried my hardest not to like it, but failed. There was something in the plaintive wailing, pretentious lyrics, and basic pop progressions that caught my ear despite my best efforts. I really didn’t want to like Titus Andronicus, but I did. Especially the tragically titled, “Upon Viewing Brueghel’s Landscape with the Fall of Icarus.”

Thankfully, The Monitor (XL Recordings) has generously removed any of my hesitation. Where before I was willing to give the band’s pretentious song titles, which overall are meaninglessly so, a pass – I now must strongly object. Especially given that The Monitor was loosely inspired by the period of American Westward Expansion. What business a shoegaze band from suburban New Jersey has titling themselves after Shakespeare’s most vigorously disturbing and avant-garde play is beyond me, but then releasing a concept album about manifest destiny?

The music itself is nothing special. Another case of a fairly tight backing band saddled with a gimmick for a lead singer, playing along almost oblivious to the heady machinations going on towards the front of the stage. This dynamic works wonderfully when the lead man is drunkenly charismatic, like Shane McGowan, or incredibly (and drunkenly) clever, like Craig Finn. However, when that lead player is a fey, skinny, overly bearded disillusioned whiner whose self-pleasure is clearly evident every time he squeals out a 50 cent word – the dynamic loses – as watching the 7:21 solo version of “No Future Part One” (on their myspace page).

The band seems a mish-mash of poorly cited influences, ranging from Conner Oberst to the Replacements, Fucked Up, and the E Street Band. What actually comes out is poorly planned, overly long, unorganized and sloppy emo-rock jams with the occasional anthemic chorus meant to draw us all back into the fold after whole minutes of wandering off into the self-referential, musically derivative woods of “deconstruction.”

The anthems leave us wanting as well: there is nothing to rally behind. I’m sure the band takes pride in this fact – they bill themselves as “emo nihilism”- but their malaise isn’t interesting. Shouts of “us against them” in “Four Score and Seven” make me cheer for “them.” The song is a laundry list of failed attempts at approaching something epic, replete with cliché denouncements of God, war, and the current art scene. They go so far as to sing “miserable quote unquote art” – I’m sure it’s not self-aware ironic self-deprecation, it’s just ironic (and tragic).

This certainly isn’t the worst lyrical misstep – in “A Pot in Which to Piss” –they seem to be getting off on self-congratulatory good grammar- lead vocalist Patrick Stickles actually belts out “excrement” where the word “shit” would have fit meter, tone, and scheme of the verse as well as not causing a mashed mumble of catching up in the next line.

It was around “Theme from Cheers” – a failed attempt at a country beer-drinking song- that I began to question my commitment to finishing this album. The Monitor in its entirety reeks of Titus Andronicus desperately trying to convince me that they’re serious, sincere, and devoted to having their truth heard. I’m horribly unconvinced.

-nicholas mott

Ted Leo’s newest release, The Brutalist Bricks (Matador) is, most simply, another Ted Leo album. For almost any other artist, this statement would be a devastating burn- a condemnation of unoriginality and uninspired music making. However, with Ted Leo, this is not a bad thing in the least- it’s not a condemnation, but a commendation. Ted Leo’s “standard fare” is more original, hard hitting, and interesting than most other artists in his, albeit oddly delineated, “punk/indie” genre today. The Brutalist Bricks shows off some of Ted’s + the Pharmacists’ best strengths, and the rare misses are only minor qualms.

The album opens with Ted’s overworked and slightly out of range vocal style at his most classic – discussing anarchist bombs in cafes and the American flag before slowing down briefly in a breakdown, only to build back to a crescendo followed by a laid back and seemingly far-away guitar solo. Pharmacist formula in the classic sense. “The Mighty Sparrow” takes no risks, but delivers the classic Ted Leo style that keeps listeners coming back, and excitedly. This opening track sets the tone for The Brutalist Bricks – signaling that it will sound much more like a ‘Best of’ album than a departure. That realization got me grinning ear to ear.

It sells the album short to refer to it as only “standard fare” and “well-worn territory,” as there are significant departures and interesting choices made, and not infrequently. The fuzzy, echoed, almost electronic bass lines on “Mourning in America” recall an almost industrial techno sound of new wave- they were quite unexpected upon first listen. Also the sexy, groovy slow jam of “One Polaroid a Day” startled initially- Ted forcing his vocal range from the strained falsetto of “Woke Up Near Chealsea” down to the other extreme on “Polaroid” to emulate a punk rock Pendergrass. Ted similarly pushes his vocal tone in “Tuberculoids Arrive in Hop,” almost reaching Elliott Smith levels of ghostliness in the slow sad verses and unusual-chord guitar strumming. The whole track is reminiscent of X/O. But even these departures are tempered by Ted’s own traditional lyrical mix of political poetics, sex jokes. Equal parts of self-doubt and self-righteousness with an ample dose of drinking in foreign bars.

Evidence to this is “Bottled in Cork”- a wonderful re-treading of material missing from “Hearts of Oak” chronicling a booze fueled European adventure that picks up where “Sons of Cain” lets off.  Even “Atavan Eyes” seems to hearken back to the harmonics of Biomusicology. Similarly, Leo seems use this re-visitation of old themes to atone for past mistakes: “The Stick” can be seen as an apology for “Bomb.Repeat.Bomb.” a song that was not well received at the release of Living with the Living. Both are hard driving punk anthems against fascism, but “The Stick” seems much more developed, both ideologically and musically. Not a departure, but a progression – a polishing.

The released single “Even Heroes Have to Die” is again, classic Ted Leo, but again, that is NOT a bad thing. The standout track, however, comes later in the album: “Where Was My Brain?” It has been described as sounding like Ted Leo covering some forgotten gem (Tom Scharpling) from the lost B-sides of Washington DC punk history. It smacks of the best parts of Minor Threat and the Bad Brains, with lyrics and hooks that could have been written by the Ramones. Leo drives the unrelenting tempo and unleashes on this track, hedging the boundary of over-pushing his vocals. This will certainly be a crowd favorite in the live show.

Ted Leo + Pharmacists play at the 9:30 club in DC on 4/8 (I will be in attendance).

- nicholas mott

The reputation of this sophomore record was preceded by the viral success of the music video for the album’s first single, “Excuses.”  The video featured a studio packed to the brim with such local San Francisco indie artists as John Vanderslice and Christopher Owens from Girls, and offered a glimpse into the bigger sound to come on the record as a whole. Singer, Chris Chu, prior to the “Excuses” video, discussed a nostalgia for the Phil Specter “Wall of Sound” recording style, which pervades this layered album.

Big Echo clicks on with the popping and fizzing of a needle laying onto an old 45, and an orchestra backing comes swinging in like “Georgia on My Mind.” This 1960s big-band, pop ballad sound finds fusion on the record with a modern rock thick with the giant crashing of cymbals and distant distortion.

A major separation between Big Echo and their debut release, Talking Through Tin Cans, is the production work. The song writing at its core is similar, but the layering and larger presence of this record make it a voluminous and much more sophisticated than the strumming sing-alongs of the prior record. Electronic glitches and effects that would have been jarring on Tin Cans grace their way onto Big Echo.

The album flows nicely, wavering between peppy, island-influenced pop and warm, reflective ballads. It has a broad range, with tracks like “Pleasure Sighs” equating the Benders to contemporaries like their old tour-mates, Grizzly Bear, who use similar vocal building, and climactic cymbal crashes.

“Hand Me Downs” features the most attitude on the record, as Chu demands to “let it die cold in the summer day.” The lyric acknowledges the track as an outlier to an otherwise thematically sunny and summer oriented album. Waves roll on through this whole album- in the vibrato of the vocals, in the guitar tremolo effects, in the organ frequencies, in the cover art! Even the drums come rolling in, as tumbling tom beats frequent the album. Chu’s vocals chirp, bend and ripple around the melodies with all the charm that gained him recognition on the debut album. Though always composed, he is able to alternate smoothly between a fuller, crooning tone and a delicate, airy whisper.

While Big Echo does not break new musical ground alone, it intelligently and seemlessly assembles some very popular trends in current indie rock. The Benders combine the heavy reverb and surf-influenced shoegaze of their contemporaries with a backbound of strong songwriting. The record’s melodic accessibility, polished listening quality and charming personality gives it the scale to be a big hit in 2010.

- matthew hunt

Saturday at club Mezzanine kicked off with My First Earthquake, while lead singer Rebecca Bortman bounced happily about the stage, belting out some funny lyrics.  Sugar and Gold, a polished synth-pop band reminiscent of 80’s OMD, shook their tail feathers.  San Francisco’s Maus Haus were a fan favorite, their analog electronics, omni chords, horns, and drums delivering hypnotic sounds akin to Can and the Silver Apples.  !!! (Chk-Chk-Chk), always a high energetic performance with their funky, dance oriented rock, put the crowd in a riotous state, while they led the charge in a gyrating, sweaty frenzy.

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- lorna pacheco