Lately, most of the indie-post rock-punk-hardcore bands have shown that they have one thing in common: they all threw their Proco Rat pedals out the window, forgot the "punk," "hardcore," sometimes even the "rock," and are now afraid to play with anything more than mild distortion, usually because they want to "get away from what [they've] done before." At least, that's what it says in all their bios. Conversely, Fairweather keeps the melodicism, but does not shun the heavy side of things, and the title track is all the proof you need. It begins with clean, intricate guitar work, not unlike that which the aforementioned bands feature on their releases -- the difference comes, though, when Fairweather begin to punctuate the melodic run with muted, stacatto bursts of metal that take the piss out of most of the other "post-hardcore" bands. Fortunately, the rest of the album follows suit. It's all passionate, urgent rock that's part Sunny Day and part Saves The Day, with a bit of Lifetime thrown in for good measure (and anyone who reads my reviews knows you can never, ever have enough Lifetime). (MHo)
(Equal Vision Records -- P.O. Box 14, Hudson, NY. 12534; info@equalvision.com; http://www.equalvision.com/; Fairweather -- http://www.fairweatherva.com/)

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Fireside
uomini d'onore

Procrastination can be a good thing when reviewing records. If I had been prompt, I would have just listened to this CD twice, not had a whole lot to say about it, and probably riffed about Swedes for a couple paragraphs. (Fireside are from Sweden, so that's not entirely arbitrary.) Instead, I sat on it for months and threw it in every once in a while to remind me that I really should be reviewing this record. And, eventually, it actually took. Fireside's rock is kind of sweaty and kind of passionate, kind of melodic, kind of epic, and kind of noisy. By not being only any of those things (including a song with vibraphones such as "Dos," for instance, excludes you from being purely described as "passionate" or "sweaty"), Fireside avoids easy pigeonholing (and maybe easy fandom, although my lack of literacy with the "emo" scene may mean I'm missing its appropriate placement there). But with enough listens, you'll intuitively sway your head to the heavy, Jawbox-y rhythm of "Monsoon" and sing along with the soaring melodies of the Afghan Whigs-ish "Sweatbead." If you have the patience to listen enough times, that is. Your life. (DD)
(Crank! Records -- 1223 Wilshire Blvd. #823, Santa Monica, CA. 90403; fan@crankthis.com; http://www.crankthis.com/)

Secretly Canadian? Perhaps, but this record is better described as Secretly Kiwi: despite Mr. Fischoff being an American, this record has much more spiritually in common with the NZ singer/songwriter circuit, not just the Jefferies brothers and Alastair Galbraith (as mentioned in the press kit) but also the overt Chris Knox-isms of "Propaganda For A Comic Strip." What does this mean to you, who (odds are) have no idea who any of the people I just mentioned are? Well, it means you're in for fragile, introspective songwriting that feels bound together by sheer force of will and ambient hiss at some points, while resting on beautiful chiming guitars at others, assembled by a man who could have recorded the album in his bedroom. Which references not just the sound of the recording, but also the feel: immediate yet quiet, not wanting to communicate beyond the door but trying to fill and color the space inside. Not a recording that's catchy or memorable in its details, the strength is in its overall construction. (DD)
(Secretly Canadian Records -- 1021 South Walnut, Bloomington, IN. 47401; info@secretlycanadian.com; http://www.secretlycanadian.com/; Dave Fischoff -- http://www.davefischoff.com/)

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The Flashing Lights
Where The Change Is

Bands like the Flashing Lights are why I love power pop. That's not because Where The Change Is is a great album, but precisely because it isn't; give me a world where this is the worst thing on the radio and I'd be a happy man. The songs are primarily reconfigurations of what you would've heard on a decent mid-'60s AM station, despite such '90s touches as the title of "Talk To The Hand." Only the pulverizing "Elevature" truly transcends pastiche; switching from stomping verses to a chorus and breakdown which sound like Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels tearing through "Jump Into The Fire," it's so mesmerizing that the band is easily within their rights when they start chanting their own name. Nothing else (not even the similarly driving and self-aggrandizing "The Flashing Lights Are On") really hits like that, but enough of the others (such as "Half The Time," in which the singer seems to go through a few too many true loves over the course of a decade) crackle in my ears for Where The Change Is to get filed as a pleasant diversion. (MH)
(spinART Records -- P.O. Box 1798, New York, NY. 10156-1798; info@spinartrecords.com; http://www.spinartrecords.com/; The Flashing Lights -- http://www.flashinglights.com/)