You know how sometimes bands produce albums that meander down various paths, randomly picking at genres of music and making it work? It's usually a refreshing change of pace, isn't it? An album that successfully and modernly weaves together sounds from rock, Motown, country, or pop is a economical way to get a little bit of everything you might like all in one musical voyage.

Take Rilo Kiley's 2004 release, More Adventurous, for example. From beginning to end, More Adventurous takes you on a contemporary trip through an array of diverse musical musings. While the songs don't follow a formulaic indie-pop sound, the record pushes the bounds of indie music and offers its listeners a light-hearted journey into other types of music they maybe hadn't been exposed to before. More Adventurous is kind of like Cliffs Notes for hipsters.

Now, why am I talking about Rilo Kiley when I'm supposed to be reviewing the Sammies' self-titled debut album? It's to help you gain a frame of reference for how on-the-other-end-of-the-spectrum The Sammies is.

The songs, for the most part, are actually pretty good. The music is catchy and well played, and it makes for an enjoyable listening experience overall. Is the band new or unlike anything you have ever heard before, however? Um, no. The first five songs on the CD comprise the "indie" portion of your listening experience, and "Caretaker" is so painfully close to The Dandy Warhols' "Shakin'" (off Thirteen Tales from Urban Bohemia) that it's laughable. One of their singers (no idea which one) has a voice that so yearns to be Courtney Taylor only it comes out nowhere near as beautifully arrogant and blasé. The rest of the CD sounds like Jet with a little of something else mixed in -- I want to say The Rolling Stones, but I think that would be giving the album too much credit.

There are two, maybe three, distinct possible albums lurking in the depths of the Sammies. I'd even venture to say that had they developed three distinctly different albums all at once, it would have been more convincing than the muddled, hurried feel of their debut attempt. They would have had time to nurture their obvious ability to play lots of different kinds of music. Here, though, the band members tried so hard to be different that they ended up sounding just like everyone else. Perhaps what sets them apart is that they sound like everyone else across a couple of different genres of music all on the same album. So, technically, that does make them different. Right?

Despite the haphazard and somewhat trite air of The Sammies, the band's ability to play good music and keep the listener's interest throughout the album leads me to believe that with a little more experience, the Sammies have the potential to produce something really worthwhile in the years to come. (Brigitte Zabak // 03/02/07)

Whenever an album is rereleased with a passel of bonus tracks, there's a myth that suggests that it's a classic worthy of being rediscovered by a new generation. The updated double-disc version of Sebadoh's III reveals that as the dirty lie it is. If it's being hailed as a lost masterpiece, it's only because of severe grade inflation.

Originally released in 1991, III captures the moment in pre-Nevermind indie-rock when the music had to decide what it was actually trying to do. Like Guided By Voices before it all came together on Propeller, Sebadoh was at this point intrigued by the melodic formalism of pop but still distrustful of its accessibility. The result was an album whose defining feature isn't musical but attitudinal, a double LP characterized by the non-editing of a band that indulged in every idea and every whim without regard to merit, as though each one was worthy of capturing on tape and sharing with the world.

Which is a shame, because Lou Barlow is a guy who, within a few short years, would eventually start to have ideas very much worth having. But before Sebadoh could have anything worthwhile to say, it would have to become an entirely different band, one that actually cared about the records it put out. It would also have to do away with the snotty high sarcasm of the "Gimme Indie Rock" single, included here as a bonus that solidifies its status as its generation's spiritual descendent of "Like A Rolling Stone."

It also cheapens it in context, since it's easy to piss in people's soup when you're pissing everywhere else as well. If III were simply composed of mildly half-baked indie pop like "Violet Execution," "The Freed Pig," and "Supernatural Force," it would be a tolerable portrait of a band in its inchoate state. But it's not. It's loaded up with wretched tracks like "Wonderful, Wonderful" on the original album and "Calling Yog Soggoth" in the bonuses that not only far outweigh the slight charm of the others but devalue them by their kinship.

If you're a Sebadoh completist who hasn't yet encountered III, you'll probably feel compelled to get it either way. And you'll listen to it. And you'll struggle. And if you're more of a mental gymnast than I am, you'll work hard to convince yourself of its deeply buried genius. The sepia glow of history and the weight of an entire extra disc's worth of unearthed demos, single tracks, works in progress, and alternate takes practically orders the album's naysayers to dig deep and empathize with its claims of masterpiecehood.

But the album had no such aspirations of its own, conceived and executed as it was as a slapdash middle-finger of noise. Sebadoh knew as much, peppering the stream-of-consciousness self-promotion in "Showtape '91" (which the band played before gigs) with pronouncements like "Incompetence masquerading as inspiration, inspiration mistaken for true talent...Sebadoh!" A decade and a half down the line, III remains what it always was and what it always intended to be: a godawful mess.

[Sebadoh is playing 4/13/07 at Walter's on Washington, with The Bent Moustache.] (Marc Hirsh // 03/12/07)

"It's true there is a color divide / It's not black or white, it's green." Nice. I already dig this band's worldview. I've not heard Smoke Or Fire's previous LP, but apparently, it drew comparisons to Avail and Hot Water Music, and while I can still hear those influences in there, This Sinking Ship also contains aural nods to The Replacements and Social Distortion. As such, it's a lot more just plain adjectiveless "rock," which is great in this era of multi-hyphenate-core bands. That's not to say that Smoke Or Fire's punk roots are absent; you can pretty much detect them on every track, from the raging guitars to the anthemic sing-alongs to the overall energy with which the material is delivered. Actually, at times Smoke Or Fire reminds me a lot of a less-metal Ignite, both stylistically and idealistically. And since Ignite is one of my favorite punk bands, that's a good thing. They also remind me of a less-hardcore, slowed-down version of Lifetime, which is also a very good thing. If you like good, loud, smart rock without posing or artifice, then I don't think you could go wrong with Smoke Or Fire.

[Smoke Or Fire is playing 3/27/07 at Walter's on Washington, with O Pioneers!!!, This Year's Tiger, & Charger Fits.] (Mel House // 03/24/07)

Aww, man. It always makes me a little nervous when I see somebody's thanked this little e-zine in their album's liner notes; it's sweet, and I appreciate the sentiment, but when it happens with a band I've only heard a little bit of 'til now, like Houston's own Something Fierce, I get worried. I've talked to a couple of the folks in the band before now, but hadn't actually heard much of their music beyond a minute or two of a MySpace clip, so... There's nothing worse than having to deliver the music-crit smackdown on somebody who's just finished thanking you for your help, y'know?

Luckily, Something Fierce don't have that problem. Come For The Bastards is honestly one of the best local releases I've heard in a while, a full-on, snarling blast of sweat-soaked rawk that kicks its way into your head and stays. The band certainly lives up to their name; from the very start of the opening title track, guitarist/singer Steven "Baby Face" Garcia, bassist/singer Niki Sevven, and drummer Red Rocket are a ferocious, unstoppable force. And best of all, they manage to throw off all that energy and fury while at the same time keeping things catchy and entertaining.

I've had "Come For The Bastards" (the song, that is) stuck in my head for the better part of two days now, despite playing all kinds of other things between listenings; it's fast and angry, with a definite punk edge to it and a cool, Hives-ish urgency (think "Two-Timing Touch and Broken Bones," off of Tyrannosaurus Hives). "Repent" runs along the same lines, with a dirty, rockabilly-ish main riff and vocals that nearly wear a Brit-punk-circa-'77 sneer, and "Find Darkness" charges in with a pounding rhythm and a yell-along chorus that'd make Rancid proud. There are more "American" punk elements here, too -- "Cut Deep," with its somewhat slower tempo and more brittle sound, reminds me in particular of old-school California bands like 7 Seconds, Agent Orange, or even Social Distortion.

The oddest thing, though, is that more than anything else, the crazy kids (well, relatively) in Something Fierce make me think of another band of kids (who also happen to be a power trio), UK wunderkinds/press darlings The Subways. And yes, that's a compliment, because like Billy Lunn & co., Garcia, Sevven, and Rocket definitely know how to craft an actual song and not just a bunch of kids banging away on guitars. "Lost Perspective" makes me want to bang my head and pump my fist in the air in time with Rocket's drums, while "10ft Demon" sounds like it was written for the sole purpose of getting a vicious mosh pit going. There's also "Better Off Without You," a sweet little Spector girl group-style fuck-you song that features Sevven on main vocals and which serves to cut the rawness of most of the rest of the album somewhat.

Okay, now I've got a confession to make: most stuff like this turns me off. Nine out of ten bands like Something Fierce don't ever even make an impression on me -- there's just so much sound-alike garage-y junk floating around there these days that it's almost as easy to tune out as the American Idol theme song. Live, sure, it's all a blast; on record, though, stuff like this tends to fall flat, at least for me. It's partly the samey-sounding thing, but it's also the actual recording style, because frankly, most of it sounds like crap, like it was recorded in an airport trashcan while 747s pass overhead. Not that I always want things to sound shiny and clean, but seriously, there're only a handful of bands out there that can be noisy and sloppy and lo-fi and make it work. Not everybody can be the Fatal Flying Guilloteens, folks (and heck, they've even left most of their early lo-fi craziness behind).

For their part, though, Something Fierce aren't rallying under the lo-fi-is-better flag. Instead, they've managed quite a feat, by playing fast, loud, wild garage rock that still stays focused and tight as hell. Sound-wise, they're furious and ragged, yes, but they're nowhere near messy or half-assed. Which is good, because Come For The Bastards is an album that deserves to be heard, over and over again and at full volume. Rock the fuck out.

[Something Fierce will be performing at the Noise & Smoke festival at The Axiom on Saturday, March 10, along with Indian Jewelry, Skullening, The Wiggins, Blades, & The Sporatics.] (Jeremy Hart // 03/02/07)

Sputnik Monroe, the man, was a pro wrestler who used his popularity to integrate the city of Memphis. Sputnik Monroe, the band, on the other hand, has just released Wake the Sleeping Giant, their new album of "experimental indie/alt-rock." While it is impressive that they've managed to use four different terms to describe themselves, they would've been better served by sticking to one or two. In their bio, they say they take cues from Mars Volta, Muse, and Radiohead, but while name-dropping those groups is fine, for the first couple of tracks the band sounds more like Incubus.

"EEE Funk" replicates the pseudo-progressive rock of Mars Volta, it's true, but with more of a pop sensibility. Sputnik Monroe does seem to emulate Muse, but the band members cannot replicate Muse's ability to play different genres. "Tokyo Sky Surprise" is the band's best attempt at Brit-pop -- the track's very successful at creating energy and feels like it came all the way from Britain. It would be a mistake to say that it's just a simple pop song, though, since that would be ignoring the uniqueness of the track and the way it morphs into almost a different song towards the end of the track. Radiohead may have been an influence, but Sputnik comes nowhere near the experimental instrumentalization of Thom Yorke and the boys. The moody pieces sound more like ISIS, and while that's not a bad thing, it comes off as a copy.

The band needs to streamline their vision some; it's like the old saying: pick a hole. Wake the Sleeping Giant isn't a bad album, but it's not remarkably good either. Sputnik Monroe is like a trip to the mall: nothing really happened, but at least you got out of the house.

[Sputnik Monroe will be performing at Fitzgerald's on Saturday, March 10, along with The Smoke Eaters. They will also be performing at Super Happy Fun Land on Sunday, March 11, along with Solarfed & Sunday Best, and at Valhalla on Rice University campus on Friday, March 16. phew.] (Scott Whitt // 03/02/07)

Some bands live to record, and some bands record to live. The Teenage Harlets (their misspelling, not mine) clearly fall in the latter category. Everything about this low-fidelity burst of uptempo, surf-inflected garage rock seems to prove that their virtues are meant for a live setting: their songs, while energetic, are incredibly samey; the lyrics are incredibly generic and uninspired even by garage rock standards; and for the most part, they aren't distinguishable anyway, because of the crappy recording. But you can tell from the record they definitely have the in-your-face attitude and outsized performance approach that probably means their sets are great fun; a cursory YouTube search confirms this, revealing lots of, um, interactivity in their shows. So, yeah: I'll go see them if they come to town, but I can't really recommend this record when there's so many better garage records out there. (Stock up your Oblivians and Thee Headcoats records first, and then we'll talk.) (Doug Dillaman // 03/12/07)

This Moment In Black History play the same hybrid of garage rock and hardcore punk that has served the Wrangler Brutes and Houston's own Fatal Flying Guilloteens, but they have some practicing to do before they're up to the standards of either of those bands. Listeners familiar with the Guilloteens' career and reputation may be surprised by that statement, but the foundation of both Guilloteens LPs, even across a lineup switch, is the hard-hitting grooves of the rhythm section. TMIBH drummer Lamont Thomas pounds courageously but fails to support such a groove, and though bassist Lawrence Caswell does a good job for his part, he can't carry things by himself. Guitarist Buddy Akita fares a bit better; his ability to convey anger and discord without resort to the clichés of punk guitar is TMIBH's biggest strength. Strangely, though the Wrangler Brutes are probably better musicians than either the Guilloteens or TMIBH, their knockout punch is vocalist Sam McPheeters, whose throaty howl never obstructs the flow of his witty and absurdly disturbing lyrics. Which brings me to the biggest problem with It Takes a Nation of Assholes to Hold Us Back.

The album is dedicated to Richard Pryor. The tray card reprints an impressionistic sermon-poem by a young Black poet named R. A. Washington. The title is a reference to one of Public Enemy's best records. The band itself, This Moment In Black History, was recently mentioned in a New York Times article on Black hipsters, oh-so-cleverly nicknamed "bipsters." Clearly, this is a band with, to put it delicately, something to discuss. So why can't I understand anything singer Chris Kulcsar is saying? Why doesn't the band reprint their lyrics to help me out? Why does a band in which the two major compositional roles (voice and guitar) are filled by white men cultivate the impression that they are speaking in some way for Black people, when they apparently don't consider that speech important enough to be made intelligible? Mind you, there's no reason that a white-fronted band couldn't do what TMIBH appear to be trying to do, but it makes their failure to actually get their message across all the more important.

On the opening track of Nation, "World B. Free," a sampled voice delivers a lecture on the success of the American people, praising the efforts of "all races and nationalities -- Italians, English, Mexicans, Germans, Poles, Chinese, Indians, Norwegians, Frenchman, Japanese, Russians, Spaniards, and many, many more." Then the voice asks, "But what of the Negro's role?" The track concludes, "Let us turn back the pages of history, and start at the very beginning." Whether the second track, "Larry Pulled a Knife on Jesus," constitutes this beginning is impossible to say, for these are the last words the listener will understand for many minutes. Supposedly the band claims to be apolitical, but given the context that they themselves have created for their music, that seems disingenuous. Clearly TMIBH have something to say, and more power to them; whatever issues they are trying to air out deserve to be addressed. Some people might say that rock music is not the appropriate venue for them. I disagree. But I do think that those issues should be treated with more consideration than is on display here. (Daniel Joseph Mee // 03/24/07)

San Francisco songwriter Dean Tomihira challenges audiences to find just one song they like on his eponymous band's debut full-length, Play Dead; indeed, they may have difficulty even telling where one song ends and the next begins, so consistent is Tomihira's muse. Tomihira counts Joy Division and My Bloody Valentine among his chief influences, but his songs have neither the suicidal melancholy of Joy Division nor the mechanistic power of My Bloody Valentine. They're just mild, midtempo guitar songs, polished into smooth, harmless oblongs of pop. Play Dead is never offensive, never irritating, never even really boring -- but edgeless material makes for poor hooks. The remaining hints of buffed-out corners on songs like "Pillbox" and "Color of Destroyed" suggest that Tomihira might do better to choose as his model someone like Silkworm, or the Wedding Present, or the Pretenders, all of whom have made multiple records full of midtempo guitar songs that are relatively inoffensive, but far from tame. (Daniel Joseph Mee // 03/24/07)

Hmm. Lots of comparisons to the Foo Fighters in this one-sheet -- color me ready to be disappointed. Indie-rock bands love to compare themselves to the Foo Fighters, almost as much as crappy horror films love to invoke the spectre of The Sixth Sense in their press blurbs. In both instances, though, more often than not, this marketing strategy has the opposite of the intended effect on me. I know that they're lying through their teeth and trying to run a scam on the unsuspecting masses.

The Colour And The Shape it ain't, but tvfordogs' Roller could maybe bear a passing, second cousin-type resemblance to There Is Nothing Left To Lose -- if you threw in a little Wilco, the Chili Peppers' recent output, and the middle bunch of Pearl Jam albums (No Code through Binaural) for flavor. A lot of the songs actually sound like louder versions of songs you would hear on those "easy listening at work" stations. Don't get me wrong: it's not bad, but it's not the aural assault that the press release would have you believe. I mean, comparing these guys to Queens of the Stone Age? Come on.

In their defense, tvfordogs do have some good songwriting chops, as well as an ear for groovy arrangements. They'll probably be able to secure a safe spot on Adult Contemporary radio between the Third Eye Blinds and Matchbox Twentys of the world. Personally, I would rather the band buy a bunch of Triple Rectifiers, crank those mothers up, and deliver on some of the press kit promises for once. (Mel House // 03/12/07)

Unsparing Sea is the perfect name for this band. This is staring at a slate-grey ocean kind of music, Meryl Streep in The French Lieutenant's Woman kind of music. Take "The Sleepless and the Faulty Ends," for example, where the instrumental section finds lovely cello melodies and some soothing chord changes resting under roiling drums and dissonant squalls. The music definitely fits the oceanic theme.

Lyrically, the songs are uniformly impressionistic and fatalistic. J.R. Bennett's vocals have the world-weary whine of a Thom Yorke or a "Something in the Way" Cobain, and for me they took a couple of listens to get used to. And in some places, they seem unecessary. On the improvised (mostly) instrumental "Beside Your Name," Bennett's lyrical ad-libs don't do much for me. In fact, I would love to hear the band doing more instrumental numbers; I could easily see them as a more melancholy Red Sparowes.

But when their songs work, they work well. "Life From a Plane" gets everything right, lyrically, vocally, and musically. You start out drifting at sea, the cello creaking like the boards of a ship, then there's a glorious drumroll, and you're eight miles high, floating along on the ether, watching the clouds, detatched from everything below. And that, as the song says, can be a beautiful thing. (Simon Holcroft // 03/24/07)

On his second solo release, Where Have You Been, Cleveland, Ohio-based Mike Uva doesn't stray too far from bands like The Go-Betweens and singer/songwriters like Ken Stringfellow (of the Posies) and Art Garfunkel. His songs work best when they are either jaunty, like the modern-day breakup ballads "Protective Touch" and the alluring "Dinosaur," or light and airy, like the acoustic gems, "Quickening" and "Spaced," hidden near the end of the record. Uva made a wise decision in selecting a female backup singer and then inviting her to take the lead on "Dinosaur" -- her warm, breezy vocals bring to the song a focus that some of the other tracks on this record, like the narcoleptic "A Trophy to Bear" and the ethereal but weak "Fine Once We Start," lack. I liked the instrumental intro track and would have enjoyed hearing more energetic material like that particular track. Overall, Uva is a seasoned performer who has appeared alongside bands like Cat Power, The Decemberists, and Clem Snide, and the album displays that. On the down side, mixer Don Depew (Guided By Voices) could have done Uva the favor of highlighting the vocals more on this record, at least enough for us to hear the lyrics. (Annie Lin // 03/12/07)

Astute Space City Rock readers might know that I am a director of horror films. They might also reason that I must be a huge fan of the Saw series -- after all, it's got guts and misanthropy galore, right? It's a huge phenomenon, and every bloodthirsty person has to love Saw, right?

Yeah...um...not really.

I realize that this is a music review, but I assure you, I have a point here. I'm indifferent to the movies, and I'm pretty indifferent to this album, too. I like the idea of the Saw movies (and, by extension, probably the idea of an accompanying soundtrack), but the execution is lacking for me. I honestly think that the movies are a cynical exercise in producing what mainstream Hollywood thinks horror fans like me want to see. Substitute "hear" for "see" in that last sentence, and you pretty much have my description of the Saw III soundtrack, as well. There's lots of palm-muting, guttural screaming, and blast beats, but I've heard better songs by most of these bands, especially Slayer, Ministry, and Static-X. And Helmet, of course -- the greatest travesty is that one of the most boring songs on here comes from Helmet ("Monochrome"), who in their day could've eaten any of the other bands on here for lunch. Then again, that song is taken from a pretty disappointing full-length -- but that's another review entirely. And what the hell is Blue October doing on here? With a song called "Drilled a Wire Through My Chest," no less? That sounds like a grasp at tangential relevance on par with the Van Halen songs from Twister. "Respect The Wind," indeed.

Anyway, there are some small glimmers of coolness (again, like the movie series): Lamb of God's "Walk With Me In Hell" and Mastodon's "The Wolf Is Loose," for two, but they're not enough to raise the rest of the album above mediocrity for me. Avenged Sevenfold's "Burn It Down" is enjoyable, as well, but I've owned the actual album that song came off of for some time now. To top it all off, I don't really remember any of these songs being in the film proper, except for "Monochrome" being the end-title cue. It's all smoke and mirrors, pretty much, musical fast food designed to make you think you just experienced something cool just through sheer sensory overload.

And what the hell is up with this being a "clean version," bleeped profanity, sanitized soundtrack album for Saw III?!? They use the gruesome imagery and innuendo to sell you on this stuff, sure, but then it's like they only want to halfway commit to it. Say it with me now: Just. Like. The. Movies. How you feel about that will determine whether or not this is your cup of tea. (Mel House // 03/02/07)

I know more than a bit premature, but with The Light Divides it sure feels like Winterpills have crafted one of the best damn albums of 2007. Don't let the whole "loved by NPR" hype color your judgment; this disc can't be pigeonholed into that inoffensive-folk/country box most NPR faves (that I've heard, anyway) seem to fall into. The smart, melancholy people behind Winterpills (singer/guitarist Philip Price, singer Flora Reed, electric guitarist Dennis Crommett, and drummer Dave Hower) have taken what started out as a soft, wintry afternoon talking about music, love, loss, and all the rest and have transmuted it into a fairly unique modern folk-rock gem, polished to a perfect, crystalline sheen.

Now that I say that, though, it occurs to me the album feels a bit out of time, like a chunk of amazing '70s AM radio you never heard that dropped through a hole in time to end up here. There are a lot of indie-rock/alt-country touchstones, of course -- the quieter bits of The Mendoza Line and Son Volt, the delicate country sensibility of Iron & Wine -- but there's also a warm, earth-toned feel (which is weird, given the album's overall gray imagery) that brings to mind, well, Fleetwood Mac. I say that not to demean Winterpills, by the way; I'm thinking back to my own faded memories of listening to the band on the radio when I was a kid, and that's definitely a happy little bit of nostalgia.

One of the best things about this disc is that it's so completely unassuming, so unpretentious as to be almost shy. The songs come in like slightly embarrassed visitors at a party of close friends; they wave awkwardly, sit down in a corner, and slowly seep into the surroundings. You barely notice when you start nodding your head in time and smiling wistfully. The end result is an album that sounds so warmly familiar, like you've heard it and liked it before and are finding it again after a long time away. At the same time, there's a quiet fragility to the music -- some of the songs on The Light Divides seem so fragile and insubstantial that if you breathe on them too hard, they'll crumble to dust and blow away. There's an odd, endearing delicacy to it all, especially on tracks like "Hide Me," which is nicely meandering and plaintive, and "June Eyes," where the lyrics flit by so swiftly that it takes a minute to realize what's been said.

Of course, given the above, you'd be justified in wondering how this is any different from all the rest of that laid-back, soft-spoken folk/country that's floating around out there. And you'd be right, somewhat, if it weren't for Price's bitter, bleak, often dark songwriting. On opening track "Lay Your Heartbreak," for example, the music is slowly-unfolding lite-rock, to be sure, but there's a hint of bite lurking beneath the gentle guitars. Same goes with "Handkerchiefs," a beautifully understated folk tune that seems to essentially be about two people who want to be alone but who aren't supposed to be together; by the end, it sounds like they're wandering off by themselves into the snow, never to be found.

"Broken Arm" is gentle, too, but below the swooping voices and strummy guitars, there's a simmering anger, carried across through the insistent chorus. Everywhere you look, the gorgeous melodies and pretty voices -- Flora Reed's is the sweetest female voice I've heard since Hem's Sally Ellyson -- serve to camouflage intricate, mysterious story-songs filled with characters who suffer and lose and never do what they know they want to do. There's enough heartbreak and disappointment here to fill a Red House Painters album.

Perhaps appropriately, Price's voice brings to mind Elliot Smith at his bleakest and most self-destructive (esp. on "Broken Arm"), all indie-rock melancholy and bitterness, but with Reed's gorgeous voice swooping and diving in and around it and Crommett and Hower singing along in the back, it evokes something else, something "old-timey," for lack of a better word -- it's like one of those old country "family" bands where everybody sang and played something. This is music that sounds like it's meant to be played around a campfire late at night, soft and quiet but still so beautiful and haunting it draws you in. (Jeremy Hart // 03/17/07)