Musique Concrete. Krautrock. Spacerock. These are some of the terms floating around in sound-bite bubbles above the collective head of Brooklyn quintet Alex Delivery. Certainly, these are some of the forces at work on their debut album, Star Destroyer. At its best, Star Destroyer combines these elements in elegantly shape-shifting exercises in diametric reconciliation. At its worst, the album winds up a lost train-of-thought, steadfastly chugging along the tracks.

Debut single "Komad" opens the disc with pummeling drums, metallic keyboard squalls, and a minimalist bass line. Through its ten-minute span, "Komad" plays games with melody and noise, like a sonic Ouroboros. Separated into several distinct sections, the song repeatedly finds melody devouring noise, which then in turn devours melody. These changes are not nearly as abrupt or shocking as could be imagined, however. Rather, the parts segue into each other in a very organic progression. If this track can be seen as an evolutionary process, it's clear that melody has the Darwinian advantage; by minute five, the angular, metallic keyboards which dominated the first half of the track have faded to the background, now serving as unlikely support to a very dance-ready mix of keyboard and bass. A string arrangement draws the track toward its close, which offers a fun-house mirror image of its beginning. The metallic noise bursts are back in full force, but now the sound is driven by rudimentary electric piano and a simple vocal melody. If the entire album worked as a macrocosm of this track, the self-contained universality of the whole thing would be wondrous. It would be like a sonic fractal, combining mathematical calculation and mechanism with organic transitoriness in wondrous synchronicity.

"Rainbows" marries a shuffling swing beat with a softly warbling organ and understated, half-spoken vocals. Fluttering just above the surface is a variety of "non-musical" sounds. This track is much more readily approachable than its predecessor, though not as rewarding. The track closes with the de-evolution of melody into pure sound collage, though the transition is awkward, as if the band lost track of where they were going, or got bored, and just threw in some noise for lack of a better idea. This unfortunate ending deflates the melodic impact of the track, without adding anything in its place.

"Milan" seems to promise more of what "Komad" introduced, starting out as a very cerebral quasi-melody supported by understated vocals and various sounds of indeterminate origin. Don't be deceived by the first two minutes, though -- this track is probably the most fully-realized track on the album. Once it begins to slough off the noise-rock trappings, "Milan" ends up sounding like The Sea and Cake imitating Can or Faust. Motorik-inspired drumming hurtles along as shimmery keyboards and New Age bass dance around one another. What sounds like a steel drum should feel out of place, but doesn't. Plucked strings a la The Dirty Three bring the piece to an understated close, marred only by another oddly placed noise concession, which awkwardly wrests control at the final moment.

"Scotty" is an interesting mash up of noise-rock bombast and hurdy-gurdy wackiness. Initially reminiscent of Florida duo The Goslings' brilliant 2006 noise release The Grandeur of Hair, "Scotty" quickly sheds its noisy pretensions, and offers a delightfully tongue-in-cheek respite from the somewhat trying seriousness of the majority of the album.

"Sheath-Wet" is definitely the low point of the album. It's just too long, and not only because, at 11:09, it clocks in as the longest cut on the album; it just doesn't go anywhere. Alex Delivery is not really a jam band, but it tries for that here. The only enjoyable part of the album is the scale-following keyboard lick that repeats periodically throughout the song.

"Vesna" finds the band giving fairly free reign to sound. Aside from a pretty vocal harmony, much of this song is built on ambient sounds, like birdsong. Plenty of shimmering cymbal and occasional marching band drum rolls add an interesting touch. The back half of the song is almost an entirely different composition, having an air of late-period Brian Wilson. Happy and sprightly, this is an interesting way to end what is a largely gloomy record.

When Alex Delivery's blend of style and concept gels, it works alarmingly well. Unfortunately, there seems to be a lot of potential for pitfalls in this approach. When they are unable to bridge the stylistic gap, they fall headlong into a musical black hole of their own creation, forever frozen (at least it seems that way, at times) on the event horizon of a groove that is too thin to maintain itself indefinitely. When they figure out the ebb and flow, the whole thing comes together organically, only to fall apart again a moment later, only to reconfigure itself again and again; a perfectly designed system feeding off of its own demise.

[Alex Delivery is playing 5/12/07 at The Proletariat, with Frog Eyes.] (Nick Hall // 05/12/07)

It's hard to believe Nicole Atkins is only 27 years old. I was so sure that the voice coming out of my stereo belongs to someone who's already blown out the candles on her 50th birthday cake. And I do mean that wholeheartedly as a compliment. Which should explain to you how her all-knowing voice will immediately wrap you up and bring you along for a dizzying ride through songs about war, longing, and her New Jersey childhood on her debut EP, Bleeding Diamonds.

From those six songs the hint of alt-country never fades, in both slow piano ballads and moody singalongs. The melodies are never repetitive and always moving along, thanks to her four member backing band (dubbed "The Sea"). They provide the sweeping strings, atmospheric synths and twinkling keys of the piano to create a sparkling world similar in sound to what Eisley did in 2005 with Room Noises.

The strongest part of the album, though, is anything but Eisley-like. It really hits you with "Caroselle", a jaunty barroom piano piece based on the demolishing of Ashbury Park's Palace Amusement Park; it reels in and out with a jagged bass line and frightening clashes of cymbals, but the real chills come in when the playful piano goes solo, dancing along with rumbling drums underneath it.

Atkins' voice stretches to fit the different rhythms and takes freedom in lingering on every few syllables in "War Torn." In "Delora," haunting backing choirs furtively sneak in behind her voice, and there's a storm full of instruments and background vocals that swirl around one another near the end. There is a lot to take in on this EP: the tambourine accents, the start-and-stop bass lines, the flurries of cymbals, and more, all glazed over Atkins' hypnotizing, world-weary voice. (Anne Lai // 05/03/07)

My first mistake was telling Space City Rock editor Jeremy that he could send me whatever he wanted. My second mistake was not getting completely drunk before listening to Beyond the Valley of the Barbarellatones. I really should have known better. The front cover of the self-released disc's sleeve features a banana hammock-clad Robby Quine (formerly of Sex with Lurch), and the track-list on the back (which includes such titular gems as "Gothabilly Gulch" and "Baby Wants a Corndog") should have sent me running for a bottle. Surely a record that sounds like the result of an incredibly drunken, "hey, wouldn't this be funny" recording session would've sounded better if accompanied by some of Kentucky's finest, right?

Unfortunately for me, I was not so insightful as to pick up on this, and thus had to suffer through eleven tracks of surf-glam-gothabilly without the aid of inebriation. For those of you who enjoy the "this-sounds-like-that" method of rock criticism, the Barbarellatones sound like what you'd get if Southern Culture on the Skids re-imagined the soundtrack to The Rocky Horror Picture Show, but without wit or skill.

That's really all that's necessary to say about this particular record, though I will leave you with a parting thought, taken from the first track on the album, "Hellhound," the blood-soaked, debauched tale of "Jethro, the Gothabilly Dog": "He'll sniff your bottom oh so fast / Jethro loves the stinky smell of ass / I see two glowing red lights in the fog / the eyes of Jethro, the Gothabilly dog." (Nick Hall // 05/03/07)

The Brokedowns play hardcore with touches of metal; their sound on New Brains for Everyone isn't unusual, but their singer is -- he's a more subtle vocalist than most. Throughout the album, he sounds like he's enjoying himself. Humor is always the most difficult emotion to convey with screamed hardcore vocals, but he pulls it off.

Even better, though, he's got some great songs to sing. The lyrics are cynical and satirical, targeting politics and American culture in general, and the singer is clearly amused at how fucked-up everything he sings about is. And the band tries to keep us laughing along -- the song "Brains" follows an excoriation of followers and conformists with a chorus that suggests "Issue out / New brains for everyone!" (If only it were that easy.) On "The S.A.R.S. Groove," the quote from the Neil Young song "Ohio" over the hardcore beat makes for a great, amusing combination.

Behind all of this are catchy songs with melodies that don't try too hard. "Brains" is a big anthem that really works, with unison vocals during the chorus that give the song a real boost. "Huge" is probably the best melody here -- it even has a bridge! And when the bridge is over, they add a driving figure that makes the song build and build.

Someone needs to send a copy of New Brains for Everyone to Hillary Clinton; "Brains" would be the perfect theme song for her presidential campaign. After six years of George W. Bush, I think we could all use a new set of brains. (Henry Mayer // 05/03/07)

I think some wires got crossed up in the Space City Rock offices. An album like Alice Despard's Vessel usually falls firmly in the stomping grounds of my esteemed associate, Marc Hirsh. I think he may've even reviewed one of Despard's earlier releases a while back. For whatever reason, though, I, the punk/hardcore/metal/loud music guy, ended up with her latest offering. I think editor Jeremy might have mentioned something about "alt-country leanings" in the description -- I can get into that stuff most times. So what the hell, let me give it a try.

Ahem. Okay, here we go: indie. Patti Smith-esque. Hints of Juliana Hatfield. Guitar that's sometimes shimmery, other times jangly, but most times cleanly picked acoustic. Definitely a "coffee house" kind of vibe going on here, for better or worse.

The songs can be hauntingly stark, but sometimes are a bit too long for my tastes, especially since there's very little dynamic to be found within them. Alice Despard does have a neat vocal style, however -- kinda deep alto, not showy or indulgent, and very real. I dig that. Unfortunately, the songs begin to all run together, at least to my ears. Maybe that's because there are no "mosh parts" -- who knows? Apparently this album was recorded in one day in order to bring the listener the experience and intimacy of a live show, and while I didn't dislike it, I think I'd rather just see Alice Despard's show. My guess is that the material translates much better in that context.

And maybe she'll throw in some mosh parts. (Mel House // 05/12/07)

I missed Hello Stranger when they played here almost a year ago; I will not miss them again. This is a great pop record, and I'm sure they'll have some new offering by the time they tour again.

"Take It to the Maxx" is all feel-good, Studio 54 disco-pop but done with style and finesse. Not too many guitars, not too many synths, not too little or too much of any one thing, but a perfect combination of just the right instruments. It's all dressed up in a polyester suit with a wide collar, yet this is some not tongue-in-cheek/ironic twist. This record has both futuristic and nostalgic feels to it and is executed perfectly (refer to album's H.G. Wells-ish illustration).

This is helped, of course, by Juliette Commagere's vocals, which are rich, warm, and versatile -- her voice is somewhat reminiscent of the Cardigans' Nina Persson, but only in the sense of owning the songs she sings. Sweet and gentle (when required), swift and serious (in just the right doses); all are applied with a gracefulness much looked-over by this band's contemporaries.

Thematic as this record is, it does veer off at just the right moments. Songs like "Kubrick Eyes," "Let It Ride," and "We Used to Talk" are together a different story of orchestration and presentation from the rest of the album. Gone are the flashing floor lights and mirror balls and out come the acoustic guitars and a more introspective tone. Yet Hello Stranger doesn't lose sight of this "feel" of this record. Every song has strong melodies and plenty of surprises to keep you on your toes. I hear something a little different with each listen. Encore. (Damon Murrah // 05/12/07)

There are several things that are noticeable upon listening to Strange House by The Horrors. The first is how come no one has already used this name for a band? Especially with al the metal bands out there and then the legions of mall kids that wanted to be Marilyn Manson; you'd have figured that "The Horrors" was taken. Second is how aptly named this album is. Not since Metallica's Load has a title fit so perfectly.

The Horrors are from London -- that should be a given, since the Brits are the only ones with bands still using the "The." Also, a band as quirky as this could only come from there or from some major city on the coast. No way could a band that sounds like the soundtrack from Repo Man with a keyboard could originate from Middle America. That's either a shame or could mean that only the nose-in-the-air music snobs would think this is great. Case in point: The Strokes.

Describing the band's music is sort of a tough proposal. The allusion to the Repo Man soundtrack, more specifically to the Circle Jerks, but with a way-too-upfront keyboard added, is pretty damn close. Listen to "Draw Japan" or "Thunder Claps," in particular -- the latter evokes the chanting chorus of "TV Party." A more conscious comparison is local weirdos Attic Ted, if the members of that band were in their late teens and wore way too tight jeans.

All of these wacky comparisons may make it seem like The Horrors have made a bad album, and that wouldn't be totally true. Strange House, is good, but it gets very repetitive and, by the end, boring. It would have been nice if the band had done a little more experimenting. There is an instrumental on here, "Gil Sleeping," but it's as interesting as its title. I have a gut feeling that all of the reviewers and writers that have lauded this band with accolades are going to be the only ones who enjoy this album. (Scott Whitt // 05/26/07)

When I was in my early 20s and finishing up my Masters, I fell in love with Poe. Her first eponymously titled album was a bong in the lightsocket, angry and grooved. Lots of loops and sounds and such, and it didn't really have the sound of a pretty face that had screwed her way to making an album. I was in love.

While discovering Poe, I met a girl, in that one special time where planets align and you get that manna from heaven. Through a number of happy coincidences we started seeing each other, and I ended up in Cincinnati at her flat wearing flannel boxers and walking barefoot on the 150-year-old cedar floors, the two of us enjoying the hell out of each other. She was clearly insane (or not so clearly, at the time), and she might have been on the rebound. And she smoked. And she loved Poe. I used to describe to this girl a deep desire for Poe (in the same way I wish the same thing for Justin Timberlake now) to actually front a band of humans, who played real instruments and not laptops, and let some of that hatred out on top of music that mattered. Of course, it never happened; Poe released an obscure second album that did nothing, and the insane girl left me to "find herself" in the California desert. They were both gone, but neither desire ever died.

Land Of Talk is, in some ways, the fulfillment of that desire. It is Poe singing for Coldplay, in an alternate universe where Chris Martin plays piano and writes quirky chord progressions without opening his emo mouth. Land Of Talk hails from Montreal, Canada, lead by "anti-folk" singer Elizabeth Powell, who taps a wonderful quirky voice that reminds me of my beloved Poe -- airy, pained, yet warm and inviting. The supporting musicians are perfectly lo-fi, lots of solid musicianship without too much polish. Applause Cheer Boo Hiss is a very pretty album, in the way that Manhattan is beautiful: rough, dynamic, emotional but not depressed, with a symmetry that pleases the eye (or, in this case, ear) as long as you don't look too hard at the minutiae. "Magnetic Hill" is probably the strongest song on the album, but there is a great hook (or five) in every song. One of those few albums that get better the more you hear it.

Just like I did 13 years ago, I am falling in love again. (Andrew Perkins // 05/26/07)

After more than fifteen years of dedicated musicianship, Ted Leo is still searching for his voice. His roots are in D.C. hardcore, but his music frequently draws on folk and British mod-rock. He's political, but he has neither the proletarian singability of Phil Ochs or Billy Bragg nor the impressionistic power of the Minutemen or Fugazi. Most importantly, while Leo has a talent for guitar, a gift for incidental hooks, and a downright beautiful voice, he solos only passably and he rarely pens a memorable chorus.

Living with the Living reflects these conflicts. Leo breezes through marginally catchy maximum-folk-n-B numbers like "Army Bound," "Colleen," and "The World Stops Turning" with an idealism that borders on naivéte, as if he could add a couple of hooks to the right politics to make a good song. As with much of Leo's work, the biggest weakness of these songs is that they're simply not very challenging, for Leo or his audience.

Fortunately, the easy pop tracks are cut with songs that are starting to show a bit of edge. On opener "The Sons of Cain," Leo's honeydew voice cracks into a bracing shriek, a welcome sound that's all too rare for someone who came of age in D.C. His political material is starting to get more canny as well: "C.I.A." closes the album with a indictment, "only you know what you've done," that, repeated, begins to implicate the listener along with the spooks. The ambiguity doubles its punch. Living with the Living's best songs, "La Costa Brava" and "The Lost Brigade," lay understated, personal refrains over wonderfully patient emo-indie builds. Perhaps it's less an "edge" than the twinge of real emotion; when Leo reflects in "The Lost Brigade" that "Every little memory is a song," we get the impression that he's finally collecting the right memories to match his talent. (Daniel Joseph Mee // 05/03/07)

With Cinematic Americana, California's Little Heroes prove amply that you don't need to be flashy or over-the-top to pen (and play) incredible, thoughtful, often heartbreaking music. The band isn't out to wow you by being the smartest or funniest, no, but are rather out to win your heart by being gentle and sensitive -- they're like the musical equivalent of the teenage kid who's absolutely certain that his/her One True Love would eventually pay attention if they could only hear the songs that're pouring out of them. (The difference being, in this case, that the Little Heroes are actually really good songwriters.)

In the process, the band bridges the gap between late-'90s emo-pop as exemplified by Clarity-era Jimmy Eat World (think that band's more understated, melancholy stuff) and that whole crop of bands from slightly earlier in the decade who worshiped both R.E.M. and the Replacements in equal measure -- Buffalo Tom, Gin Blossoms, Soul Asylum, the less-crappy side of the Goo Goo Dolls, maybe even the Connells, etc. There's plenty of sweet, delicate jangle-rock here, both quiet and countrified on "Come On" or high-flying opener "Flight Plans for Airplanes" and anthemic on fast, driving "Teeth" and the gloriously roaring burner "New End Game." The vocal melodies and structures, though, are Jimmy Eat World all the way, and there's a bitter jolt of punkish adrenaline running through the proceedings, to boot, so Cinematic Americana never gets bogged down in "Runaway Train"-land.

Admittedly, some of the songs on here are so subtle they might slip right by without you noticing, but they're packed so full of pretty melodies and love-just-out-of-reach lyrics that they creep in subliminally, even still. I just spent a half-hour Googling the lyrics to a song that have been running through my head all week, only to realize that they're from the chorus of "Thank You," off the album I'd just finished listening to. Funny -- I could've sworn I'd known 'em forever. (Jeremy Hart // 05/26/07)

As you've no doubt been hearing, Low has recently been moving away from their trademark slowcore sound. Their previous record, The Great Destroyer, added distortion and rock elements, and their new record, Drums and Guns, moves into yet more uncharted territory, adding drum machines, keyboards, and samples. It's not as loud as Destroyer was, but it's no less intense of an experience.

Songwriting-wise, the band has returned from the sunnier melodic peak of Destroyer. The melodies here are in their usual, more melancholy style, which is appropriate given the subject matter (which, by the way, is not as political as the title implies). Despite the drum machines and samples, this is not their big pop move -- the songs here are as desolate as the ones on their other records.

The best songs here are built around the most minimal beats -- "Dragonfly" uses nothing more than looped feedback, and "Breaker" contains a basic beat, some handclaps, and a single-note organ drone. Songs with denser beats aren't as successful; in "Take Your Time," the denser beat doesn't fit the vocal, and on "Murderer," the vocal gets lost amid too much clutter. Which isn't a surprise, since minimalism is what Low does best.

Most bands fourteen years into their careers aren't making music that's fresh and interesting. If they're doing anything, they're usually refining their sound. Low, however, has chosen a different tack -- rather than rest on their laurels, now they're beginning to explore the possibilities out there. It'd be inspiring even if it weren't particularly successful, but they also made it into a successful record, which is even more impressive. If Drums and Guns is any sign, they're just getting started. (Henry Mayer // 05/03/07)