One of the more intriguing artistic trends in recent years is the reconstitution of the debris of mainstream culture and industry into forms standing at a substantial distance from their original intent. From the sardonic collages of advertising and news broadcasts by Negativland to the recovery of plastic, paper, and other commercial would-be waste for installations and sculptures, recycling appears to have found its artistic side. Atarimatt and great unwashed luminaries both find inspiration in the two sound sources long rendered obsolete but enjoying a degree of renaissance in recent years: the single-bit soundtracks to Atari video games and the synthesized soundtracks to B-grade midnight movies.

As his handle suggests, Atarimatt composes on an Atari 2600. The resulting compositions serve as good introductions to the world of 8-bit electronic music. Despite his avowed love of the thrashy end of punk rock, Atarimatt produces charming little ditties teeming with the binary crunch and squiggle of many a misspent hour playing Duck Hunt. "Space Squid Shakedown" backs up a an eminently hummable sinewave melody with rhythms fit together like a successful round of Tetris -- perfectly even, but full of color. "The Electric Monsters" is aptly named, bringing to mind the frenetic tempo and modulation of the last forty seconds of Megaman's contests with Tree/Ice/Running Man. A remix of AM's own "Commuter" pulls in samples taken from what one can only guess is Logan's Run and fits them over a downsampled electro track that resembles a pitch-perfect 8-bit take on electro and Italo-disco tracks from the 2600's heyday. Despite his instrumentation, Atarimatt proves to be a competent songwriter with enough pop sensibility to keep his music from being relegated to a mere novelty.

great unwashed luminaries trafficks in a different set of antiquated '80s technology. Synthesizers and drum machines are the primary tools here, carrying the faint aura of an entire generation of genre movie soundtracks and furtive high school escapes to Numbers. There are no direct rip-offs of The Burning or Madman here, but sole member Kelly Minnis manages to evoke the same dramatic tension that kept the Class of '85 on the edge of their theater seats and on the dancefloor. The 16th note sequencing and liquid bassline of "Bodyrocking" may very well live up to its title at the tail end of a long D&D session. "Silence Sea & Sky" cruises along like Kraftwerk riding shotgun with Knight Rider in some alternate version of Beverly Hills Cop. It isn't all Me Decade with great unwashed luminaries, however; his remix of Atarimatt's "Commuter" stretches enough to incorporate a cut-up Amen break alongside its synths but falters under its eleven-and-a-half minute length.

Released by the prolific College Station(!) label SinkHole Texas, Inc., this EP is an enjoyable survey of two artists mining new sounds from the obsolete resources of the recent past. As the children of the Me Decade catch wind of them, they may find themselves able to afford forays into other realms of untapped nostalgia. In the meantime, they offer solid proof that there are some portions of the '80s worth remembering.

[Atarimatt & great unwashed luminaries are playing 5/1/09 at Super Happy Fun Land, along with Pretty & Nice, The Dee Use, Tran Tran, & Female Demand.] (Thomas McLuhan // 05/01/09)

Do a little research into this band, and you'll find that they're quite popular with high school crowd, particularly girls. Will features in CosmoGirl and MTV2.com lead to the inevitable appearance on The Hills or the new Twilight soundtrack? Probably not, but all this buzz bodes well for the Oakland quartet, even if I'm a 26-year-old Asian male.

From the start, you get a big dose of Ryan Karazija's vocals, and more than any other band I've heard, Audrye Sessions really revolves around their lead vocals. Karazija confidently soars through his vocal range, going from his natural tenor into a strong falsetto that evokes Muse lead singer Matthew Bellamy. Personally, there are times where Karazija's vocals just feel a bit off, particularly in the chorus and bridge of "Perfect, Sometimes," which sounds strained and forced, while the same vocal style helps make "Awake" one of the highlights of the album.

Audrye Sessions gives quite a bit of variety, which leads to some nice pacing. The insertion of the slower acoustic songs, like "New Year's Day" and the love ballad "Relentless," nicely complement the arena-rock ballad "Where You'll Find Me." The music is purposeful, without any unnecessarily long guitar solos or breaks but still allowing the band to breathe and show off their chops.

The amazing thing is that Audrye Sessions sounds a lot like a band from the UK -- a little Snow Patrol here, a little Badly Drawn Boy there, with just a pinch of Coldplay. It's as if Oakland was secretly annexed by England. It a takes a little time to get used to it, but in the end, you're rewarded with a very satisfying album, even if you're a few years removed from 16.

[Audrye Sessions is playing 5/28/09 at Walter's on Washington, along with Manchester Orchestra, fun., & Winston Audio.] (Daniel Yuan // 05/28/09)

Treading heavily on the previous footprints of late turn-of-the-century groups such as The Postal Service and contemporary Passion Pit, The Christmas Lights have released their debut record, Walk Like a Human. The record is a remnant of what was once a burgeoning electro-pop scene but which has since become so saturated with artists borrowing and lending that dividing lines are no longer clear.

Walk Like a Human, however, stands on its own as an honest electronic album, with delicate, cascading synths coming in and out of airy textures over jarring, erratic, compact blips and blushes. Recorded in entirety by Kenny Tompkins, the Christmas Lights' debut seems to rely more on the writing aspect of the music than some of its peers, letting the songwriting take the place of a full band ensemble with traditional instruments.

The album's sound, often dark and musing, gives way to sardonic lyricism sung in tight-lipped reservation. The projected single and most exemplary track, "Show Your Teeth," opens with the words, "Talking just feels so ugly/c'mon and show your teeth" backed by an undulating, arpeggiated synth-bass. "Show Your Teeth" presents the antithetical, hook-driven writing that the band opts to use to pollinate their barren, electronic landscape. Other songs, like the progressive "Atlas" and "I Can't Won't Help You" -- both incorporating diffused, machine-like experimental tendencies -- employ the same motifs as "Show Your Teeth" but seem to wilt in comparison.

To the Christmas Lights' credit, though, there are still bright moments on the record beyond that one song. The opening track, "Sign of Life," does a brilliant job of setting the overarching themes of artificial or inorganic life that decorate much of this album to a visceral wash of electronica. Tompkins sings, "No sign of life / left in their eyes / No sign of life / left in mine," as if to forewarn the listener to the curiously inanimate and caustic nature of Walk Like a Human.

"Born Young" is an opulent moment on the record, with an ascending melody in a major mode and lyrics and vocals alluding to, perhaps, a human side to all of the mechanical industry put forth on the album. Other tracks, "Interrogation Song" and "The Water is Gone, The Fire has Come!", show experimental and hard house-style influences but fall short of being forward progress from the album's centralized, minimal, and smooth textures.

This is a defining debut from a talented band, but sometimes it leaves too much out -- it shines, but it does not sparkle. Though, given the scant production, complete use of synths and electronic drums, and the over-arching themes of an unnatural and counterfeit existence in the writing, perhaps that's the effect desired. The gratifying subtle, dark, and conceptual album parades around under the guise of poppy incandescence, which gives Walk like a Human a delightfully deceptive shine. (Chris Galis // 05/14/09)

With Down The Pacific, City Light have something of a surprise-attack thing going on. When I first put it in the car stereo, nothing really clicked for me in a major way, and I yanked it back out after only a few songs. I instantly pegged the band's sound as a fuzzy, electronified variety of indie-pop, with half-sleepy vocals, snapping, sometimes-electronic drums, and guitars that blur into synths; basically, a softer, less-intrusive Say Hi, a less-pastoral Postal Service, or maybe a less-popcult-heavy Aqueduct. All of which makes sense, given that the band started out as a Postal Service-esque long-distance collab between Northwestern U.S.-dwelling songwriter Matt Shaw, S.F. hip-hop producer Nick Andre, Aqueduct bassist (and Seattleite) Andy Fitts, and Nashville denizen and Statistics/Intramural/Desaparecidos/general everywhere man Denver Dalley.

And honestly, the above is pretty much what City Light sounds like, at least at a quick glance. When I tried out Down The Pacific with the headphones on, though, everything that I'd dismissed as been-done-before dull haze immediately snapped into intense, attention-grabbing focus. I'm not entirely sure what happened, really, except that there're definitely albums floating around out there that are distinctly "headphones albums," and apparently this is one of 'em. With the earbuds in, the overfuzzed guitar/synths sound massive, a crushing (yet still warm and comforting) wall of noise that provides a bed for the rest of the music to fall into.

The vocals are definitely in Say Hi territory, narcoleptic yet engaging, but they suddenly took on a more desperate, melancholy feel -- especially on "I See," which mixes hip-hop breakbeats and swaying, swirling guitars to nice effect, and opener "Waiting," where the lyrics take on the tone of a patient man about to snap, falling away at the end as the music collapses into stuttering sampled drums. Things break loose from there, though, like with the seriously Bloc Party-esque nu-New Wave of "Let's Not Speak," with its driving beat and sweet lyrics defining the things that both separate and hold a pair of people together.

Then there's "Hang On," which takes the drifting, half-awake vocals and marries 'em to an NWA beat and ultra-fuzzed bass; I'm really digging what I'm guessing is producer Andre's history producing folks like Gift of Gab bleeding through here. It works damn well on the sinister bump of "Hwy 99" and the Radiohead-gone-trip-hop groove of "Cityscape," to boot, turning both tracks into murky slices of an urban soundscape. At the same time, there's some seriously shoegaze-y stuff on Down The Pacific, too, namely "I See You" and the M83-ish "Evil Twin," and even a dollop of Guided By Voices pure-pop gorgeousness (the meditative, gentle "Hour on the Floor").

By the time I get to the soft prodding forward of "Night Train," at the tail end of the album, with its nicely understated, fuzzy/scratchy synth lines, I've had to take that initial dismissal and spin it 180 degrees. I haven't been so happy to have to change my mind about something in quite a while.

[City Light is playing 5/14/09 at Walter's on Washington, along with Her Space Holiday & Benjamin Wesley.] (Jeremy Hart // 05/14/09)

A full generation after the first release of Culturcide's Year One, I have the unfortunate ability of hindsight, with all my exposure to synth-powered sound, glam rock, garage rebellion, what-have-you. I can only put an album in the path of that train. If I could just turn back the clock...turn it back to when Culturcide was entering cult-phenomenon status, even in that age.

Ronald Reagan was tackling the USSR, building a nuclear arsenal, keeping peace in the world alongside Margaret Thatcher. (How did we make it out of that show?) On the other hand, I get to enjoy a re-mastered disc, and it instantly gets renewed life. The first track of the album -- and one of their most well-known -- "Consider Museums," was issued in 1980, before the band started performing live, leading to the LP Year One in 1982. A bunch of punk poetry, just sort of flung together.

The stuff they did, with cassette recorders and sampling, would be perfected by other artists; they performed with it. Tape loops amplified through a PA? Beck later did the same thing. Every sound on this album is a prelude -- the crude electronic percussion and hazy blips strolling drunkenly across the record. Everything is indicative of a state of culture everyone would later drool about. It's a subterranean sound, not precise.

Year One may sound impotent by today's standards, but maybe it's the jewelry followed by imitations? Give this disc a listen to counterbalance whatever else you've got in your collection. (Scott Petty // 05/01/09)

Euphoria is an apt title for the sophomore release from Swedish group Dead Man, and proof positive that the resourceful Swedes don't exist in camps of polar opposites -- the poptastic indie rock bubblegum kids versus the hairy, hoary death metal set. The two meet in the middle with Dead Man, forming a striking amalgam of hippie-friendly, sun-drenched '70s sounds and proto-metal blues riffage.

Folk-inspired strumming abounds, along with a relative abundance of jazzy chord changes, lending an overall relaxed, lawn chair and umbrella drink vibe to the proceedings, like a '50s-themed poolside cocktail party thrown by ex-stoners. Interrupting the breezy, sunstroked feel, Dead Man interjects plenty of psychedelic effluvia, chord changes darkly reminiscent of The Doors, and some doom-inspired atmospherics. Those moments are themselves fleeting, though, merely adding counterpoint to the overwhelmingly sunny demeanor.

Standout tracks include the Steve Miller-by-way-of-The Band country shimmer of "I Must be Blind" and the spacey flourish and slow, bluesy shuffle of "The Wheel." The only major complaint, unless you can't forgive the time-capsule tendencies, is the occasionally irritating tremolo warbling through the vocals. For those interested in the space-time fold between the light and dark sides of stoner songcraft, however, Dead Man give as good a hit as any. (Nick Hall // 05/14/09)

When "Promised Land State Park," the first track on Kill For Sport, kicks in, with its fey keys, understated guitars, and brisk drumming, the album seems to be headed straight for Teenage Fanclub/Belle and Sebastian-esque pastoral pop. It's a feint, though, made apparent when Joshua English's vocals come in, rambling and meandering through a lovelorn road song; English is pop, to be sure, but his songsmithing is far, far more Elvis Costello or Lloyd Cole than Brian Wilson.

In spite of the tats and ironic-hipster shirts, there's a heavy coffeehouse vibe here, and English demonstrates that that's not necessarily a bad thing. The songs on Kill For Sport are warm and comfortable, as easy to slip into as a pair of well-worn shoes, with an echoey empty-stage sound that makes it difficult not to picture the guy sitting on a chair with his guitar, lit by a single spotlight while an unseen cohort plays piano off in the darkness. His voice has an ease to it, too, a self-assured worldweariness made more impressive by his fast-paced delivery.

Then there's the lyrics, all just-shy-of-too-clever wordplay and deft imagery, and the resemblance to Costello, Cole, and, hell, Michael Penn gets hammered tightly home. English's former band Six Going on Seven were essentially a power-pop band at their collective heart, and now that the engine of that machine's left the shed to go out on his own, he's fully embraced the singer/songwriter thing. These songs are smart, they're seemingly aware of their roots, and they've each got a funny little smile on their face as they stroll on by.

Admittedly, the downside to English's sound is that in its utterly friendly, unthreatening-ness, it skirts Adult Contemporary at times. When that happens, though (see "Bested" and "Junk Science," for two that ride the line), he crashes back in with something else, like the Hold Steady-esque testifying and organ-driven sound of "Get It Where I'm Going" or the blazing power pop hookiness of "Morning After The Night Before" (which has got to be one of the cheeriest songs about the death of a family member, by the by).

Stepping back for a look at the whole thing, Kill For Sport stands as proof of English's skill -- he slips and ducks through motifs like he's changing t-shirts, sounding like a well-honed master posing in punk rock clothing. He throws off gorgeously heartwrenchingly stuff like "In Hospitals," the how-did-he-do-that-so-quickly? flash of "Dulcinea del Toboso," or the propulsive country kiss-off "Tall, Tall Tree," songs most folks would struggle with for years, like he's done it all his life and can keep doing it for the duration. Here's hoping he does.

[Joshua English is playing 5/31/09 at the i.am.we House (819 Land Grant Dr., Richmond), along with Justin Blumenstock, and 6/1/09 at Mango's.] (Jeremy Hart // 05/31/09)

Fair to Midland were discovered by System Of A Down singer Serj Tankian while on tour; apparently, their live shows are sick, with tons of chops and energy. The album reflects the chops but less of the energy, sort of how Jethro Tull never came across on their albums compared to their live shows. But don't worry, prog-heads: there's more than enough ear-candy here for the most woodshed-y amongst us.

Musically, this album is strong. I love the interplay between the piano and guitar, like the beginning of "Kyla Cries Cologne." There's a ton of heavy jamming as well -- "Seafarer's Knot" slams together heavy bottom-end riffing with arpeggiated musical weaving of a delayed guitar with fleet-fingered piano. "A Wolf Decends" sounds like something you would hear during the hero's montage right before the third act in Beastmaster 2.

Singer Darroh Sudderth is dynamic and controlled, reminiscent of a talented Paul Stanley(?) when singing in his upper register, a serious undiscovered talent. Sudderth has a quirky warble, almost like a minstrel on some of the tracks ("The Wife, the Kids"). Let's hope he doesn't overdo it, like Kevin Martin did (look it up). The drums are sick; I'm really amazed that they aren't programmed. I don't know if that's my problem or the fault of producers for overusing Beat Detective like their first Penthouse.

Make no mistake -- this is about as prog as you can get without resorting to instrumental wankery and self-indulgence, but there's more than enough here for musicians to sink their teeth into. The arrangements are impeccable, every sound is perfect, the mix and mastering are wonderful...

...and it all works, but...

...in the immortal words of Jeremy Clarkson, I want Fair to Midland to reach down the front of my trousers and rummage around a bit. Fables just doesn't grab you like it should. It isn't simple, but it is a bit soulless. On the other hand, I feel this way about most prog music, so your mileage might vary. My musician friends love it, others find it ponderous. I'm somewhere in the middle: a strong musical statement, but missing that shouty bit.

I want the shouty bit. (Andrew Perkins // 05/01/09)

I'm conflicted on The Intellect of Apes, the four-song debut EP from Hollywood Black bassist/vocalist Ben Ellis's Framework solo deal. And yeah, what it boils down to, at least for me, is the religion thing -- my heathen self just has a hard time getting past it. I can't completely explain it, but when somebody's singing about God, I get this weird twitch.

That said, I do like Intellect quite a bit, and ironically, it's partly because of Ellis's focus on his faith and its teachings. While I don't necessarily get all of his reasons, I definitely feel and empathize with the bitter fury of jangly, speedy "Poverty's Song," which nears Billy Bragg at points with its driving rhythm and energy. And Bragg himself would probably agree wholeheartedly with the song's condemnation of the neverending pursuit of material wealth.

The same goes for the softer, more subtle "Two Party System," where Ellis acts out a mock trial between politicians on both sides of the aisle (I'll leave it to you to figure out what those sides might be), finding neither one to be a real answer and declaring that they both need to be blown away. A little dramatic, sure, but hell, I get the raw bitterness there, too -- as Ellis jangles and burns, I find myself nodding firmly to myself.

Third track "Christmas Cheer" takes the whole "War on Christmas" theme that gets trotted out every Yuletide season, but thankfully, Ellis doesn't point the finger at them durn lib'ruls, instead focusing his fire on the rampant consumerism that disgusts, well, pretty much everybody I know, Christian or non. (I do feel the need to point out, though, that Christmas most likely wasn't when Jesus was born -- I'm no farming expert, but I'm fairly sure shepherds don't sleep outdoors with their flock in the dead of Winter...)

The most affecting song on Intellect, though, is closer "Swallowing Sovereignty," where Ellis slows down to a deliberate, '50s pop song tempo, just him, a tambourine, and a guitar. Here Ellis has a flat-out conversation with God, and in the process he doubts and questions, refusing to just shrug and go along with what he's been taught God should be. Which makes complete sense to me, since every single person's faith is an utterly personal, individual thing at heart; general skeptic that I am, it's not faith that bugs me, but unquestioning, blind faith.

In the end, Intellect is an intriguing musical journal of sorts, Ben Ellis chronicling the ups and downs of his own faith and the way it works within the shell of the modern world. And while I still feel that twitch occasionally, y'know, I think I finally do get it.

[Framework is playing 6/2/09 at The Mink, along with Western Giants, This Old House, sIngs, & Cedar Boy Bailey.] (Jeremy Hart // 05/31/09)

Driven by many different muses, from an obvious fixation on the psychedelic occult to the ability to produce straightforward rock 'n roll, the Fresh & Onlys have provided yet another item to be added to the canon of West Coast psych rock. Drawing from the likes of the cultish Brian Jonestown Massacre and L.A.'s The Warlocks, their songs are simple, unrefined, and tinged with the elemental deeper, double, and many times darker meaning of the psychedelic drama.

Take "Only One I Want," the first song on the second half of the 14-song album, for instance. Backed by chaotic guitars that seem almost too fast and chaotic for Tim Cohen's scrambled, mid-range vocals, he sings, "because the way that you are, you are the only one I want." This would come across as hollow, pedestrian writing were in not for (1) the low-fi production quality, which gives the entire record a warm, spacious, rough-around-the-edges feel and allows for more uninhibited material to make the cut, and (2), when the chorus "Only one I want!" is repeated, it sweeps back and forth between the major and the minor chord, perhaps eluding to psychedelic paranoia and creating a dark side to what would have otherwise been a sunny pop tune.

Other songs, like the Stones-esque opener "Feelings in my Heart," the shiny "Let's Hang," and the revelatory "Love & Kindness," are saved from 1960s, peace-and-love monotony by the Fresh & Onlys' ability to coerce a bit of melancholy into their music. It's this sort of artistic environment the band creates that allows such facile writing while still retaining a level of depth.

Still, the Fresh & Onlys attempt to diversify their sound, and though they don't move far from the path, they do find themselves on different ground. Perhaps the best song on the album, "Peacock & Wing," a concoction of early Strokes, punk, and darling female background vocals, has hardly a hint of psychedelia. And the closer track "Arm's Advice" is a reserved Fresh & Onlys, passing all previous notions to focus on melody and song craft -- and sounding eerily like the Velvet Underground.

After "Arms Advice" and "Peacock & Wing," the band momentarily emerges from the psychedelic mesh with roots, pop-driven rock. "Fog Machine," "I Saw Him," and "The Mind is Happy" all show the Fresh & Onlys on their most sober kicks throughout the album. They canter back forth between jangly, fuzzy surf-rock and macabre hymnal to good effect, but perhaps the more interesting moments on the album are when the band decides to depart from any sort of convention and embrace their inner weirdness. "Imaginary Friends" ("I don't have many imaginary friends / but if I did, I'd live with them / 'til the very end") gives way to playful, sardonic whims, while "Nuclear Disaster" is a mockingly optimistic view of the apocalypse, as if the Fresh & Onlys were saying, "Let's just get this over with already, and move on."

Despite the many-headed psyche that steers the ins and outs of the Fresh & Onlys eponymous debut, a strong panache for straight ahead rock sensibility gives the album cohesion -- just as much an ambitious record from a young band as it is an impressive debut. (Chris Galis // 05/01/09)

Post-rock quartet Guns Are For Kids may hail from Sydney, the sunny-side Harbour City of the Land Down Under, but the music on the band's latest release, the P.E.-ref-ing It Takes a Nation of Morons to Hold Us Back, sounds like it's just stumbled out of some scary-ass dive on NY's Lower East Side, pre-cleanup. Or, for that matter, maybe out of some dingy pub in post-industrial Leeds.

Nation of Morons is like some bastard offspring of all that messy, chaotic NY No Wave -- James Chance, Swans, Sonic Youth -- and Gang of Four's angular, sharp-edged urban funk. "Cockroach Killer," in particular, is Gang of Four all the way, with its jerky, stuttering rhythms and oblique, shouted lyrics, while "Thanks For Pissing On Me (I Was On Fire Up There)" starts off with a menacing SY-ish drone and flat, somber vocals before building into full-on anthemic noise-rock a la Parts & Labor. There's a turbulent, clanking wildness to it all, like the sound of big machinery gone horribly, intelligently wrong.

While I definitely dug the band's last EP, the scraping, crazed Too Much Red, Not Enough Red, this new release feels a lot more solid. This time out, frontman Oswald Mainstream and drummer Helix Also replaced previous guitarist Ben The Unclear with the much more tightly-wound Audrey L. Carpetbagger (along with bassist Nick Name, who replaced the moved-to-England Reg Artless), and the music's aided immensely by the increased focus. Where Too Much Red skronked itself into a corner, Nation of Morons comes off as the product of a band that knows what the fuck they're doing and where they're going (although going by the band's own rambling diatribes, they'd probably disagree).

Not that they don't still cut loose and go berserk, mind you -- just skip to "Tropical Worthless," the last track on the EP, for wild, freaky-ass insanity. But I think Guns Are For Kids do better when focused, laser-like, on...um, whatever the fuck it is they're yelling about. You got me on that part... (Jeremy Hart // 05/14/09)