Alcibiades Jones is a power trio that plays instrumental rock. Although a lot of the music on Refraction Mirage is funky in sort of a John Scofield vein, harmonically it's pretty straightforward. With instrumental music there's no singer to make or break the songs, so it's a lot harder to be a really irritating instrumental band. On the other hand, it means you have to come up with something really good to draw the listener in. And Alcibiades Jones doesn't really pull that off very often -- a lot of the guitar player's parts kind of sound the same, and the ones that are different aren't necessarily any more inspired.

There are a few songs here that are decent, of course. "The Villa is Burning" is one of the funky ones -- there's a stop time part that gives it some energy (they really like stop-time parts). The double-tracked guitars give it more variety than a lot of the other songs here, although the part where it goes to half-time sounds like one of those irritating Eric Johnson instrumentals. "Switch" has a nice riff to it and a solo that gets crazy in a Stephen Malkmus way; mostly the solos on this record here are kind of the same, but here he tries something new. (Of course, it's the second-to-last song on the record, so this one is as different as it gets.)

"Down with Uncle Jed" is also kind of fun, but it's the fact that it's the only number with just two acoustic guitars that makes it stand out, not any real qualities that the song itself possesses. It's kind of a banjo breakdown travis-style picking tune with accompaniment on slide, which is nice...but the music doesn't really go anywhere. The melody isn't particularly developed, and it relies on its instrumental break for extra flavor, but the break can't save the whole rest of the song (did I mention they really like those stop-time parts?). Most of the pieces have the same problem as "Down with Uncle Jed" -- there isn't a whole lot going on. The guitar parts in "Honduras" are even worse. They're really clichéd -- they're common guitar riffs that you hear a lot of different places. There's a change to 6/8 at the end that tries to make it interesting, but it's too little, too late (to use another cliché).

"Mirage" starts off well, which is good because it's also the extended jam of the disc. It's got the most developed guitar part, but it's annoying because they don't ever go back to it. During the rest of the jam the guitar player comes up with some stuff that's fine, but nothing on the level of the first part. It doesn't even feel like the piece is intentionally multi-sectioned, because there's nothing else in the jam that compares to it in complexity. So it's a little mystifying that they start things off with the big riff and then just completely throw away.

A lot of the songs sound like they'd be better with a lead singer. Which is an embarrassing idea for an instrumental band. But hey, Bad Brains were trying to play jazz fusion before they got HR, so maybe these guys will be as lucky. (Henry Mayer // 06/01/07)

At first blush, it's tempting to shrug and dismiss these five North(?) Houston guys as just another wannabe alt-rock band, taking its cues from Taking Back Sunday, Fall Out Boy, and all the other bands currently swirling around out there who meld hardcore dynamics with emo melodies and über-hipster cool.

Dig a little deeper into Thee Armada's (not to be confused with the Winnipeg emo band of the same name; how the hell did that happen?) debut album, The New You, though, and the band paints a different picture. The music steers close to Jimmy Eat World territory, with roaring guitars, anthemic choruses, and bittersweet melodies, and despite the dearth of like-minded bands out there, the band pulls it off nicely, from the inaugural kick-in-the-door slam of "Guess I'm Inconvenience" on.

There's a hint of '80s worship on the plaintive-yet-furious "This Flick has Talent," along with a slightly sci-fi, No Knife-ish feel at points, and it works. "The Sinful Bliss" takes on teen love/lust and manages to sound angry, frantic, and madly in love all at the same time, while "Hotels & Heroin" is bleaker, sort of a halfway cautionary tale about the perils of the rockstar life. Closer "Ravensway" is a blistering, snarling rocker, more full-on rawk than anything else on here, and it makes for a good switch (even if it ends with part of a fairly pointless acoustic version of "Guess I'm Inconvenience"). And it's weird, but although I know I've heard this kind of thing about a million times before, the hooks still latch deep into my brain, and I catch myself humming/singing parts of the songs days later.

Weirder still, while the songs are memorable as hell, the whole of The New You feels like it just blazes on through and is gone before you know it. It's a seven-song album, trapped somewhere between an EP and a full-length album, and maybe partly because of that, it leaves me wanting to hear more and thinking that modern alt-rock gets a bad rap critically. I'll grant you that, no, Thee Armada may not be poised to throw the music world on its head; nevertheless, The New You it a catchy, air-drumming-inducing slice of surprisingly well-put-together rock. And it's good.

[Thee Armada is playing 7/15/07 at Reliant Park as part of the Warped Tour, with about a million other bands.] (Jeremy Hart // 06/23/07)

Mirrored, the debut album by Battles, has been hotly anticipated, partly because it took nearly three years to finally appear, but mostly because the band unites guitarist Ian Williams with drummer John Stanier. Both men are icons to fans of intelligent hard rock: Williams helped reinvent the punk song as a dense cluster of instrumental riffs with post-rock giants Don Caballero, while Stanier defined hardcore crossover drumming with Helmet and later collaborated with Mike Patton and the Jesus Lizard's Duane Denison in Tomahawk.

The pedigrees of the two most well-known members of Battles have turned out to be unreliable indicators of the kind of music that they make together, however. Far more than any of the bands that Stanier or Williams played in before, Battles eschews standard rock song construction. The band creates music not by all playing a song together, but by layering simple musical elements and short riffs on top of Stanier's drumming, rather more like an electronic artist. Indeed, Mirrored sometimes recalls the work of bands like the Liars that have recently rearranged their music around electronics.

This approach to composition makes for unusual and attention-grabbing music, but the band has difficulty wrestling these nonlinear pieces into compelling dramatic arcs. Mirrored's opener, "Race: In," is an example: Stanier's racing drumming and multi-instrumentalist Tyondai Braxton's eerie vocals build up a good head of tension that simply vanishes unresolved at the end of the song. Likewise, "Tij" goes nowhere in particular and takes a good long time getting there, though it has quite a bit of fun with whole-tone scales and loops along the way. The unmistakable Williamsisms of "Tonto," by contrast, build to a chilling release in the middle of the song -- still leaving, however, more than four minutes of wind-down.

Battles also have trouble sustaining a mood. This is in large part due to Braxton, who often seems capable of neither singing in a voice untreated with comical pitch-shifting effects nor inserting these bizarre utterances into pieces that do not seem to call for them, such as the otherwise menacing "Leyendecker" -- though, like a grackle's call, they do fit rather well into the simulated birdsongs of "Bad Trails." Braxton's vocals have the paradoxical effect of wrecking the album's continuity while simultaneously imposing a new continuity derived from his willful and self-absorbed experimentation. The pinnacle of this reappropriation is Mirrored's first single, "Atlas," which hews more closely than any other song to the aesthetics of rock, building gradually on Stanier's tribal shuffle and augmenting bouncing guitar riffs smartly with loops and electronics. Braxton's vocal line fits right in, but his heavily whammied and filtered voice turns the song into a cartoonish romp. The good news is that everyone who's been waiting to hear Donald Duck sing with members of Don Caballero and Helmet can finally relax and enjoy.

Braxton, not Williams or Stanier, is most often the star of the show here. Largely because of him, there has never been another band that sounds like Battles. That uniqueness is one of the best things that Battles have going for them, and it's a very good thing indeed. It would have been nice, however, to be able to say that Mirrored was uniquely listenable as well.

[Battles is playing 6/23/07 at Numbers, with Ponytail & Sharks and Sailors.] (Daniel Joseph Mee // 06/23/07)

Naming your band Black Metal Jacket is a pretty bold statement. Not only are you borrowing from one of the greatest movies ever, you're implying that your music is some of the most intense metal ever heard. Black Metal Jacket, however, the jokesters they apparently are, sound closer to the Sex Pistols than Xasthur. Well, the irony's definitely lost on me, and I don't think I'm alone.

The songs on Black Metal Jacket's Black Metal Mission run from punk aerobics classes ("Exercise") to rowdy anthems ("Kill 'em Dead") with minimalist guitar work (another deception of the band's name) and singer Clinton doing his best Jello Biafra impression. The one track that does actually live up to the Black Metal name (or something close to it, anyway) is the final track, which, while still overly punk, features speedy riffing and blast beats and plenty of guitar solos. It almost makes up for the rest of the album's lack of 'em. (Chris Ritter // 06/01/07)

"I put the needle down and in between the crackles and pops, I hear the way it used to be." This is the way it used to be: catchy pop songs circa 1983, with touches of present day pop that make it fresh and delightful. Tons of melody, personal lyrical content, and well-crafted songs keep your toes a-tappin'. Lots of influences, from Beatles to Costello, without ever hanging on any particular style. I even heard some references to Replacements-era songwriting and production that make me wish for those days again -- this disc is just the treat for that. Too bad more bands don't write songs like this.

Not since the Bastards of Melody have I heard so many great pop songs strung together in an album. As I was catching up on my reviews, I found that I didn't want to remove this disc from the player. I wanted to hear just what the next song was going to sound like, and guess what? They all have the goods. Man, isn't that somethin'? (Bob Wall // 06/23/07)

Over the past decade and a half, Bill Callahan has gradually evolved from his roots as a lo-fi weirdo into one of the most confident and recognizable voices in the freak-folk movement. With Woke on a Whaleheart, Callahan has stepped, finally, out from behind the mask of his alias, either Smog or (Smog), to claim his rightful place. It's a largely symbolic step, as the musical difference between Callahan and recent Smog work is marginal. Perhaps the name change reflects Callahan's ideas about his own artistic maturity: the pseudonym once protected an unsure, fumbling youth, but now Callahan speaks with a security that needs no disguise. This security shows up in Whaleheart's frank, unhurried opening track, "From the Rivers to the Seas," as a "faith in wordless knowledge" -- in particular, sexual knowledge: "We got in the river, and it groped us / Made us think of sex between us / At a time in our lives before we knew."

This knowledge echoes in the indisputable titular truth from the album's final track: "A man needs a woman or a man to be a man." Whaleheart interweaves sexuality with spirituality, both mythic ("Diamond Dancer") and religious ("The Wheel"), but he always keeps transcendental side grounded in the physical world, as on the album's strongest track, "Sycamore." That song envisions the tree as a source of strength and truth, in a life represented by a boxing ring: "Love in the wild and fight in a gym... / You won't get hurt if you keep your hands up and stand tall like sycamore." It's a subtle but powerful statement, and it exemplifies the peace, wisdom, and wonder that make Callahan one of the best songwriters of his generation. (Daniel Joseph Mee // 06/23/07)

This is an interesting release by '60s boogie blues band Canned Heat. Known for classic rock staples "Let's Work Together" and "Goin' To The Country," this retrospective concentrates on legendary guitarists Henry Vestine and Alan Wilson. Nine of the fifteen tracks are from the band's glory days, and the album really showcases the bands blues roots. Now, while their hits have become background music for soda commercials, the band came into being by backing legendary but long-forgotten blues man Son House, and it's in that spirit that these tracks live.

In true hippie-jam fashion, the first track, "Parthenoenesis," is over nineteen minutes long. "Mi Huautla" has some great harp playing by Wilson to accommodate the fast-paced boogie blues. The band takes a turn into psuedo-jazz on the appropriately named "Skat." Arguably, the best track on this album is "Terraplane Blues." The song has a slow and dirty feel to it that is reminiscent of long Saturday nights at the Reddi Room. One peculiar thing worth noting, though, is that this "instrumental" CD has vocals on about a fourth of the songs. Even still, this would be a great introduction for new fans of blues or for those that are eagerly awaiting the next Hightailers gig. (Scott Whitt // 06/10/07)

I'm the most secular person you're likely to meet, these days, especially down here in the almost-South. My parents distrusted organized religion, so the only times I went to church growing up were for funerals or weddings. And in my adult life, it's never been something I've really felt I needed, y'know? I've got no issue with how or what other folks choose to worship, by any means, but my own brand of spirituality is something I'm happy with. I've got no need to be "saved," regardless of what creepy guys peddling flyers out in the parking lot seem to think.

At the same time, growing up in semi-rural Texas, I haven't lacked for exposure to explicitly Christian music -- I had friends who were into stuff that ran the gamut, at least back in the day, from Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith to Stryper and that godawful Christian grindcore band my friend Danny listened to just to piss his mom off (he wasn't allowed to listen to anything but Christian music, so he had to get creative). And while I'll grant that it may be fine for some, certainly, I thought the bulk of it was horrible. Pushy, pretentious, annoying, and just plain bad. To this day the words "Christian music" give me this weird tic in my left eye. It drags me kicking and screaming back to the rolling hills of central Texas as they were when I was a kid, all trees, abandoned cars, and creepy roadside churches with signs about the Apocalypse.

With all that in mind, I was a bit hesitant to review Woodlands band The Church of Philadelphia's self-titled debut; this is a band that is pretty firmly in the "Christian rock" camp, with a serious message behind most of the songs. Could I really give it a fair listen, considering my own biases against this kind of thing? I like to think I'm generally open-minded and all that, but it's hard to overcome a lifetime of conditioning. Could I listen to and appreciate the album just on its own merits? I wasn't sure.

As it turned out, I needn't have worried. The Church of Philadelphia is definitely an overtly religious album, but it's not accusatory or sappy, instead balancing somewhere in the realm of personal faith and love -- and how the heck could I have a problem with that? The songs are intimate, about personal demons and the struggles of family to find their way in the world, and they're done so earnestly they make it impossible to suppress a warm, unsarcastic smile.

Admittedly, the music helps. These folks, to put it bluntly, are freakin' amazing musicians -- they sound like they've grown up playing together each and every day (which may be the case, since at least a couple of members are family), bouncing effortlessly off of one another as the songs demand. They swing from stardust-soft atmospherics ("We Were Strangers", "Kingdom of Hearts") to gentle, Hem-esque folk ("Recover," "Patiently") to more urgent-sounding, more "rocking" tracks like "Never Give Up" or "This Time Around" without missing a beat, and the whole thing's gorgeous throughout. Apparently these folks have quite a bit of experience under their belt, separately speaking (playing the Grand Ole Opry and opening for Roger Waters, for two), and it shows. I can honestly count on one hand the number of bands who do harmonies this well, for one thing -- the vocals are heartbreakingly beautiful.

"This Time Around," in particular, is the crowning jewel of the album, a heartfelt, earnest-as-all-get-out roots-rock stomper that comes off like Bruce Springsteen fronting The Arcade Fire at their most majestic. The song builds steadily from simple organ and drums to a near-frenzied, joyful roar, and it's incredible, like a speeding train charging right out of the speakers. It's the kind of song you'd run out and slap down $15 to hear, all by itself, only in this case it's surrounded by seven other equally stunning tracks. Consider those a bonus prize.

[The Church of Philadelphia is playing 7/1/07 at The Proletariat, with Canada & The Papermoons.] (Jeremy Hart // 06/01/07)

The obvious starting point here is the band's name; who ever came up with "Complicated Shirt" needs to be taken out and beaten within an inch of their life. Following that, frontman Drew Benton needs to have his vocal chords surgically removed so he can never annoy anyone ever again with his godawful, whiny-ass vocals. Finally, the band need to be informed that their intentionally verbose and obtuse lyrics are not anywhere as clever as they think they are.

The most unfortunate aspect of this all is that musically, Complicated Shirt is actually quite skilled. For the brief moments I was able to block out the horrendous vocals, I was enjoying what I heard, despite the fact that I'm not particularly a fan of the post-punk style of music they play. As talented as they may be, though, there's no way it can compensate for the train wreck that is Benton's "singing." This one's destined for the discount bin at the record store... (Manfred Hundhammer // 06/01/07)

Cloud is a great name for Cyan's new EP, since this album is soft, fluffy, and light. The love-saturated subject matter, the soft major chords, and upbeat singing made me think of Shakira and Cheyenne, and it would've made more sense to hear a poppy diva belting out the high notes rather than hearing a Ricardo Montalban sound-alike sing the tracks. It comes off as a bit much. This is a pop-lite album that succeeds in making Lifehouse look like Slayer. Perhaps the album is bubble-gummy in order to appeal to a broader international audience, but blanding out the music like this only makes it harder to find any specific group that would enjoy it.

I realize that this artist is from Barcelona, and one might argue that I wouldn't like it because I don't understand it (although, I have spent time in Barcelona and have had a chance to listen to Spanish rock). The only song on Cloud that I actually enjoy, however, is the one Cyan does in his native tongue, Catalan -- "Lo danse de nos reves" is put together very well, and all the Spanish elements come together. His accent didn't overwhelm every phrase, and the instruments matched exactly what he was doing vocally. I could tell he felt much more comfortable singing in his own language than in English. It wasn't my cup of Kool-Aid, no, but I could easily see how the Catalan community could embrace his songwriting.

I'd say this album is a candy-coated love soundtrack waiting to turn into a cartoon puppy with wet eyes. I know Cyan has the talent to be a great artist. Unfortunately, the fact that I am not part of his chief demographic (middle-aged single women?) will keep me from purchasing a Cyan CD. I'd let this Cloud pass over head. (Byron Miller // 06/10/07)

A funny thing happens to me when I review the albums editor-guy Jeremy sends me. I'm an old stodger, hate everything that came out after Lateralus, believe music is terrible right now, etc., etc. So I invariably start every session with a new album with a set of notes that includes gems like:

"Holy fucking hell, these are terrible lyrics."

"_____ might be worst song I have ever heard."

"I used this douchebag's CD cover for a coaster."

Then something happens. I sit down with a drink (or six) and really, really listen. Sometimes my first impressions are correct (a review of my reviews(?) will let you know when I was correct), but most of the time, I'm wrong. Really wrong.

Ronnie Day's The Album is a chronological disaster; not in a Memento sort of way, but in a terrible-iceberg-crashing sort of way, like those relationship disasters that seem to happen in slow motion where you can see the impact, see the ribs of the hull snapping, the prow folding, and, depending on the size of the vessel, the drama of each individual making his own decision: stay on the ship, or jump in and hope.

The Album is Day's heart all over the tape, all over these songs, a story arc starting with the euphoria of a perfect love and life ending with a new understanding of self following a painfully graphic evisceration by his first love. We hear the shock and disbelief, the resignation, and finally the anger and recovery. Every song is written to tell this story, verbose and detailed and perfectly designed to capture the full palate of emotions Day lived during his personal hell and redemption.

The album is broken into four parts, with inserts that are essentially narrative: "Insert 1" separates the euphoria of new love in the first three songs from the second act, where he finds out that his love has dumped him for a drunk at a party, while "Insert 3" presages the almost inevitable internal conversation that we all have when our ex comes crawling back. Do you take them back, or kick them to the curb and move on?

Almost every song is well crafted, but three stand out as signposts along the way. "Half Moon Bay" is all cuddly fuzziness, road trips and smooching in the back seat, a summer of youth when the world is perfect and nothing matters other than your own happiness and future. "Written at a Rest Stop" is brilliant, one of two masterpieces on the album. The other, "Outside," is honest and vicious, for all the gushiness in the first half of the album, lyrics like, "It must be hard living in a castle / counting daddy's monies must be a hassle / proudly you can't abide." Day reflects every man's feeling, the wounded animal, slashing back wildly with claws hidden from the world when everything is clicking.

On the other hand, "Lived, Learned, Loved and Lost" is the weakest song on the album, when it should pack the most punch for where it is in the story (he sees his girl kissing someone else). An opportunity missed.

"Falling For You" is the final trap, where the failed partner calls to have dinner with expected confusion -- Day knows she has failed, and he has learned from the experience, but is worried that she will suck him back in. As a comforting climax, "Past Through" (a workable pun within the context of the album): is it about a new girl? Is it reminiscence? I think the latter, since he says:

"I'm a lucky soul to have these memories /

I will always hold them as a part of me /

Live your life, I hope you find meaning"

No reconciliation there.

I think I need another drink. (Andrew Perkins // 06/01/07)

You know Julie Doiron. I don't mean you've heard her music before, mind you, either solo or from her time with Canadian indie-rock superstars Eric's Trip. On her most recent full-length release, Julie sings like the best friend you haven't heard from in years, catching you up on her life. Don't expect cheerful, banal ten-year reunion banter, though. Doiron puts her listeners through the paces, grinning along to heartfelt tunes about family and love and barely stifling sobs on tales of missteps, loss, and regret. All this emotional honesty would be tiring in many other guises, but Doiron matches her candor with well-thought-out brevity. With most of the tracks clocking in at less than three minutes, the sweet tunes can't turn saccharine, and the somber ones can't sour the mood.

Many of the songs on the album act as their own interpreters, offering subtextual back-story to their very existence. The title track announces itself thusly: "I woke myself up / To rest my weary head / From all the work I'd done / In those dreams I had." It's as if Doiron is inviting us inside of her creative process, introducing the song and almost apologizing for it, passing it off as the midnight respite of a restless sleeper. The vocals here sound anything but sleepy. Doiron sheds her usual somber-whisper vocal style in favor of an upbeat, almost exuberant approach as she reveals the source of her sleeplessness -- her daughter. "Almost each night / Between two and four / She rolls out of bed / And onto the floor / Sometimes I have to go in / And put her back into her bed, again," Doiron chimes happily. You can actually hear the smile stretching the edges of her mouth and sense the fact that she is on the verge of tears just at the thought of scooping her still-sleeping child off of the floor at three in the morning. This sort of irrationally gleeful tenderness gets me all misty-eyed, as I have often done the same thing for my daughter, with similarly irrational enjoyment.

Musically, Woke Myself Up (both the album and the song, actually) heads in a slightly different direction than fans of Doiron's solo work might be used to. Typically, Doiron's arrangements are sparse, focusing on simple acoustic guitar patterns and hushed vocals. Not since her 2000 release with Canadian rockers The Wooden Stars has Julie released an album with full-band backing on the majority of the tracks. Here Doiron is in familiar company, being supported by former bandmates Rick White(bass, drums, guitar), Mark Gaudet(drums), and Chris Thompson(guitar) of Eric's Trip. As evinced by the fact that the album is released as a Julie Doiron effort, the other band members are here as support, not as a focal point, and they do an excellent job. The structure allowed by an actual rhythm section lends weight to Julie's sometimes flighty, meandering vocals, keeping them rooted in the song while still giving her the room to bend and shape the melodic line. Occasionally, the band is given permission to rock, most notably on "Don't Wannabe/Liked by You," a fuzzed-out rocker reminiscent of the sloppy, loose-legged rock of early Violent Femmes.

Some of the most charming moments on Woke Myself Up pop up when Doiron harmonizes with her self. There's a wonderfully ramshackle element to the way she fuses her voice to itself. Doiron is not overly concerned with timing with her multi-tracked harmonies, allowing them to chase each other around the time signature and up and down scales. This ghost harmony is most effectively, and hauntingly, used on the bass-heavy, head-nodding dance-folk of "No More" and the bad-dream, semi-psychedelic "The Wrong Guy." The former pairs hip-hop sample-ready drumming with a nice pulsing bass line, and the latter finds Doiron singing in her more characteristic hushed style, accompanied by Doug Martsch-inflected guitar work. These tunes are poster children for the melancholic side of Doiron's material. "No More" is especially affecting, serving as a funeral dirge for Doiron's musical life.

The final cut on the album, untitled and included at the last minute, is likely the most stark song of the bunch, lyrically. It's a song of loss, regret, and hopelessness. "What a foolish thing I've done," sings Doiron, "To lose the only one / Who really knows me at all." It's a fitting capstone to the rest of the songs collected here, running over all of the themes discussed in the course of the prior 27 minutes. Doiron slurs her words slightly, here, giving the whole thing the feeling of a late night, drunken confession put on tape before sobriety and second thought could prevent it. After this track, one would not be surprised to find Doiron silently fading from sight, with the lines echoing in your head: "And all those songs that I sung / Well now I know they were wrong / And now I'm taking 'em all back."

[Julie Doiron is playing 6/8/07 at the Aurora Picture Show, with Calvin Johnson.] (Nick Hall // 06/01/07)