Bernard Allison, son of bluesman Luther Allison, plays in a more contemporary style than his dad on his new record, Energized: Live in Europe. Most of the songs here are in a funk or rock style as opposed to a traditional blues groove. He also chooses to avoid any of the standard blues repertoire, all of which is to his credit. The problem is that he doesn't offer us much of an alternative -- most of the songs here are weak, and their performances don't make them stand out, either. His band is tight and energetic on the faster songs and they're obviously having fun, but they're mostly uninteresting. Allison's voice is also an acquired taste -- it sounds like he's constantly about to choke on something, and it's not particularly expressive.

On the good side, his guitar playing is decent. He takes some great solos, particularly on "Bad Love" and "A Woman Called Trouble," and he takes a really ripping one on "Snake Bit Again." His guitar riffs complement the vocals on "A Change Must Come" in a nice way. "The Walk" is a Bo Diddley-style stomp, which he uses basically as an excuse for soloing, and thankfully, it's some nice soloing. And on "The Way Love Was Meant To Be," the distorted guitar lines that he adds after each verse are cool and effective.

Allison's keyboard player, Mike Vlahakis, on the other hand, is less than effective. And since he's on every song as well, that's not a good thing. Ultimately, he just distracts us from Allison's playing. On "The Way Love Was Meant To Be," he goes through all of the different sounds on his keyboard and still finds nothing that works with the song. His solo on "A Change Must Come" is lame, and his part on "Too Cool" is just boring. And his keyboard sound helps make the slower songs ("Into My Life" and "The Way Love Was Meant To Be," in particular) way too smooth.

There are a few decent songs here -- "A Woman Called Trouble" and "Snake Bit Again" are both nice, and "A Change Must Come" works, too, despite that piano. But even that stuff is only good, rather than great. Bernard Allison may feel "Energized" about the record, but he's the only one. (Henry Mayer // 07/14/07)

Though songwriter Mark Matos was raised in central California, he now resides in San Francisco, and in between, he seems to have stopped in Tucson to make Goodbye, Oklahoma. His vehicle Campo Bravo owes debts to Calexico, in that it has a vaguely southwestern feel, and the Dirty Three, in that it's sometimes slow and noodly and sometimes employs a violin. This is particularly true of "Magic Carpet," a Zenonian dirge that subjects the listener to the exquisite torture of being put to sleep so slowly as to never actually reach oblivion. Campo Bravo's musicians are competent enough, in particular violinist Lady Vickie Brown, who provides the sole point of reference for the aforementioned "Carpet," but Matos's voice is barely sufficient and completely without distinction, as demonstrated, respectively, by his inability to hit a single note of "She Is You" consistently and the fact that it is impossible to say whether Matos is writing beyond his ability or is simply too lazy to sing in tune.

His lyrics fare no better; though they graciously avoid cliché, they also manage to avoid being interesting, settling mostly for just being there, except when they insist on being repeated to the point of meaninglessness, as does the line "heading towards a collision course," ("Collision Course") whose failure of diction would be much less frustrating if it was not so prominent. These failings could be forgiven if his music was not so enervatingly generic, but the most damning criticism of Goodbye, Oklahoma is that Matos has pursued a misguided commitment to a Southwestern musical idiom and mood to which he has no real connection, not to mention a songwriting tradition of which he has no real understanding. (Daniel Joseph Mee // 07/03/07)

One CD plus two great bands equals nothing but politics-filled punk/ska fun, doesn't it? Citizen Fish and Leftover Crack. Two great bands, one split album, expectations are high. 15 tracks with Citizen Fish covering Choking Victims' "Money" and Leftover Crack's "Clear Channel," whilst leftover crack covers Citizen Fish's "Supermarket Song" and the Subhumans classic "Reason for Existence."

Citizen Fish has been around for awhile; if you didn't know, the band includes crust punk icons Dick and Phil from the Subhumans, so there was some massive hype created on this album due to the two well-known crustifying ska/punk band members. Citizen Fish continues its ska-core stylings on the first seven tracks, weighing in with the skanked-out sounds of British anarchic-punk. "Meltdown" and "Join the Dots" are essentially punk with horns, while "Working on the Inside" puts more emphasis on off-beat guitars, although both directions are simply a vehicle for the act's political discourse. Although their intentions are in the right place, it's nothing that we have already heard. "Join the Dots" rips on the CIA drug trade connections; "Working on the Inside" refute the notion of taking down the system by way of interior rot, and "Getting Used to It" is yet another diatribe against the corporate-run zombie lifestyle.

Leftover Crack hops in on track eight and picks up where Citizen Fish left off, with crusty ska-punk and a whole lot of righteous indignation. The intro, "Baby Punchers," kicks off with Dave Dictor of punk legends MDC and clumsily writes off everyone from the cops to rich kids, only to let Jello Biafra step in and rants against everything that isn't left of pure socialism. The World 4 peace punk message gets lost in a sea of confusing post-apocalyptic imagery, but the ecological warning in the "Life Causes Cancer" is straightforward enough not to lose the point.

Forget all the MTV-ish, poppy, kiddie-style mall punk that has taken over today; although Citizen Fish and Leftover Crack might have had better releases prior to this one, this split is a reminder that the underground still lives. (Leslie Garcia // 07/14/07)

I've had this record on rotation for weeks, mostly because I wanted to come up with something better than this:

"Yeah, it's okay, but it sounds a lot like the last record and not really in a surprisingly illuminating way or anything. It's more like, if you thought the last record was asking questions, well, now they're satisfied with those questions as answers. If sunlight, then sunlight. And more sunlight. And it is a decent record and it really does ooze blue light and barbeque and the smell of children and small plastic pools and a certain sensibility (or lack of one) that smacks even more strongly of '60s nostalgia, well-crafted, melodic, etc. This is a great pop record, it sounds like a great pop record. If exposed to oxygen, it behaves like a great pop record. Maybe it is a great fucking pop record. But that's all it is. And in an awfully non-specific away, as well. I mean, this could be nostalgia for just about anything pat or well-executed -- bee-hive hairdos, sand castles, etc. For a record of the now, it sure sounds like a record of the inexact then -- which these days is often considered an asset. Everything's been done, so let's take something that's been sonically run and do it well: all right. And go team. And again, that doesn't mean this record's hard to listen to (is honey hard to listen to? No, sister, it is not) or that it isn't seasonal (just don't play it after Labor Day) or even kind of resplendent in a fucked-up, borrowed glory sort of way. The thing is, it's limited. It's hard to really recommend this. You might, you could, in the same way that you might recommend a day at the beach or a night with a conversationally limited blonde. But you couldn't, in good faith, say this record will change your life. This band cannot be your life -- this band can't be more than a sort of sequined accessory to life. This band's too easy to be your life. And again, a lot of people are going to say what the fuck is wrong with that? And maybe they're right. Maybe I'm just cantankerous, just ulcerous, just lurching towards my 30th birthday with a head full of noise and a heart that loves sentiment, sure, but doesn't give a shit about sentimentality. Maybe I've gone wrong, critically. Maybe I've forgotten what music's all about. Maybe insisting upon ambition is an inevitably pretentious stance. But you know what? What the fuck. Maybe a shimmer, a certain lushness, and stylistic excess isn't enough. Maybe we don't need the merely pleasant. Maybe we've had more than enough, and it's starting to hurt."

Again, I've left the CD on the windowsill, to see if it would grow. I've listened to it in my car. I've listened to it with underage girls. And I've listened to it while trying to sleep through the sodden hangover of the Houston scene. Listened, sure, and actively, but I never found myself having much to say (this being the full extent). I never really needed to respond to the record. I never found a reason to talk back. Or ask questions. Or talk out of turn and get myself in trouble. And if you're spiritually exhausted, maybe that's exactly what you need: music that asks nothing of you. Music that insulates you from you. Music that is pretty but that does not launch ships. Music that is honeycomb and will not leave you greatly changed. There is no reason to be afraid. (Russell Swensen // 07/14/07)

The music industry loves to stumble upon bands like Daphne Loves Derby. This Seattle-based trio churn out the kind of polished, amphitheater-ready indie-rock that would appeal to the Death Cab for Cutie set. Lead singer Kenny Choi is easy on the eyes, and in the band's press photo, pays homage to his Northwestern locale by posing solemnly yet attractively in front of some deer taxidermy at a lodge.

On Good Night, Witness Light, recorded at the home studio of Panic! At the Disco producer Matt Squire, the band mines familiar power-pop territory, offering clean riffs and let's-hold-hands lyics. With pitch-perfect harmonies, the boys of Daphne Loves Derby deliver lyrics like "I want to run / I want to run / but you've got a gun pointed right at me" with a straight face. The lyrics are repetitive enough to stick, but sufficiently nuanced to stand up after a second or third listen.

It would be grossly unfair to say that this band appropriates and then sanitizes the kind of indie rock that blew out of the Midwest in the late '90s (Braid, Sarge, Promise Ring, et al). Daphne Loves Derby have made the effort to diversify Good Night, delving curiously into marching band tunes and disco. (The press kit said they were inspired by the film Drumline.) The experimental numbers are hit or miss, but overall, this album consists largely of solid and very listenable mainstream indie rock. (Annie Lin // 07/14/07)

Fake Problems' comparisons to fellow Floridian musicians Against Me! are too obvious, so I'll do my best to avoid comparing them to each other. But think Against Me! without a political slant and with fewer exclamation points. The songs on How Far Our Bodies Go aren't too catchy, which is a good thing because today's music overdoes catchiness to try and sell more records. Said catchy music becomes too temporary and superficial. You can only hear "Hey Miss Murder, Can I?" so many times before your coworkers start to look less like potential social interactions and more like potential victims. But let's change the subject.

The album sounds to me like kids who got bored and decided to start a band and one of them sings just like the guy from Against Me!... Whoops, sorry, won't happen again. How Far Our Bodies Go is full of non-sappy love songs with angry, defiant lyrics that give the band a charming vulnerability. The title track is the standout on the album, being the catchy sing-along drunk song it is. It's simply too short, like most songs on the album. The main offender there, actually, is "Para Tu," which sounds like it's going to turn into this great epic love song but ends just when the horns swell. The band has amazing potential but they're really holding back here, especially lyrically. The lyrics are straightforward and honest to a fault. There's not really any mystery or tact to them.

Fake Problems has a refreshing Southern influence and the band doesn't really sound like what I'd think Florida would sound like. The band members know how to use uneven tempos to keep the album interesting, and there's a nice assortment of quirky instruments like a banjo or a harpsichord. So it's a fun and eclectic album, but that's about it. Sadly, the over-gravelly vocals kill it for me. They give the band this odd incongruency that doesn't mesh well. But maybe that's part of their charm, because it doesn't really take away from their sound, young and clean as it is. Now if they can just polish everything up a bit. (Stephen Conley // 07/03/07)

Drummer Jason Tortorice, guitarist Erik Westfall, and bassist Johnny Todd made some of Houston's most ambitious and endearingly wacky hard rock as the Slurpees, and then as the Squishees after being threatened with legal action by 7-11. The ubiquitous ice vendor also recently began selling a drink called a Squishee, in a long-overdue act of reverse product placement, but Westfall and Todd need not worry, having put the Squishees on hiatus to make room for 500 Megatons of Boogie.

500 Megatons' music departs radically from the complexity and ambition of the Squishees' recent work, replacing demented prog with down-home rock-and-roll. Well, not as down-home as all that; part of the greatness of Westfall and Todd's bands has always been Westfall's clever and hilariously weird vocals, and 500 Megatons are no exception. A particular standout is "Asleep in the Plastic Boudoir": "Asleep in the plastic boudoir / Dreaming of a Disney Xanadu / Living in a G-rated pleasure dome / Feasting on tofu caviar." Another is "James Brown Song," which features a refrain that sounds suspiciously like "something something something," but which is obscured by Westfall's unhinged screech. He sounds for all the world like a mental patient channeling the Godfather of Soul.

500 Megatons of Boogie often sounds something like the early Slurpees records, which combined the acid wit of the Dead Kennedys with the head-snapping punk-funk of the Minutemen, but here Westfall and Todd are reaching for something more primal and muscular. They are aided by Kent Hassinger, who has replaced Tortorice on drums. To say that Hassinger's drumming is not as fluid, agile and expressive as Tortorice's would be a massive understatement, but he substitutes an almost unbelievable physical strength. It is an integral part of this brutal, stomping, goofy record, which retains the peculiar charm that has marked Westfall and Todd's music since the beginning: that of witnessing the power of rock and roll to turn three average guys into complete raving lunatics. (Daniel Joseph Mee // 07/14/07)

I'm trying to cut these guys some slack, honest. The Inevitable Backlash's new Sex For Safety EP bears a sticker that says "Featuring Members of Rollins Band + Saccharine Trust," and technically, that's true. Kinda. Drummer Jason Mackenroth used to be in Rollins-produced Mother Superior, who backed Rollins on the Get Some Go Again tour, but to me that's a teeny bit different from actually being in the jazzbo-heavy Rollins Band, which was a whole other animal. Similarly, bassist Chris Stein apparently joined SST oldtimers Saccharine Trust, but that was only fairly recently, for one of the band's decidedly non-classic albums. (Okay, I haven't heard 'em, I'll admit; hell, I didn't even realize they were still together...)

At any rate, regardless of how kosher the Backlash's punk cred is, they pull off a decent retro-sounding punk roar, unsurprisingly reminiscent of Black Flag or the Trust, with maybe some back-in-the-day/pre-rockabilly Social Distortion slathered on top. Where the band falls down, though, is when guitarist/songwriter/singer John Renton opens his mouth. The lyrics, to put it bluntly, are godawful. From "He Never Left" (which is about Jesus? Maybe? I dunno...) on through to the closing title track, I find myself cringing when I realize what the heck Renton is singing.

It's not even the guy's voice, really, although the quasi-sinister Lou Reed thing gets old after a song or two. It's the words to tracks like the EP's lone acoustic number, "Snowstorms," that make me shake my head in bewilderment. It's fine to want to pay homage to the SST bands of yore, but keep in mind that they were half-assed and experimental, blazing new trails where none existed before. So yeah, some of the lyrics on those early albums sucked, too. But here's the thing: that was 20-plus years ago. I'll take progression over homage any day of the week. (Jeremy Hart // 07/03/07)