Have you ever had someone tell you they saw a great live band, and you're like, "what the hell does that even mean?" Well, I've been watching YouTube videos of Oh No Forest Fires after receiving their The War On Geometry EP, and I think I've found the definitive answer on that.

Yet another band with "Oh No" in their name, yeah, but that's for another debate. Oh No Forest Fires hail from Toronto, and this four-piece has been called prog-pop and indie-math. What I hate about that comparison, though, is that whenever people start talking "progressive" this or "math-rock" that, I immediately think that the music is more pretentious and less accessible to someone who just wants to sit back and hear a good song, and that's not what Oh No Forest Fires is about at all.

These guys ooze cool and keep it indie, and on their latest EP, the music explodes. Rajiv Thavanathan has a Simon & Garfunkel timbre to his voice that completely captivates you, while the guitars wake you and the drums invigorate you. If I have one beef with them, it's that their song titles take longer to say than the length of the actual songs -- and who in their right mind names their EP after an Xbox video game? But hey, some people may find that charming.

Other than that, though, The War On Geometry has got a bit of it all. It's got pop, it's got weirdness, it's got indie, and it's got a touch of prog. First track "It's Not Fun And Games Unless Someone Loses An Eye" has an awesome breakdown two-thirds into the song, replete with accordions, cellos, and four-part harmonies, while "You Know What That Is...Trouble" bounces with as much energy as these guys unleash onstage. Oh No Forest Fires makes me feel, thankfully, that Canada maybe has a little more to offer than Martin Short and William Shatner. (Dremaceo Giles // 07/22/09)

Reel Big Fish's Fame, Fortune and Fornication is no Born to Run or Pet Sounds, it's true, but so what? There's nothing wrong with having a little fun, and I enjoy a good ska cover song as much as anybody, so I was kind of looking forward to an album full of what I was guessing (going by the cover, anyway) was '80s cheese-metal done ska-punk-style.

I was a little bit off, in the end, but that's probably a good thing. The cheesy hair-metal tracks on Fame, Fortune and Fornication -- Poison's "Nothin' But a Good Time" and "Talk Dirty To Me" and Ratt's "Mama We're All Crazy Now" -- work the least well, honestly, even though the bright, cheery ska horns smear together with the simplistic, primary-color party-hard songs. It's almost too easy, really, too mindless; I'm thinking that's why it doesn't elicit more than a shrug.

Things get better, though. It turns out that both John (Cougar) Mellencamp's "Authority Song" and Van Morrison's "Brown Eyed Girl" work amazingly well here, coming off nearly like they're the band's own compositions -- hell, I never would've guessed that "Brown Eyed Girl," in particular, would sound so damn natural with low-key guitars and a gentle ska rhythm, but hell, there it is. Of course, there're lightyears of difference, songwriting-wise, between "Mama We're All Crazy Now" and Tom Petty's "Won't Back Down," and it shows.

The surprise track of the album is The Eagles' "The Long Run," which in the hands of the Reel Big Fish guys is stripped of its California folk-rock clothing but not the sunshine-y feel, dropped down in the sun-soaked Caribbean like a long-lost Jimmy Cliff song. I'd apparently blocked the original from my memory, only going, "oh, yeah..." about halfway through. The song comes off more like a real-live Jamaican ska classic than the actual Toots and the Maytals and Desmond Dekker covers (which aren't bad in themselves, mind you), and that's no mean feat.

The best part of all of Fornication is that the band doesn't treat it all as a big joke -- no, not even the hair-metal tunes. Rather, they handle the songs with near-reverently and making it obvious that, despite the goofy faux-metal cover art, these are songs the members of Reel Big Fish really and truly love and adore. Which beats the heck out of somebody just screwing around and taking the piss, in my book.

[Reel Big Fish is playing 7/27/09 at Warehouse Live, along with The English Beat & The Supervillains.] (Jeremy Hart // 07/22/09)

I think I've cracked it. It took me a while to get my head around it, but I think the best way to look at RX Bandits isn't as a reggae+X band -- like I'd always instinctively wanted to see them 'til now -- but as a damn talented prog-rock band that just happens to pull in reggae, dub, punk, metal, and (yes, definitely) salsa/Latin-tinged rock so it can put together the kind of fiery, many-faceted songs the Bandits want to craft.

I do mean "craft," by the way; while there's definitely an organic feel to a lot of the tracks on Mandala, the care and meticulous plotting that went into the music is absolutely evident. Maybe that's why this works better for me than a lot of hybrids -- while the vast majority of bands like this stick Genre A to Genre F willy-nilly, with a superfluous blast of distortion used as glue to (hopefully) make it adhere, RX Bandits' mashups flow, to the point where I catch myself thinking, "oh, yeah -- it makes total sense that the guitars get all wild and noodly right there, right after that drifting, gauzy melody starts to dissolve..."

The comparison that holds in my brain, more than anything else, is to The Police. I don't mean that these guys are rewriting Outlandos d'Amour or anything here, but rather that they succeed in a similar way with what that band did, melding reggae to funk to rock to whatever else and making it all work as one seamless whole.

All this isn't to say RX Bandits can do no wrong, of course. "Hearts That Hanker For Mistake," for one, with its "Under the Bridge" melody shuttling along over roaring guitars, makes me shrug and feels overlong at only 4:30. And while I'm initially intrigued by the funky, murky salsa-psych of "Mientras La Veo Soñar," I find myself checking my watch and wondering when the next track'll come on.

When it clicks, though, it really clicks. "It's Only Another Parsec" throws the prog influences into sharp relief, with sharp-edged guitars carving complex shapes into the soft wood of the song's rhythm, then shifting and shimmering into spacey trippiness; the track makes me think oddly of late-'90s math-indie-rock stuff like Edsel or No Knife, and it comes as a nice surprise without disrupting the rhythm of the album as a whole. "Hope Is A Butterfly, No Net Its Captor (Virus of Silence)," too, forages further afield and ends up drifting and gorgeously, warmly psychedelic, like Dorothy wandering through the beautiful field of soporific poppies and trying half-heartedly not to fall under their influence.

"March of the Caterpillar" is subtle and muted, with a windswept, desolate feel but lyrics that aim to uplift, and opener "My Lonesome Only Friend" starts off similarly low-key but revs up to stomping, semi-metallic rock with fiery, Santana-esque guitars. The metallic guitar lines reappear at random throughout the disc, particularly on "Breakfast Cat," but there they veer back towards the prog-rock thing once again.

While guitarist/vocalist Matt Embree does well throughout, he hits a real high note with "White Lies," where he swears not to fall back into the same old traps and status-quo fibs we all tell ourselves. His voice cracks and boils over with outrage and bitterness, like he knows how much damage a little looking-away can do if everybody does it. He gets near it again (albeit in more of a controlled fashion) on album-ender "Bring Our Children Home Or Everything Is Nothing," where his voice takes hold of pretty much the only singalong chorus on the album and drags it skyward, soaring up to the heavens over the defiant, blazing almost Hendrix-like rock going on below. As befits the album's title, Mandala as a whole sounds like a musical meditation of sorts, a critical, introspective look at the world and the chaotic, often-downward spin we who live on this big globe seem to find ourselves.

[RX Bandits playing 7/17/09 at The Meridian, along with Zechs Marquise & Dredg.] (Jeremy Hart // 07/17/09)

The Loud Wars is one of those albums that makes me want to go dig out an album I used to play 'til it felt like the CD player laser would burn out; in this case, the album they make me want to go grab is The Dismemberment Plan's 2001 classic, Change. It's a disc I'd be willing to bet the guys in So Many Dynamos know intimately, and I can't help but think of D-Plan when I hear the Dynamos' take on smart, half-broken/twisted, synth-tinged pop.

Not that that's all there is, mind you -- the guitars wriggle and intertwine like snakes, the edges of the songs are sharp and cagey like the best Jawbox tracks, the synths and "flat" sung/shouted vocals call back to fellow Midwesterners The Anniversary (and Braid, at times), and the rhythms bump and grind along seductively, bringing to mind The Rapture's near-funk. Crushed together into a whole, it's an alluring combination of sounds, witty and brooding and funky all at once. A few tracks fall somewhat flat -- "Friendarmy" and "It's Gonna Rain," for two -- but for the most part, So Many Dynamos wield their sound effectively, marrying intricate, self-referencing lyricism with the best post-rock I've heard since, say, Bloc Party, to which they also happen to bear a weird resemblance.

"Glaciers" is shifting and anthemic, with a nicely sweet uplift to it, and "The Novelty of Haunting" is a well-crafted look at what happens when you suddenly, um, die, somewhat like Armor For Sleep's What to Do When You Are Dead, except that the Dynamos skip the tortured emo posturing and opt instead for confusion, dismay, and then exploring the benefits of undeath, all to the sound of turbulent, spastic guitars. "New Bones" makes me think of the D-Plan (again) taking on The Rapture in some kind of head-to-head music war, all synths, chiming guitars, and Faint-esque atmosphere. I find myself seriously digging the sound of vocalist/keyboardist Aaron Stovall's keys on "Oh, The Devastation!", too -- it's awesomely thick and ragged-sounding, a perfect fit with the thundering drums and No Knife sci-fi guitars.

The unifying thread throughout, though, has to be the paranoiac feel that kicks off with the clanging guitar lines and busy drums/synths of "Artifacts of Sound." When Stovall pleads on that track, "The record doesn't lie/ So what friend could the record be? / What secrets could the record keep?", it sounds like he's desperate for answers of some kind, for somebody real to confide in. That nervous, self-effacing fear persists across The Loud Wars, rearing its head again in "The Novelty of Haunting," where Stovall admits that he wants to see his friends but doesn't want to be a "creep," a spooky, unwanted shadow hanging around the room. On "No Bones," Stovall flatly declares that he and the subject of the song could agree if only that person could stop believing in him; I'm sensing a weird pattern of self-loathing and mistrust.

That pattern's unfortunate for the Dynamos guys, but it's my (and your) gain, because it lends an intriguing weight to what could've easily been nothing more than a D-Plan retread. The nervous, twitchy energy makes me think of my own hometown heroes Bring Back The Guns (especially on "Keep It Simple") -- which seems apt, since the bands shared a split-7" a while back, with "It's Gonna Rain" as the So Many Dynamos track -- and it's what makes The Loud Wars work, propelling the whole thing along.

[So Many Dynamos is playing 7/22/09 at Mango's with Baby Showers & Cast Spells.] (Jeremy Hart // 07/22/09)

I hear people lament about the lack of talent in Houston all the time, and I always have to look at them like, "what are you talking about?" Houston is teeming with great talent; just stop watching NCIS for a night and get out to see a show. I was listening to local singer/songwriter Hans Stockenberger recently and couldn't help but think that artists like him, and the countless other awesome bands out of Houston, debunk that myth.

Hans has performed locally and internationally, from Saudi Arabia to Italy to Boston to Houston. He's a multi-instrumentalist, with his primary instrument of choice being his voice. On Shine, his latest full-length release, Hans explores the singer/songwriter genre with ten songs' worth of rousing ballads and a few uptempo tunes that showcase his powerful and dynamic vocals. With a touch of early John Mayer, Shine incorporates touches of country, rock, and even R&B. Ultimately, Shine is about Hans and his guitar and the stories he belts with each rousing chorus. (Dremaceo Giles // 07/22/09)

When I was in middle school, my musical abilities could be summed up by a few stagnant years of piano lessons and proud ownership of first chair in the band's trumpet section. When the Tiny Masters of Today were in middle school, on the other hand, David Bowie was calling their music "genius."

Brooklyn-based siblings Ada and Ivan -- now 13 and 15, respectively -- are truly something unique. With the help of Garageband, they write, play, record, and produce their own songs. Their latest release, Skeletons, is proof that not only do they understand their own musical strengths and limitations, but that they are capable of calculated restraint that's not often exercised by far more experienced musicians.

If you had to sum up Skeletons in a singular thought, it should be that these kids really know how to have fun with their songs. "Drop the Bomb" is an explosive album opener, marked by phrases of crunchy, rhythmic snippets alternating with smooth, almost calming guitar lines. "Drop the Bomb" sets the tone for the rest of the album's sound: equal parts gritty industrial and sugary pop. But "Two Dead Soldiers" is when TMoT really kicks it into gear, with charming wordplay and a repeated call-and-response that'll stay in your head for days: "Can you hear me, Brooklyn?" / "Yahhhhhh!" / "Can you hear me, Brixton"? / "Yahhhhh!" "Real Good" is another infectious track, lumping together serious sing-along-ability with some of the most squawking guitar you've ever heard.

Towards album's end, the energy dwindles a notch or two; "Big Bass Drum" seems like part two of "Big Stick," and "Understandable Honesty" and "Abercrombie Zombie" fall into lackluster sloppiness. Regardless, Skeletons is an impressive feat, expanding on an already-developed signature sound and showing off an innate sensibility for hooks and melodies. Not bad for a couple of full-time students who still have to spend their Autumn and Spring days in public school classrooms. (Marianne Do // 07/10/09)

You ever fall hard for somebody who you know is really, truly not your type, but there's something weirdly attractive about them, some quirky thing that makes you look past what your brain's telling you and convince yourself they're The One for you? And then, after a year or three's gone by, you run into 'em again and cannot fathom what in the hell you were thinking that first time around?

Treasure Mammal's You Wish I Was Channeling Your Spirit is like that for me, I'm afraid. 2004's Secret Treasures managed to worm its way inside my skull, knocking down my defenses with its over-the-top exuberance and total disregard for the rules of pop, rock, or whatever the hell this stuff actually is. With that in mind, I was actually looking forward to Spirit.

'Til I put it in the CD player, anyway. At that point, my interest quickly morphed into what-the-hell-was-I-thinking horror. The noisier, chipped-and-scratched edges of Secret Treasures have been mostly sanded away this time out, leaving behind twelve or so tracks of primarily unbelievably cheesy, goofy electro-pop that makes no sense about half the time (the good half) and is insipid for the rest. Some points on here are entertaining, I'll admit it, like the screechy "Pterodactyl Girlfriend," the raw/bluesy "Peer Pressure," and Western-sounding "Rio Grande," in particular.

They're undermined almost immediately, though, by sappy faux(?)-feel-good songs like "Best Friends Forever" and "Dale Earnhardt Jr.," which meld Treasure Mammal frontman Abe Gil's apparently real-life motivational speaking with synth-pop. With regard for the latter, I'm going to go out on a limb and declare that any song with a line about getting "a full tank of confidence" deserves to be destroyed.

The comparison I just can't freaking get out of my head is to the campy, utterly ridiculous videos and songs of Liam Sullivan (think "Shoes" and "Text Message Breakup"). Imagine that guy from DFA wearing the goofy Kelly wig and singing, and you're pretty much right there with me (except that I'm fairly sure Gil's totally serious about most of this). And y'know, that's not a comparison you really want to aim for. (Jeremy Hart // 07/10/09)

Patrick Wolf is back, with his quirky music and colorful image (he's currently a bleached blonde), and his new album is sure to impress his loyal fans. The Bachelor is filled with Patrick Wolf's characteristic violas and voice with vibrato. What new aspects he brings: a variety of back up singers, including children and even gospel-style women, and a more mature sound that pushes beyond just electronics. He utilizes many uncommon instruments, like a ukulele and a harmonium, giving this album a sense of hard work behind it and an international feel, as it crosses many borders to accomplish such a rich sound. It seems as if Wolf wanted to perfect The Bachelor using the most minute details in order to truly make it a masterpiece. It's amazing how much this man can do without the typical electrical guitar of most rock stars.

The Bachelor repeats the upbeat quality of his last album, The Magic Position (my personal favorite), but also possesses the seriousness of Lycanthropy and the long sustained notes of Wind in the Wires. There are memorable melodies, uplifting bells, and danceable tracks; this Brit comes with a bang. He pays homage to his country by titling his song "Hard Times" after the Charles Dickens novel about the struggle of his people under the belief in Utilitarianism during Victorian England.

The CD starts with an instrumental introduction, making the first song a short one meant to lead the listener into the rest of the album. Most of the songs contain a violin and piano part, in keeping with Wolf's familiar motif of using various instruments behind his vocals. "Vulture" has a 1980s feel with a low synthesizer part layered by a higher one. "Blackdown" is a purely piano-driven song, soft and sweet. "Thickets" has an Irish sound, due to the piccolo used as the primary instrument. The title piece, "The Bachelor," is a duet with an urgent feel, about the fear of getting married. The mood of the album is overall somewhat sad, yearning, and even desperate at times, but the songs chosen as singles so far are the more joyous-sounding ones (even if the lyrics give way to a deeper struggle).

The videos for "Vulture," his first single, and "Hard Times," his second, are posted on YouTube for your viewing pleasure. The first one is a bit reminiscent of Madonna's mid-career scandalous black-and-white videos, and the second goes the opposite route, featuring him fully dressed and dancing with a slew of women in the background, all glowing in the dark. He is still young and hip, flaunting his boyish charm and singing his heart out for those who will listen. (Krista Kesseler // 07/22/09)

On Back and Fourth, soft-voiced singer/songwriter Pete Yorn comes off almost like a musical chameleon, to the point where I'm at first not entirely sure what to make of the guy. He starts off with gently determined, heavily folk-influenced country on "Don't Wanna Cry," which sounds like an Uncle Tupelo song as played by the Elephant 6 crew (complete with trombones), but immediately switches gear with "Paradise Cove," diving headfirst into alluring, California-sounding pop that teeters on the precipice of Adult Alternative-ness. The former is mournful but defiant, the sound of a man on the verge of a breakdown who's refusing to let his emotions get the better of him, while the latter is bitter and sexy at once, a tale of two lovers who can't resist their urges, even though, as Yorn bluntly worries at the end, "that could be bad for us both."

He rolls the dice a third time after that, following up with "Close," the sweeping, pleading grandeur of which sounds either like Coldplay or the subtler moments of Coldplay forerunners U2, including an occasional odd accent and darned decent falsetto bit. Yorn neatly sidesteps pitfalls of overblown arena-rock, mind you, mostly by virtue of the track's nicely samba-ish rhythm. And then, on to "Social Development Dance," with its shimmering, chiming guitars and gorgeously low-key vocals; the track comes off like a less-high-pitched Sun Kil Moon outtake and makes some awkward lyrics, a remembrance of someone half-known but loved, somehow endearing in their strangeness: "I Googled you in quotes / got no results / I never learned how you had died / but I knew that you had lived."

On it goes, after that, through the sweet, tick-tock guitars and plinky, toy-like keys of "Shotgun," the jangly, appropriately sunny-sounding "Last Summer," and the less-jaunty riff on "There Goes My Baby" in "Country," all the way to piano-heavy closer "Long Time Nothing New," which is a frustrated cry for change, for needing to escape from the always-been and over-familiar. That last track feels as honest as anything I've heard lately, Yorn emptying out his burdens onto tape for all to see and feel kinship with. And as Back and Fourth unreels, I find myself pulling closer and closer in, basking in the warm, nicely layered, Saddle Creek-esque glow (Mike Mogis produced the thing, so Yorn comes by the feel honestly) and wrapping my head around the quirkily heartfelt lyrics.

By the end, I don't care much that Yorn doesn't stick to a genre or formula, beyond the straightforward, boy-next-door voice that ties all of the songs together in a single package. As long as it all works on its own -- and for the most part, it does -- why fret about labels? While I'm not blown away just yet, I get the feeling I very well could be, with just a few more listens.

[Pete Yorn is playing 7/14/09 at The Meridian, along with Zee Avi.] (Jeremy Hart // 07/14/09)