My first experience with The Acrobrats was when I got to play guitar for them at the Toxic Summer fest; I was the Grim Reaper and played "Callout," the second song on the album. Of course, I'm talking about Guitar Hero, a game of which a number of Boston bands were lucky enough to be a part, including The Acrobrats.

They deserve to be on such a game, mind you, considering that the guitar work is on point and has great tone. Overall, Go Down Swinging is a well-produced punk album filled with catchy parts, vocals-with-attitude and short-but-sweet solos.

Having already heard and liked "Callout," it was hard to give full attention to the first track, but I guessed that the disc would be a typical 30 minutes-or-less of my 40-minute commute. Track three, "Crash," an enjoyable cover of the 1988 Primitives song , made me travel in my mind to a Mutt Cutts van with a couple of idiots on their way to Aspen to return a briefcase full of money. Keep in mind that I was seven when the song first came out.

The rest of the CD (and the first track) is pretty good; nothing too unique, though. I would rather listen to a number of the bands listed under "influences" on the band's Myspace page, instead. The 'brats' actual Website could use some work, as well, as it seems outdated and could use more material.

Nonetheless, they have a lot of friends on their Myspace page, so they must be doing something right. (Birdlung // 08/16/06)

The Black make a legitimate bargain with their listeners: efficiency. We will not do anything flashy, they seem to say, but neither will we indulge ourselves. Don't expect to be amazed, but don't expect to be bored, either. We will entertain you. It's the bargain that Kurt Cobain sneered at in "Smells Like Teen Spirit," but once one outgrows the anger of discarded youth, the value of entertainment becomes far more apparent. It is the commodity that is offered today by musicians who no longer have the "shock and awe" power that marks the continually shifting sound of now, which those same people did possess in their own youth. The paradox of classic rock radio is that which once amazed being presented now as entertainment.

That's the paradox that Tanglewood embodies as well, not only on relatively energetic tracks that draw on the likes of the Rolling Stones and Elvis Costello for a fun, inoffensive charm but also on the entire middle section of the record, which plays like Pink Floyd mixed with the Cowboy Junkies -- i.e., drugged, but in a way that straddles dangerously the line between street 'ludes and sleeping pills, especially at an average runtime of more than five minutes each. Vocalist David Longoria has a gift for hooks that comes in handy on uptempo songs like "Disrespecting Dirt" and "J. P. Lenoir Street" and especially on the deceptively elongated chorus of "Cell Block," but even these don't carry the music the way they need to. The Black simply don't have enough good musical ideas. This is particularly true of drummer Andy Morales, who makes too much use of an extremely limited vocabulary, though he isn't helped by the record's cardboard-box production.

The bottom line is that if a band takes as few chances as the Black, they must substitute a real talent for entertainment. The Black are significantly less entertaining than they imagine themselves to be, than by rights they ought to be. As Krusty the Klown once cruelly opined, "In this business, either you got it or you don't." The enduring hope of every musician is embodied in the convenient truncation of his next fallible line: "And you, kid, do not have -- hold on a second while I finish this sentence outside..." (Daniel Joseph Mee // 08/16/06)

This Chicago band's 2003 release, For Never and Ever, was arguably the guilty pleasure album of the year. Kill Hannah's not a band you're going to brag about liking, and it's doubtful that given the chance, you'd bother to check them out live -- unless, of course, you're into being in a roomful of underage goth wannabes. Kill Hannah are a pretty band (I'm secure enough in my masculinity to admit that they're good-looking guys), and it understandably works both for and against them. Thankfully, they write undeniably poppy songs that are strong enough and catchy enough to make you forget about the trendy haircuts, glammed-out makeup, and wristbands.

"Lips Like Morphine," the first single from Until There's Nothing Left Of Us, is a perfect example of the band's ability to draw a thin line between goth and electro-pop (sample lyric: "I want a girl with lips like morphine / Who knocks me out every time she touches me"). Similarly, "Intro" and "Believer" both start off the album impressively and showcase the band's blend of guitars and synthpop well. Confusingly, "Black Poison Blood" cribs a riff from fellow Chicagoans Caviar, while "Love You To Death" is a pop-punk attempt at pleasing the suburban goth contingent (death's gotta be in there somewhere, right?). What's even more confusing about Until There's Nothing Left Of Us, however, is the band's weak attempt at covering The Church's beautiful "Under The Milky Way." It's so watered-down and lifeless that it simply proves the song in no way ever needs to be covered. (Note, by the way, that the band also covered Billy Idol's '80s anthem "Rebel Yell" on the "Lips Like Morphine" single.)

Unlike their last album, Until There's Nothing Left Of Us gives the impression that the band was trying too hard to write a hit this time out (the pressure from Atlantic was surely great). There are some catchy songs, but it all seems formulaic after a while. Not to discount Kill Hannah's talent -- they can write good songs -- but it's hard to get excited about the album when every song practically bleeds into the other without much distinction. (David A. Cobb // 08/16/06)

With their self-titled debut album, the members of Love is Chemicals add a battery of art-rock to the arsenal of clean-sounding alternative music revolving around the west coast indie-rock scene. Hailing from San Francisco, the band resembles the slightly subconscious, spacey sound of bands like Death Cab for Cutie and The Postal Service, all the while reaching for a more pleasing, attractive variety of Sonic Youth-inspired rock than their contemporaries, which, like Modest Mouse's latest releases, includes ambient waves of oft-melodic guitar noise layered over a vocal melody that touches on British shoegazer influences like the Boo Radleys. Singer Natie Grover's voice falls into the category of soft-rock, somewhere between Ben Gibbard and Radleys singer Sice, and his lyrics are poignantly soothing, with a rusty edge of depression which soaks through the porous sounds of songs like "Friends & Neighbors" and "The Hex" like blood through a sponge.

The part about Love is Chemicals that I really enjoyed was that the intelligent professionalism obvious in the recordings sets the band apart from the myriad of garage bands out there. Production quality and song quality seem synonymous with progressive rock bands these days; these guys can split the balance between musical integrity and pop production.

The down side is that, as far as independent bands are concerned, Love is Chemicals sounds pretty much like everyone else, excessively derivative, unoriginal, and sterile. (Alex Ross // 08/16/06)

Passion. Intrigue. Supernova rock and roll? No. Well, yes, if you count CBS's Rock Star: Supernova.

In all fairness, Boston-based and female-fronted MataHari have probably just run into the wrong, grumpy, anti-pop/"punk"/alternative reviewer for their debut album, Shrine of Counterfeits. While I love a lot of hard-ass female musicians who rock to the high heavens (P.J. Harvey, Diamanda Galás, and even Becky Bondage among these), I'm just not a fan of garbage. Oops -- I mean Garbage. Taking that band as a category of music, I'm also referring to most of the new alternative bands made popular on MTV or the Buzz since the year 2000 (Creed may be the best representative to date of popular but unsuccessful melodrama from which I've had the displeasure to develop ulcers). As a general rule, I guess I'm disappointed that someone out there thinks that shattering one's eardrums with a hard lead block of one-dimensional melodrama will move and elevate people to new heights. Melodrama, used well with a self-aware and subtle vulnerability -- and with a certain amount of thought and intelligence -- can actually do just that; Ms. Harvey, in To Bring You My Love may be one of the best examples. On the other hand, the lead weight of guitar overkill blasted to the nth power doesn't float as well. As you might expect, it sludgifies one's brain and burns out the ability to parse sensitive detail or any sense of dynamics softer than a blare.

MataHari draws on all of these iron-hard, frying-pan-minus-the-meat influences and adds a fiery femininity into the mix. That said, I have full faith that the band'll make it to MTV someday, and that seems to be a level they might be satisfied with. They've put together a slick, super-clean, hi-fi studio album with all the right touches, taken on a catchy band name that refers back to an erotic early 20th century figure, found a very hot and exotic Czech frontwoman who can do rockstar melodrama, keep in tune, and self-harmonize in the studio, and incorporated Portishead-esque trippy electronic embellishments as well as well tested ear-shattering overamplified power guitar, and it all adds to MataHari's appeal to the masses. All an accomplishment, especially for a band taking a recording-before-performing approach for its first album.

I have to issue a warning, however, that this music isn't likely to make a long-lasting impression, much like a lot of recent alternative rock, unless it moves beyond its single (boring -- sorry, guys) dimension. On the way, the band might choose to take on a more sensitive variation in dynamics, read some Rimbaud, cultivate some willingness to back off on that infernal guitar, and tell vocalist Ivona Coufalova to stop straining her voice so much in her passionate rockalepsy. Those towering self-harmonies, used hair-raisingly effectively by Layne Staley of Alice in Chains back in the day, can also benefit from a little curtailing and meaningful dimension, as opposed to being thrown in just for the sake of making the song pop a little more. To Ms. Coufalova's credit, she has a very beautiful voice that comes out in the album's last track, "Not Your Puppet," which is also the only track to use dynamics to any effect by playing through a dark, tripped-out electronic haze. The clear sound of her voice finally rings transparent through the haze and grabs you, an unexpected turn of events.

I still think Shrine of Counterfeits is in all likelihood an earnest effort with specific goals in mind. Good for MataHari. For the deep listener, though, a little like being fed cardboard again. The message: unless you're an alternative-minded music journalist or deeply into the aforementioned year 2000+ alternative figures (or Rock Star: Supernova), you may want to skip this one.

Finally, for those who don't know (I didn't), a look at the band's very interesting and beautiful namesake. The real Mata Hari was born on 8/7/1886 in Holland, although she claimed to be from India. Having been married from 1898 to 1904, she became a well-sought belly dancer in various Parisian salons in the early 1900s after one of her two children mysteriously died of poisoning. When her belly dancing career began to dither, she turned to prostitution and was equally well-sought by French and German military officers. Both sides enlisted her as a spy, and once discovered, she was placed before the French firing squad in 1917. Beneath all of the sex, passion, and espionage, her story is one of false facades and exaggeration, driven on the outside by rumor and reputation. I would suggest that these are principles a 2000s alternative band would do very well not to mimic in earnest. (Anneli Chambliss // 08/16/06)

C.Y.S.L.A.B.F. reminds me of all those times I used to play on the neighborhood rope swing during sweltering summers as a kid. I would make a running dash and jump onto this ratty rope before landing in a wide, grassy ditch filled with grimy filth we believed was water. At times, I would chicken out and dangle on the rope instead of letting go, which resulted in my ass smashing onto a tree knot that jutted out the side of the ditch. This would always pain my bum terribly, but I would keep on swinging.

It's kind of like that.

On their first full-length album, Mika Miko somehow manage to pack thirteen amphetamine-drenched songs into just under twenty-one minutes. The band's comprised of five typical American women (Kate Hall, drums; Jessica Clavin, bass; Jenna Thornhill, vocals/sax/keys; Michelle Suarez, guitar/keys; and Jennifer Clavin, vocals/guitar/keys) who like their nookie, despise clothing labels that demand that women adhere to their size requirements, and can't stand the sight of widow's peaks, as it looks too Dracula-ish...which can actually be quite sexy if you're into that sort of thing, which Mika Miko isn't.

The entirety of C.Y.S.L.A.B.F. plays like it's being performed live in a dark, hole-in-the-wall venue, but without all those emo types with their sad hair and too-loud "I'm smarter than thou" proclamations. Thornhill and Clavin's voices are drowned out by their instruments but are in no way washed away; their words ramble together into an amalgam of incoherent sputters. I absolutely cannot make out what these women are saying ninety-five percent of the time, but who cares? They sound cool, and besides, you can look up the lyrics in their liner notes, if you are so inclined. C.Y.S.L.A.B.F. is punk music, despite what their promoter says. It's loud, raucous noise and, like a mud-slide, the music is splish-splashy and sloppy as hell. "Capricorinations" and "Take It Serious" could be the album's singles (provided it plays on college radio, that is). "Don't Shake It Off" features sax playing à la Naked City, and "The Dress" sounds like Suarez is playing an electric samisen. On "Oh, Head Spin!," Mika Miko are too cool for school: "If I gave a care about your theories / I would have gone to college."

Mika Miko is loud, fast, and totally no-bullshit. Listen to it once -- you might not dig. Give it three tries, instead. It's not like you can't spare an hour. (Judy Lyle // 08/16/06)

This is a NOFX album. You know what you're going to get: of course, it's going to be punk rock. It's going to be the kind of punk rock that made you feel cool to crap in your pants or put egg yolk in your mohawk. You're going to get power chords, as many as one human can play in a two-minute, 30-second song, and the thumb in the eye of authority that is the punk rock message.

Right off the bat, I could hear the similarity between Never Trust A Hippy and NOFX's Pump Up the Valium. The first song, "Seeing Double at Triple Rock", starts out with a catchy, rapid-fire melody which draws some similarity to the first track of Valium, and sprints through each chorus on a full tank of power chords. "You're Wrong", a rare acoustic track, is a nice break from the barrage of power chords. It also gives the listener a chance to hear what NOFX is really about; Fat Mike gives his opinion on everything from gay marriage to Columbus Day. The song is a perfect platform for his clever and sardonic pillory against modern politics.

One side thing I wanted to mention, by the way, is the great cover art for the album. Rick Remender, the artist responsible, pens a figure of Jesus like the one you might see on the cover of your Sunday school book, except that this Jesus has a bottle of what looks like it could be Mickey's in one hand and the fingers of his other hand parted in a peace sign.

Every song on the album is a sonic circle pit waiting for fans, which is great. Unfortunately, there isn't really anything new about this album. If you were looking for the catchy "Oi!" punk from back in the days of Punk in Drublic or the infectious pop-punk and ska of So Long and Thanks for all the Shoes, you won't find it on this album. When it comes time to run head-first into the mosh pit, I'll be there, but until then I'll be spinning the old NOFX records that made mohawks and self-defecation cool. (Byron Miller // 08/16/06)

Ladies and gentlemen, back from the dead, I give you...the triumphant resurrection of Elastica! Okay, so that's not quite true; yes, on Scanners' debut disc, Violence Is Golden, there is indeed a serious resemblance to those '90s Brit-popsters, particularly in the sleek, sensual feel of the songs, and bassist/singer Sarah Daly definitely has the same kind of charisma as Elastica frontwoman Justine Frischmann. She's got the same sexy-but-detached vibe going on, and that vibe ends up being a large part of the reason Violence Is Golden works as well as it does -- in less capable hands (like, say, those belonging to Shirley Manson), lyrics about "joy machines," only living when you're on-screen, and following your lover through a darkened dream-world could come off as trite and stupid. Here, they don't.

So, looking beyond the initial Elastica flashback, what is there? Quite a bit, actually. The music on Violence swings between goth-rock and pop, skipping blithely through styles but keeping a murky undercurrent of fear and danger running beneath, a little bit like the dystopian pop of fellow Brits Placebo or Muse. Daly's voice lends to the feel, as well, leaping from sultry and alluring to urgent and desperate and back again with barely a scratch. Along with Frischmann, her vocals remind me of Debbie Harry's, a feeling that gets stronger with the heavy dose of nü-New Wave electro-rock à la The Killers or Interpol that's injected into the band's overall sound, most evident on tracks like "Joy," "Air 164," or "Raw."

On "Lowlife," the first single off the disc -- and without a doubt, the best track -- old-school indie-drone guitars drive the song gently along while Daly pleads and cries beautifully; it's an addictive burst of melancholy pop, and it's already got me coming back for repeated listenings. Other standouts include "In My Dreams," a sinister, foreboding bit of gothiness that's downright spooky even when it rocks out; "Bombs," a speedy, catchy, more straightforward pop-rock track about noisy (bomb-making) neighbors; and "Changing Times," which starts out quiet and chiming but slowly roars in with distant vocals and churning bass. There's also "Evil Twin," which derails things a bit to throw a hint of raga and psychedelia into the mix, and "High Flier," another spooky-as-hell track that stomps and crunches its way like a rampaging nightmare before cutting off abruptly.

The whole thing ends up sounding like the soundtrack to a bleak-yet-hopeful sci-fi flick, probably one with vampires in it or something, even (assuming, of course, that the vampires have better musical taste than they seem to in most horror movies). Is violence golden? Not a clue, but this disc certainly is. (Jeremy Hart // 08/16/06)