In the search for a photo of Blitzen Trapper, the first stop was obviously their artist page on Sub Pop. The tagline next to the Sub Pop logo read, "We're not the best, but we're pretty good." Coincidentally, this is exactly how I feel about Furr, the band's first release for the acclaimed label.

Since forming in 2000, Blitzen Trapper has garnered plenty of attention with their loaded psychedelic-rock-country sound, a sound that carries over to Furr. The album embodies an unusual sort of aggressive harmlessness, lined with songs as equally in-your-face as they are delicate. The first forty seconds of opener "Sleepytime in the Western World" starts out with a charming, singable melody that doesn't last long enough, quickly disintegrating and becoming impossible to follow as the chord changes get weirder and weirder. But somehow Blitzen Trapper makes it seem sensible, blasting a wall of jangle that comes across as neither muddled nor overwhelming.

The rest of Furr's songs adhere to that same song structure, with hit-or-miss results. Too often the stunning instrumentation gets buried under hurried lyrics, which seem to pour out a bit excessively. The songs are likeable but also come off as lacking restraint. By only the fifth track, "Fire + Fast Bullets," the songs seem a little too familiar. On the other hand, when the music is minimized, Eric Earley's surprisingly rich voice really shines, adding an element of tenderness and grit that the busier songs don't capture as well. A prime example is the folky, Dylan-esque title track, which may be the most memorable on the album; Earley also sounds quite striking on the soulful but poppy "God and Suicide."

Though on the whole there are some lovely moments on Furr, it falls slightly short of becoming a repeater. As a talented sextet, it's probably easy for Blitzen Trapper to get sucked into adding layers and layers onto already-pretty music, but perhaps stepping back and scaling down might allow more of it to be heard. (Marianne Do // 10/31/08)

Horns. That's what been missing from my life. Well, horns and chicka-chicka guitars, anyway. And maybe some Hammond organ.

Seriously -- listening to the Diplomats of Solid Sound's eponymous full-length has been like suddenly hitting the light switch in a darkened house and illuminating a room that's been dark for a few days (which, given the recent circumstances here in Houston, is actually closer to reality than you might think). Damn, I've needed some horns, and the thicker, dirtier, and rougher-sounding, the better.

Thankfully, the Diplomats can bring me what I need, and then some. Putting aside the whole retro-soul revival going on right now, the key thing is that these guys are master musicians, heirs to the mostly-instrumental funk-soul kingdom ruled in days gone by by the likes of The Meters, Booker T. & the MG's, The J.B.'s, the Ohio Players, and Maceo and the Macks -- they know their instruments, know how to kick a funky beat, and play like they've never dreamt of doing anything else with their lives.

"Plenty Nasty" kicks off the album like the long-lost B-side to "Cross the Tracks," and it's a hell of a way to start; like its title suggests, it's funky and dirty as all hell, and the album rolls on from there like a pimp-daddy caddy cruising the boulevard. There's a heavy, heavy jazz influence, obviously, but these guys aren't going for anything real cerebral here, instead trying to appeal to the gut-level instinct to get out there on the dancefloor and cut loose. Think of the aforementioned artists, plus James Brown's backing band and more recent cohorts the Dap-Kings, and you'll have a pretty good idea of what the band sounds like, if you don't already.

This isn't the Diplomats' first time around the block, obviously -- I think it's the band's fourth full-length, which somewhat explains the way they effortlessly throw this stuff out -- but this time out they have tried to mix things up a bit by adding their own singers, vocalists Abbie Sawyer, Sarah Cram, and Katherine Ruestow. Which is good and bad for Diplomats, in almost equal measure. On the good side, the vocals give you something to latch on to while listening, allowing the band to dodge one pitfall a lot of instrumental groups fall into, which is that, well, instrumental music tends to turn into background music if you can't grab a hold of it somehow. The sultry, Ronettes-esque girl-group vocals give the sounds a sometimes much-needed focus.

On the flip side, I have to say that I think the Diplomettes are best when they're not singing throughout, but rather when they're acting, effectively, like backup singers to the true stars of the show -- namely, the instruments. The vocals here shine when they're used as instruments themselves, to color and accentuate the funky-ass grooves the Diplomats are laying down. "Budget Fro" is the perfect example, here; the band sizzles and churns brilliantly on a desperate-sounding groove, while the Diplomettes lay back for the bulk of the song, only stepping up occasionally to add the explanatory refrain, "Got no mo-nay!" When the Diplomettes do step up and take the spotlight, as on "Come In My Kitchen," which isn't really a bad song to begin with, they occasionally sound over-rehearsed and somewhat flat. The track's not a loss or anything, mind you, but it's not nearly as good as the songs on the album where the singers take a step back.

When both sides of the equation work, though, it does come off nicely. On "Hurt Me So," for one, the horns roar like the best sounds off Back to Black, and the vocals don't overwhelme but instead sort of drift and shimmer around the edges. Where Winehouse teeters on the brink of collapse, always sounding (fairly accurately, it must be said) like she's about to crack, the Diplomettes are polished silky-smooth -- it's like the difference between Bessie Smith and The Supremes. Both Winehouse and the Diplomettes are amazingly good at what they do, but one lives the hard-luck stories to the hilt while the others sing about the heartbreak and despair but manage to stay above it.

There's also the cover of Carla Thomas's "B-a-b-y," an awesomely playful song that fits the Diplomats/Diplomettes sound like a glove and makes me grin a big, goofy grin (love that half-muted guitar strutting along beneath the lyrics), the short-and-sweet "Trouble Me," and the laidback, R&B-ish "Soul Connection," all of which further prove that the band loves what it's doing and does it as close to perfection as they can. And hey, then they throw in the "Lack Of Afro Remix" version of "Hurt Me So," right at the end of the disc, and I find myself liking it even more than the standard version -- the sliced-up beats, dancehall toasting, and funky congas add a sense of urgency to the whole thing, making it practically a brand-new song when set side-by-side with the slinky, low-to-the-ground original. Not bad for a band that started out as not much more than a one-off side project for a bunch of guitar-loving garage-rockers from Iowa, in my book. (Jeremy Hart // 10/17/08)

My life could be this band. No, really -- listening to Evenstar's Through the Seasons is like remembering what the long-dead band I used to be in sounded like in my head, before the involvement of actual people and instruments. Whichever of you swiped my record collection, you'd better return it right damn now. I'm serious. Well, sort of.

This album's like a distillation of all the old-school emo I listened to in my post-college youth, back when the term meant something, at least, even if nobody could really agree on what it was. It's like the guys in Milwaukee's Evenstar fed copies of the first four or five Emo Diaries comps through a food processor, then melted 'em down into a black, oily-sheen paste, and mainlined the whole mess in one shot of loud, tuneful, punkish rock.

Think Samiam, a less-nasal Camber, early Appleseed Cast, early-early Jimmy Eat World, Brandtson, Mineral, The Get Up Kids, Pop Unknown -- all those Deep Elm, Doghouse, Crank! bands I (and maybe you, who knows?) loved back in the day. The best tracks on here -- opener "Sixela," "Full Count," and closer "Tarantula," for three -- are all blazing guitars, shout-along choruses about pain and time and loss, halfway-audible vocals, and thundering drums -- the furious sound of shy boys with broken hearts.

The resemblance to emo bands of yore extends to the production, too; much as I love Jimmy Eat World, when the whole damn rock world shifted to their shiny-clean style of production, I think something raw and real and beautiful got lost in the transition. Evenstar's regained some measure of it, though, sounding rough and unpolished while remaining melodic and heart-on-sleeve emotive.

There's not a whole lot new here, of course. At this point reinventing emo is roughly akin to reinventing the microwave -- there ain't a whole lot that can be done to improve, or even change, the way it does what it does. In spite of that, though, Through the Seasons is enjoyable as hell, a nostalgic trip backwards in time to more innocent, idealistic days. (Jeremy Hart // 10/31/08)

My, how the mighty have risen. I remember seeing Flight of the Conchords at SXSW way back in 2006 and thinking to myself, "why am I the only one here?" Because there was literally almost no one at their shows, most likely due to a combination of the sparse crowds comedy acts (though I'm not sure these guys can be put into that pigeonhole; they're a full-on two-person indie music supergroup) typically get at that festival, as well as the fact that they had not yet been formally introduced in America. But thanks to the ubiquitous exposure HBO provides (as well as various live dates scattered here and there, particularly at large music festivals like Bonnaroo and Sasquatch), Flight of the Conchords seem to have secured their spot as the next big thing in the minds of the cult-erground (bye-bye, Tenacious D; so long, Sarah Silverman).

Bret McKenzie and Jemaine Clement, the two men behind the group, released The Distant Future in 2007 in America, and it rose no higher on the charts than number 116. Then HBO called (remember, it's not t.v.), and this group turned from "New Zealand's fourth most popular guitar-based digi-bongo acapella-rap-funk-comedy-folk duo" into Grammy-winning, Sub Pop-signed media darlings. And why not? It's brilliant stuff, and it might just be the next step in indie music-self-referential anti-music set to the sound of prototypical comedy, all contained inside the discursive language of politics and love.

Their self-titled full-length contains songs that will sound familiar to people as sketches from their HBO show (also called Flight of the Conchords). On them Bret and Jemaine tackle all the -isms you could dream of in a mere fifteen songs. Sexism is here -- see "Leggy Blonde," (where they sing, "I'll never get to tear your clothes off on the photo copier"), "The Most Beautiful Girl in the World," ("And when you're on the street / depending on the street / I bet you are definitely in the top three / good looking girls on the street") -- speciesism is here -- listen to "Robots" ("There is no more unethical treatment of the elephants / well, there's no more elephants, so... / but still it's good") -- and nationalism is here -- in "Mutha'uckas," they sing "The mother 'ucker runs a racist 'uckin grocery; the mother 'ucker won't sell an apple to a Kiwi." The lyrics, along with how Flight of the Conchords deliver those lyrics, seem silly at first -- sophomoric, even. But listen again. There is something very different about these guys as compared to other comedic musicians.

This is Mitch Hedberg set to music (and before you say anything -- I know, Mitch Hedberg has already set himself to music; just go with it). Like Mitch, they don't take themselves too seriously, they seem to have their lyrics set to the beat of the zeitgeist, they are deconstructors of the mundane, and, oh yeah, they're fucking hilarious. (Brandon Hernsberger // 10/17/08)

Back in 2004, three local Houstonians were fortuitously brought together in one of their personal homes to experimentally mesh their musical talents for the day. As a result, the band Jadewood was born, and the group has kept this name ever since then to remind them of the humble beginnings on Jadewood Street in Houston's rough-and-tumble, humidity-infested atmosphere. After a couple of attempts at recording and marketing self-released EPs, bandsmen Elias Sanchez (lead vocals/guitars), Saul Sanchez (backup vocals/bass), and Lee Cerda (drums) returned to the studio to produce their first full-blown album in 2008, In These Walls. The CD title is meant to symbolically envision the close-quartered room that they initially practiced in, and what transpired within those walls is showcased in the band's debut.

The compilation of songs joined together on this CD is a full-dozen quality set worthy of your listening time. Characteristically, the band's influences range widely, from alternative grunge to classic rock to even moments with a somewhat seventies-accoustic-folk-pop feel. For the most part, the combined album comes across with a sound reminiscent of Lifehouse, a favorite band that the group often pays tribute to in cover songs during live performances. It's a thoroughly melodious offering, filled with light-to-moderate acoustic-based alt-rock leanings and garnished with a considerable amount of catchy lyrical phrasing.

The harmonies cast in this mix are truly beautiful. Elias Sanchez performs many vocal sections in very talented fashion. Despite a slightly pinched-off, relatively nasal quality throughout, his voices combines with that of Saul Sanchez to form a unique meld, kind of like Seals & Croft did years ago. It all comes off sounding a bit different, but with a magnetic sort of uniqueness. Hey, if slightly different voices worked for Tom Petty, Neil Young, and Bob Dylan, then why not Jadewood? Both vocally and instrumentally, the band exudes a wonderful chemistry together.

The first two songs on the album, "All Along" and "Beautiful," are radio-friendly cuts seemingly targeted toward alternative-pop audiences. As with most of the tracks, the lyrics are geared either toward upbeat, positive-attitude themes or explorations of the timeless lover's lament. The latter of these two definitely displays the group's penchant for taking a smooth and rudimentary legato style and dressing it up masterfully with simple but intuitive poetic thoughts. One of the most attractive elements of Jadewood is the way they creatively capture and describe a combination of natural human instincts and retrospective insights in very open, unguarded, and almost adolescent purity of terms. They use an unabashed, unveiled naïveté to stylishly exhibit many of the more secretive qualities subconsciously masked within each one of us. I really admire their ability to tenderly open up the chamber of the soul and poetically reveal the affairs of the heart and mind.

To my ear, the best stuff comes a bit past the mid-album point. "Stranger" is an acoustic-backed piece with a great chorus section, one that I found to be the most memorable from the collection. The addition of an extended bridge and atmospheric supplements of instrumentation give it a very pleasing, lighter-sided Creed resonance. Its companion number, "Survive," veers slightly more toward a Three Doors Down string-picking base, embellished artistically with wafting two-part harmony and virtual orchestration in the background.

My personal favorite, though, is "Misery." It's one of the songs on the disc that departs markedly from swathing soul-soothes to produce a set of rather haunted strains of minor-effected chord patterning that gradually builds into a percussive chorus filled with yearning-soaked vocals. The lyrical theme involves a self-realization of the effects of a destructive relationship and how its possible unintentional nature on one side doesn't necessarily quash the questionings of sanity in view of the resulting misery produced. The intro wording is impeccable: "Just once I'd like to hear the sound of my own voice / Instead I'm overwhelmed by the noise / This darkness is upon me and I'm right within its sight / It's killing me inside / I'm not ok, I'm not ok / With what you've done to me."

If your taste includes lighter alternative or moderate alt-pop and runs to the likes of Lifehouse, Vertical Horizon, Three Doors Down, or many of the '90s groups like the Gin Blossoms, then you'll probably enjoy giving Jadewood a listen. (Bill Reed // 10/31/08)

There's something warm and genuine-sounding about this disc that really gets me in those interior spaces I don't think about too much most of the time. I mean, it's hard to mine the roots-rock thing and not throw off a Mellencampian, small-town-homesick vibe, sure, but Jr. Juggernaut manage to go above and beyond roots-by-numbers and come up with something real on Ghost Poison. They meld together the fuzzy-edged pop/rock of the late '90s (think Gin Blossoms, or occasionally Buffalo Tom) with the out-and-out alt-country sound of Lucero or Son Volt and graft the whole thing to some Springsteenian lyricism and Replacements-ish swagger; it's all Neil Young guitars, imperfect (yet tuneful) sing-along choruses, bitterly sweet melodies, and comfortingly familiar rhythms. There're echoes of Old 97's here, as well as indie roots-rock barnburners Blackpool Lights, who are probably Jr. Juggernaut's closest contemporary musical cousins.

The best tracks on Ghost Poison are the ones that grab hold of the roots-country rock anthem motif and just don't let go. There's album opener "Lit By Winter," which is jangly and warm like the best things The Jayhawks ever did and the chorus of which practically begs you to add your own harmony vocals. It's jaw-dropping, despite the fact that it's pretty much the audio diary of a kinda-creepy (if admittedly romantic) stalker; it's possibly the most endearing song about stalking since "Every Breath You Take." The song's actually kind of a microcosm of the band's whole appeal -- it's sweet but rough around the edges at the same time, with an anthemic, impossible-not-to-sing-along-to chorus, a downhome feel, and a warm, gentle cheeriness about it, in spite of the somewhat odd story that unfolds in the lyrics.

The same holds true for "Gone Before You Start," which is rolling and country-tinged rock that's heartbreaking once you listen more closely to the lyrics and realize what the song's about; after you've hit that point, it becomes both beautiful and crushingly sad. "Believe In Something" starts off a little preachy and born-again-y (and yeah, there's a bit of talking 'bout the Big Man Upstairs on this disc) but builds to an impassioned roar, and "Coming In Backward" makes me think (favorably) of Teenage Fanclub's rootsiest moments, grafted onto guitars from Blackpool Lights' "The Truth About Love." All the tracks mentioned above, incidentally, pretty much drop me where I stand, as does oddball acoustic instrumental "Midnight Mass," which is more meditative and peaceful than I honestly thought the blues could ever be.

Ghost Poison's not perfect, of course -- there's a handful of missteps on here, like the dirty grind of "Early Morning Blackout," which is actually a decent song (and probably the most "rock" song of the bunch, with seriously crunchy distortion and honest-to-God solos) but which drags on without a whole lot to propel it forward. At 6:08, it's the longest track of the album, and I hate to say it, but you definitely feel it.

"Breathing, Grieving" and "The Beehive," for their part, are both just kind of "eh," breezing past without making much of an impression and making me want to skip back around to the beginning to listen to "Lit By Winter" one more time. With songs like that one to go back to, I'm not real bummed about a few clunkers in the pile. (Jeremy Hart // 10/17/08)

My initial kneejerk reaction to Kingen's Ride With Me was, well, pretty negative. I fully expected to be snickering within a few minutes of putting the disc in the player; I mean, Kingen (aka Torgny Karlsson) is a Sweden-born/-bred singer, pianist, and songwriter who steps and strolls backwards to the era of Elvis, James Brown, and Chuck Berry, all while singing with a funny accent and looking kind of like one of Santa's elves (he's apparently fairly short). It's like a ready-made SNL sketch.

After listening a while, though, I realize that, holy shit, this guy is good. And I, of all people, really shouldn't be surprised. Everybody knows these days that Sweden's a hotbed of music, and hell, I've even got family ties to it myself -- my own father-in-law is a Stockholm-born jazz fan and talented bassist, and his father was an accomplished jazzman who supposedly played with Stan Getz. My wife's cousin Viktor is a burgeoning hip-hop artist and talented producer, for crying out loud.

So I'm having to look past my own stupid, America-centric musical view to get to the heart of Kingen's Ride With Me. And what that is is a guy who really, truly loves the retro sound of the music he plays, all the way from the Jerry Lee Lewis-style piano boogie of "Mary-Ann" to the Godfather of Soul-esque sweet defiance of "She's Mine" to the more countrified, "Honky Tonk Woman"-sounding "Misery."

Luckily, he can pull it off, too. "Mary-Ann" is nicely rough and pleading, "Ride With Me" takes an Otis Redding groove and gives it new, electric life, "Be-bop Street" does a cool, Elvis-y roll, and "She's Mine," the best track on here, is sweet and soulful and fiery, all at the same time.

In spite of my misgivings, I find my toes tapping, my head nodding, and a smile creeping onto my face. Sure, the accent gets in the way some of the time, but honestly, it winds up not being that big a deal. The only track I'm not real big on is "Someone New," a slow-moving song that painfully evokes Kenny Rogers' '70s cheese, but one out of eleven ain't bad.

And so what if Kingen's several decades out of time? It's not like the U.S. has a monopoly on rock 'n roll -- if we had, the Beatles, Kinks, and Stones certainly never would've happened. And while it is a little odd to hear somebody so passionate about a musical style that seems so far removed from their environment, both in terms of distance and time, what makes this any different from, say, Amy Winehouse's fractured re-do of soul? Sharon Jones? The Diplomats of Solid Sound? Brian Setzer? For that matter, Rancid's Clash-adoring retake of street-level punk? Are either of those somehow more "worthy" of serious attention because the people making the music are in the U.K. or U.S.? Nope. As long as Kingen's got it where it counts, who cares? (Jeremy Hart // 10/31/08)

Emerging from the "steam caves" and "swirling ice storms" of the Pacific Northwest come Lords of the North...wait, what? Steam caves? Ice storms? Wait, Iceland is part of the Pacific Northwest, right? Yep; as far as Washington's Lords of the North are concerned, it most definitely is.

This is exactly what I've always imagined the darker side of the 1970s music scene to be. It's as if Lords of the North are still pissed off about the whole love-and-peace crap of the 1960s. It's the kind of music that would cause Midwest parents to organize protests. It's not real complicated: an overly distorted guitar, an angry drummer with some huge ride cymbals, and a singer with the voice of Nordic Barbarian. Don't mistake simplicity, however, for a lack in talent. Guitarist Tony Thorpe throws down some pretty sweet solos in "Loyal Legion" and "The March," Jim Roche knows his role as a drummer and holds Tharp and singer Pat Kearney together with fist-pounding, psychedelic beats, and Kearney's hard-edged vocals bring it all together, with confrontational and biting lyrics that sound especially good when seemingly recorded through a homemade microphone.

While it's quite enjoyable, though, Lords of the North fits a little too well into the Sabbathesque metal genre. This isn't a bad thing, really, because Sabbath rules, but it's been 30 years since Sabbath and maybe we need something more? I'm not sure if this is true, but it certainly kept me from thinking this was anything beyond a very good first album. Either way, drop some acid, plug in your lava lamps and smoke machines, and prepare yourself for Lords of the North. (Daniel Yuan // 10/31/08)

The music on Forgot About the Whistle Industry starts promisingly, with distant, Radiohead-ish guitar and funky drums, but man, when guitarist/vocalist Jeremy Vanecek starts singing...it's all downhill from there. It's not the voice, mind you, but the words Vanecek's singing that make me cringe -- the lyrics for lead-in track "Shot," for example, ramble repetitively about how somebody named Katie is so beautiful and wants a shot and the singer doesn't know how Katie feels about him. Similarly, "Meat" is about how some unnamed woman is going to keep the meat red while the singer rocks. Sing about how she keeps the meat and brings the flesh, then repeat 'til the song ends.

And that's basically how Forgot About the Whistle Industry goes, all the way through: lackluster lyrics, repeated ad infinitum. Which is a shame, because the music isn't bad, really. It's fairly standard late-'90s indie-rock, with drifting guitars, solid drums, and Pixies-esque melodies, and there's absolutely nothing wrong with that. Paired with lyrics about how the vocalist is already dating the subject of the song in his head (which I'm guessing is not what most girls want to hear from a guy they're not actually in a relationship with), though, and the whole thing sinks.

After listening all the way through Forgot, Machine Meets Land makes me think of a college-age band of enthusiastic friends that's got some good musical ideas but needs to step back and take a long, hard look at the lyrical side of things. 'Til they do, this one's not going to cut it for me, sorry. (Jeremy Hart // 10/17/08)

Reinvention is a bitch. I'm guessing the guys in Richmond, TX's Mechanical Boy have been finding that out the past year or three. When last we saw (er, heard) the band, on their self-titled EP from a handful of years back, they were full-on members of the heavy, post-emo nu-metal scene; the debut EP wasn't great, but it wasn't bad, either, just somewhat on the generic side. I liked it okay, although fellow reviewer Shawn R. wasn't quite so kind -- them's the breaks, unfortunately.

So, when bassist Chris Applegate emailed me a while ago and asked if we could check out the band again, claiming that the band had totally changed directions, I shrugged and said "sure," figuring "totally changed directions" meant they were now listening to more Taking Back Sunday and less Deftones. Turns out, though, that he wasn't kidding. They've done a hell of a lot more than just drop the "The" from their name -- the heavy guitars and stomping rhythms have been replaced with heavily retro-sounding pop-rock that brings to mind, well, Duran Duran more than anything else.

No, I'm totally serious -- it's due in large part to vocalist Tim Anderson, whose voice draws heavily from both Simon Le Bon and The Cult's Ian Astbury, but the guitars and drums have also abandoned the metal for quasi-funky, danceable melodies, like The Rapture minus the world-hating cynicism or The Bravery minus (thank God) the flat-footed attempts at cleverness. It's slick and polished to pop-sheen perfection, alternately stomping rock and hip-shaking pop, with soaring/yelping vocals, so sharp and well-made that it seems unfathomable it isn't already on the radio somewhere.

On Play Along's best track, "All Alone in the Bering Sea," the music has this big, open feel that brings to mind (favorably, mind you) epic Brit-rockers The Music, as well as moody, raw guitars, and some nice atmospherics. It's complex without being overbearing, occasional skirting the edges of post-emo but never losing its New Romantic roots (think Jets To Brazil). Anderson's vocals are desperate, Michael Regino's guitars roar and drive skyward, and drummer Matt Wheeler thunders like he got lost on the way to his metal band's rehearsal space. Heck, I can even forgive the "this little light of mine bit" on this one. It's just a great song, period.

Much further on, "Lydia" rides a similar line, merging retro-pop and elements of emo to good effect and using the Rapture-ish rhythms nicely, to boot. Album opener "Tabloids" nears the top of the pile, too, albeit with a more "rawk" tone to it, and "The Who's Who of My Youth" does nicely, straight-up pop-rock with a surprisingly addictive chorus. Things don't fare as well when the band aims for a funky, dancefloor-filling groove, with tracks like "Swing Low & Carry Me Home" and the Killers-ish "She Does" making me scratch my head and wonder what the heck the band's trying to do.

Really, though, where I hit a wall is with the lyrics. A third to half of the album seems to be about getting with somebody, and the over-the-top confidence with which Anderson sings lines like "Do you think you got what it takes to love me?" makes me twitch like I've just been shown pictures of somebody's grandma naked. It just comes off...weird, somehow.

See, the thing about the whole lothario thing that bands like Duran Duran did (and that Mechanical Boy appears to be trying to do) is that it only really works for if you can sell it right -- being suave and British and fashion plates and shooting videos on yachts with unattainable women somehow make the songs about seduction and sex and swanky/sordid stuff like that seem totally plausible, even if it's just the image. With a bunch of guys from suburban Texas, though...it's a bit difficult to imagine them as hard-partying sex symbol rockstars, y'know?

So, while songs like "The Bachelor" or "Could Be a Magical Night" are (I'm guessing) not quite autobiographical, the whole "seducer" vibe just doesn't work for me. (This is where I've occasionally had problems with The Killers, too; oddly, it works better for them now that they're bona fide rockstars and not Las Vegas bellhops...) Besides, that whole thing's been done to death by this point, honestly. When the lyrics on the album are a bit more down-to-earth -- or at least less clichéd -- Mechanical Boy prove that they can be really, truly good.

I think they're finding themselves pulled in multiple directions, which is understandable -- any band is a collection of separate people, obviously, each with their own tastes and goals. For now, though, I'd suggest shelving the loverman songs in favor of something real. 'Til then, well, I'm reminded of "New Persuasion," towards the end of Play Along, where Anderson sings "Well, I've finally found a niche, baby" -- no, not quite. Almost there, though; it's a good step in an interesting direction. More songs like "All Alone in the Bering Sea" or "Lydia," and I'm sold.

[Mechanical Boy is playing its CD release show 10/24/08 at Fitzgerald's, with Thee Armada, The Last Place You Look, Veloura, & The Tastydactyls.] (Jeremy Hart // 10/24/08)